Where is all this going?

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Yesterday was nice. It was like any other day, and I made a conscious decision to take a break from blogging. I went down to Target to buy some mouthwash and walked around the mall looking for Harry Potter patches at the behest of the wife — our oldest daughter got a denim jacket and so the wife was thinking to make it even cooler, but at the end of the trip I decided that Harry Potter is just enough in the rearview that you can’t find things like this on demand anymore. I also picked up a couple of vinyl records because I’m becoming something of a vinyl nerd now — AC/DC’s Back in Black and The Jimi Hendrix Experience BBC Sessions, pressed on sweet orange vinyl. While we own quite a bit of vintage vinyl already, I’m not above purchasing new albums either. After all, you can’t guarantee you’re going to run across these albums in the one amazing underground vinyl shop that you actually have access to, and they have so many more that you can grab at a steal. It’s no crime to shop online, but don’t forget to support your local businesses, people! The best deal isn’t always best for your community, and it doesn’t get you face time either.

I’ve been rolling around in my head this idea that I was going to write a post eventually crushing on my new turntable, maybe post a YouTube video about the difference between that one and the one I tried to make work, a YouTube video and post about cleaning your vinyl, etc. But I’m not riding that train today. I actually sat down, looked at the prompts. Thought, ‘why do I come back when it’s always a few days in love and then back on the struggle bus?’ Frankly, I felt that sinister urge to walk away again, because in a world that often seems a morass of multifarious content, I hate having to beg the Universe for inspiration. It feels utterly ironic that one should have to.

What started out as a way to fill extra time and exercise my writing skills has long felt like one of my many abandoned hobbies — I come back for a hot minute and then life steals me back. I Googled, “does blogging have to feel like a job?” and I rabbit-holed for a bit, and realized that I can do better. If I want to do this I should do better.

I enjoy writing poetry, although I feel like I’m beating haiku to death. I did enjoy writing fiction, although I feel that well has run dry a while ago. I can spill my thoughts on the page any day, given an appropriate subject and the willingness to opine; but unfortunately this is unprofitable. Indeed I can write a poem on a Burger King napkin and get the same satisfaction. Or I can just rant to myself in my own head, work it out, and experience the same catharsis.

I’m too old to think I can forecast what life will be like in a year. I didn’t do that last year and I’m not doing it now. But we may find this blog evolving as I attempt to find . . . incentive? If what I’m reading through the aforementioned Google search is true, then it’s not too late to do it right and find a way to free one or more people from the shackles of their labors, and it all starts right where I’m standing. I’ve still got decades on my plate and I feel l could get the ball rolling in a handful of months, if I work on it. I have some stairs to climb, and I’m going to deck them out my way.

All this to say, I’m not going anywhere, but I can’t say what next year’s going to look like.

I’d have said the same thing last year.

Flamenca Friday — Tongues will wag!

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Just try to remember
that their words are just tools;
neither build nor break
if not given the edge
that they’re spurring such fools.

One thing I hope people never say about me is that I am — or was — a terrible person who is — or was — terrible to others.

Not that I care so much what other people say or think about me. Neither do I put much stock in much of what others say about me; it’s a natural defense I’m (admittedly) still developing halfway into my forties. It’s about survival, after all — putting things into perspective and remembering that people say things that wound you for all kinds of reasons. Some do it with good intention, even. After a hellacious youth in which everything said to me was taken to heart, during which I took myself way too seriously and developed a sense of humor regarding the behavior of others far later (I’ve always been a late bloomer!) I’m still sensitive to certain comments. Lately it’s yo-yo inmates observing how I’ve “stacked on the pounds” since the last time they saw me, or that “I’ve been eating good” since the last time they were in. Forget the fact that I’ve stopped serially starving myself for the sake of fitness goals, or that doing so has enabled me to engage in long-term strength training, both of which will make a man wider over time. These are the things that I had to bear in mind when I finally begrudgingly asked my Training Sergeant for a new set of uniforms in the next size up for the first time in almost five years of employment with the County. As she was stuffing shirts and pants into a garbage bag for me like an elf loading Santa’s sack, I happened to mention those comments in passing and she ruefully replied, “oh yes, they do like to tell the truth . . . “

So yeah, I get better all the time at not really giving a second thought to what people think or say of me. But this all falls back to what I think of myself; although I eschew the former, I do so to protect the latter — they are only independent insofar as I keep them separated in my own conscious. As long as I let people tell me what to think about myself, I have no chance of making myself any better, because most people don’t want us to be better. Most people who make the effort to paint others in a negative light want us to be worse than them, because doing so is easier than taking the (worthwhile) steps to improve themselves. And a lot of otherwise decent people do this without even realizing it. Hell, I’ve trash-talked others before, simply out of being jealous that they find it so easy to excel. They certainly haven’t let it bother them.

The only reason I hope people never say that about me is because I would never want it to be true.

In the world of professional Law Enforcement, nothing is sacred anymore. Anyone else may be able to live their lives in a state of social compromise without hurting anyone or anything else . . . it’s called “going along to get along”, which is encouraged by society. But for those of us in law enforcement, it’s the first thing we have to sacrifice in order to survive in the profession. We have to take up a supervisory role over other people and we have to be hard about it. But as I’ve said before and as I will say again, this doesn’t mean that I don’t care and it doesn’t mean that I don’t have faith that our inmates have what it takes to live like (so-called) normal people. I’m not there to judge people by what they’re accused of; on the other hand, as a member of the executive branch of the County I am there to observe and react, and I can and will judge them by their behavior under my eye.

But I won’t be terrible. If they’re not harming anyone or creating a situation in which anyone may be harmed, I’m not interested in making things worse than them. I’m not power-tripping and I’m not a tyrant . . . . and I don’t think I will ever be. And if they say I am or was, I have to have the confidence that I did the right thing at the time for all concerned, including society and the facility.

And speaking of doing the right thing, I have some sidewalks to clear.

The blizzard rages on . . .

Tanka Thursday 2022.12.15 —

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My mind floats terete,
wrapped in a single surface
of self-reflection:
a flaky, birch bark conceit —
a defense against the world.
Poised as a flower
on it’s electrical stem,
blooming rather late,
finds the source of its power
a well of solemn rebate.

Yesterday was the first day of my Christmas vacation.

I thought this year I’d take the two days after Christmas off so that I could have a five-day stretch after, before going back to work. Unfortunately, someone else had already laid claim to it, so I was out of luck. After finishing our latest recruit’s training paperwork, however, I took another look at the schedule and discovered that there were five days before Christmas that nobody else had taken off. I was able to take that off, and now I’m on day two of a twelve-day staycation . . . through Christmas day.

I couldn’t be happier with the way that shook out.

The blizzard that has taken the American Midwest by storm (pun intended) is still doing its worst, although things are quiet around here this morning, and the worst thing we’ve had to do, I believe, is the wife had to go clear out the window well around the dryer vent. For my part, I was planning a supply run when I realized I had fully intended to write a blog post first thing in the morning. Of course, this is that for me because I just came from working night shifts Tuesday night and I have the supreme luck of being able to skip the rest of this round of nights — but I was up until three in the morning playing Fortnite. Up at 0900, delete a fresh, steaming load of emails; cup of coffee; sit down to write a blog post. Sounds like a good start to the day to me.

So here I am, day two, and there’s some potential here. Coming back to the page, drying out and doubling down on my intent to do things right and well. Because every day is the first day of the remainder of our lives, and that’s exactly the kind of reflection that can put our priorities in perspective.

I hope your holidays are finding you well and preparing for a celebration of life lived rebelliously well, in spite of the darkness.

Skål ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My newest discovery, Jonathan Doyle. I was proudly blogging to this, after finishing a vintage vinyl pressing of The Who’s Meaty Beaty Big and Bouncy.

Talk is cheap, isn’t it?

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Back in high school, I was a theater kid. I wasn’t much into sports (unless we’re talking Huey Lewis & The News,) and I wasn’t doing any extracurricular activities otherwise. Sometimes, I wasn’t even doing school — especially after falling in with the stoner crowd. By the end of Freshman year, I had gotten into the Spring musical: the Sound of Music. I was some walk-on Nazi hoser; but hey, it was something. In about a half dozen productions all told I performed on stage at my High School — two shows and four musicals, at least. I had lines. I sang. I did the choreography. I caused a little trouble, too.

Then there were communications classes. In high school and college English there were the speeches, the prepared orations I was required to give. I never really had much problem getting up in front of people as long as I had a plan and knew what I was going to say. When it came to working off-the-cuff, however, I have always suffered from lackluster performance. This ended up being an issue in at least one promotional interview, where I racked my brain and floundered to answer many questions. By the time I had interviewed for Corporal the fourth time, I was told I needed to come up with new answers; however, I’m not even sure I want to move up anymore, at that point.

I think it’s perfectly acceptable to be happy where I am, and to serve in the capacity in which I currently serve until I’m otherwise disposed. I don’t think I necessarily need to reinvent myself to fulfill someone else’s idea of success. I enjoy working the floor, and training new officers. I enjoy being able to help the widest range of people under my supervision. I feel that I impress more by doing that than by trying to nail the interview.

But maybe I’ll change my mind again. Who knows? I might want to put myself through the wringer of an interview panel once more. I just don’t know how I’ll wow them like I did at my very first promotional interview — the one where I only really fell short on job experience.

Are you any good at answering impromptu questions under pressure? What advice would you give someone like me if I was going to try again?

Waka Wednesday – 2022.12.14

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Silent, overblown . . .
summer’s ashes fill the air.
Soft light, piercing air
fill this steely land of stone,
frozen ghosts, and icy bones.

I should be doing it right now!

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Today I want to spend a little time talking about “it”.

Of course I’m being vague; you may be wondering what “it” is. Some people love it. Some people hate it. Some hate it and they do it anyway. Some people can’t get enough of it.

You can do it with your spouse, if they’re up for it. You can do it by yourself. You can do it in public, or you can do it in your secret hideout, like I do.

Lots of people do it, but probably not enough . . . or rather, more people should do it. Some might say there’s not enough time. Some might have other reasons. I don’t judge, though – and I’m not interested in telling people how to live their lives.

I might argue that I do it by running up and down stairs all night, down hallways during emergency calls, and by just walking – sometimes throwing down as many as 20,000 steps a day. I know that’s not enough though, and that alone isn’t going to do the trick for me. Plus, I don’t do this nearly enough . . . on my days off I get little of the regular movement activity

I used to run. In fact, I used to run a lot. I used to love it. Now, I’m trying to find my way back to doing that, because I could probably use more cardio. I enjoy riding my bicycle, but this is not the time of year for that. Most of the time I hide out in my little Batcave and sling iron. Chest and triceps on Monday, Back and biceps on Wednesday, legs and calves on Thursday, shoulders and traps on Saturday.

It’s not like I lift a lot of weight, but I’m pushing to be stronger, and to stay strong as I grow older. I admit my favorite exercises are bench press, dips, hex bar deadlifts, and dumbbell work. It gives me a reason to work on getting enough protein, it gives me a reason to eat more without worrying about gaining weight. But still . . . I need some cardio.

So maybe I’ll join a place with an indoor track.

What are your favorite activities? Do you exercise regularly? I’d love to hear about what works for you.