SU Women's Basketball Game

With the family at the Carrier Dome where the SU women handily beat Bucknell. Go Orange! Go Family!

Choose The World You're In

Austin Kleon wrote a piece today worth reading entitled The World's More Interesting With You In It. The gist is that we are too eager to delete/unfollow people and all too willing to take ourselves out of the world. It got me thinking about having left social media.

I left Facebook and Twitter in August and have not gone back. Kleon writes, "Don’t disappear on us. Don’t cancel your own subscription. Stick around. Keep going. The world is more interesting with you in it." He's not necessarily encouraging me to return to social media, but I've been told that there are people who miss me some on those platforms. Should I try to make Facebook and Twitter better places? Is there value in me doing that?

The problems with Facebook and Twitter are that I don't respect their corporate values and they don't provide me sufficient value for my investment. I don't "connect" with "friends" and "followers" as much having left those networks but I'm working on that finding ways to connect with friends and make new friends. I've only made the slightest headway but it's a work in progress.

Withdrawing from the world might be a mistake though I've read a couple good books that say otherwise. Thoreau, who famously moved away from the world but also stayed in contact with it is a model of how to move in a direction that goes against or perpendicular to that which most everyone is following seems to me a very good idea. We have to choose our worlds carefully.

I'm happy to have deleted myself from Twitter and Facebook. I'm happy to no longer be in that world because it was a source of more unhappiness than contentment. Here in the real world I withdraw often in order to create something that I then bring back to the world, to others and, I hope, make this world a little bit more interesting.

Susceptible to Alcoholic Stories

I'm reading Kristi Coulter's book of personal essays Nothing Good Can Come From This and I recommend it with only one caveat.

First the recommendation. Coulter is a good writer who can make serious and humorous work within the same essay, often within the same paragraph, sometimes she pulls it off in the same sentence. Her voice is honest and strong. She does not preach. If anything, she might be a bit too self-deprecating but uses it to good humorous effect. The pieces are of varying lengths and that turns out to be one of my favorite attributes of a good book of essays. David Sedaris's Calypso had some of that, but I'm especially fond of Coulter's use of the short essay within this book. Her pacing and storytelling are spot on. It's a good, good read that she has crafted.

Now the caveat: you may come to think you're an alcoholic. Or maybe that's just me. Often when reading stories of alcoholics — and for all sorts of reasons I love to read stories of alcoholics — I become convinced that I am one of them and consider getting myself to a meeting. Then I come to the conclusion that I'm not an alcoholic and that mostly I want to observe an AA meeting because they fascinate me. Using imagined alcoholism to get into a meeting sounds even more pathetic than I'm usually willing to be so I dismiss the idea.

Dismissing it gets me thinking that I'm probably just rationalizing my own alcoholism or trying to imagine it away. Then I think that's ridiculous and I'm fine, but there's no way to say "I don't have a drinking problem" that doesn't lead everyone to scrunch up their faces and say, "yeah, you do." This gets me wanting to go into excruciating detail about my drinking and explain every bit of it. Not that that sounds defensive. No, not at all. Don't worry, I'll spare you all that.

I suppose just thinking about this is good for me in the same way that I think about depression while still believing that if I suffer from real depression it is of the mildest kind. Writing about whether I may or may not be alcoholic here in public feels like a mistake, but as Neko Case sings, "I do my best, but I'm made of mistakes." Besides, much of the appeal of Coulter's book (and most any good memoir) is reading about someone's mistakes. It makes me feel as though I'm in a bigger club than the one I often feel I'm in and which has only a single member.

Nothing Good Can From This applies to me trying to explain how I do or don't suffer from alcoholic tendencies, but it might be a misnomer for the book from which flows a fountain of good things. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go back to reading it and drinking a cup of black coffee. I may wonder if the coffee is so I can feel like I'm at a meeting, but that will only last a few moments into the reading because, like I said, this book is good.

Go to your local bookstore right now and buy it.

80th Birthday

It is my father's eightieth birthday though he's no longer here to celebrate. He died in 2015, so we won't have cake, the girls won't make cards, and we've bought no present. Yesterday Mom said, "tomorrow will be a hard day. It's the thirteenth." Dad's birthday, as if I could forget. Dates matter to me. There was no way I wouldn't remember his birthday. I've been thinking about it for weeks, but I've been looking forward to it.

The day will be difficult for Mom as are the anniversary of his death, their wedding anniversary, and even her birthday, the milestones of him being gone from her. I think of him on the anniversary of buying his business and at the start of Syracuse Women's Basketball season. For Mom these days are filled with sadness. They play out differently within me.

I'm grateful today. As the years pass Dad's memory takes up less and less space. This sad fact is inescapable: the dead pass away. All the calendar days still occupied by my memories of him, these are chances to come back to Dad, to have him come back to me. I'll spend much of today thinking of my kids and wife, the weather, my job, my brother and mother, and whatever is in the news, but I'll have Dad with me and smile because there's one thing about his death that comforts me.

Dad forever remains for me as he was. Aside from the heart attack that felled him, he was healthy and whole. His eyesight was being restored. He got around well and could drive. He was strong and able if not so much as he once had been. He took care of himself and others. All of which is to say that he never suffered a decline, something he would have hated. Dad was able and capable for all his life. Were he here now to reflect on things he would nod and call his a good ending.

Still, I miss him and wish he was here to celebrate, but my wish is mostly selfish. I want him to behold my daughters and hear the sweet voice of his beloved daughter in law. I want him to have a few more hours at the garage with my brother and their cars. I want him at home with Mom doing the simple, routine things of their lives, the ordinary magic of life together. And I want to take him to a basketball game, sit beside him, and not need to say a damn thing, just cheer and be together.

These are my greedy dreams. They fall apart when I consider having to again say goodbye to him. Instead, today, his birthday, I say hey, Dad. He doesn't need to say anything back. He never had to. Though often enough the words he said to me sounded exactly like, I love you, son and they still do.