Essays in Brief

‘Miscellaneous Thoughts’ in diary form from the last 10 days

When “Our Reality Show” was published on another platform, I occasionally posted short musings called “Miscellaneous Thoughts and Meanderings from a Strange Mind.”

The posts, (mostly) tongue in cheek, usually were pithy one-liners that stuck with me for some reason and wouldn’t leave my brain until I wrote them down. They were a good way to clean the mental cupboard before going on to other things.

Over the past 10 days or so, a freelance story and a couple of photo jobs have been enmeshed with a lot of personal stuff, filling my cupboard to the brim. No matter how hard I try to clear the decks, I can’t seem to get anything done without burping all of this out. Once this is completed, I hope I can move on (or back) to the next thing.

This is a diary of the last 10 days:

March 27

This photo was taken of my parents in 2001 during a huge storm in Boston; I had never seen it until I went to Texas to visit my mom three years ago. Now it is my favorite photo of the two of them together.

Today is the 60th anniversary of their marriage. Every time I look at this picture, I see two people who at the time had known each other for more than 40 years. I also see two people who were always in love.

March 28

I read a lot of other writers on the Substack platform, especially those who delve deeply into music. Check out my recommendations on my homepage, and there are plenty more where those came from.

Two of today’s posts left a lasting impression and prompted me to comment. (It’s always nice to get comments, just sayin’.)

Songs That Saved Your Life looked at Billie Holliday’s “Strange Fruit” and provided a valuable recap/perspective on the late jazz singer’s tragic life, it prompted me to comment: “Tragedies like this will continue to occur as long as addiction is regarded as some sort of "moral failure" without an understanding of the underlying circumstances. And as much as some may want to attribute the treatment of Holliday to a "different time," the life she endured continues for others who are less monied or influential — in less overt but still insidious ways.”

Abandoned Albums provided three songs and two albums to listen to along with a question of the week. The question: What was the summer song of your first love?

My answer: Styx’s “The Best of Times” (alas, it was not).

March 30

Today, we are in the first phase of a spring cleaning project that likely will extend into the summer. Jill is the world’s best at decluttering a house; seriously, she could hang a shingle that says, “Have dumpster. Will travel.”

Given that I come from a long line of OCD paper hoarders — defined as “sliced trees galore, all neatly filed and arranged” — I am not.

While she worked cleaning the back porch “sitting room,” I went through things upstairs — drawers, closets, stuff under the bed — attempting to cut the clutter. I usually stiffen up before doing these types of projects; you never know when one of those pieces of paper will trigger memories good and/or bad.

Fortunately, most of the memories from this personal crate dig were good (or at worst melancholy) ones. Two bags of clothes were whittled from the drawers and closets; papers deemed no longer necessary to keep were shed.

Next, we started weeding outside — a necessary though never pleasant experience, especially in the spring. I am basically allergic to the Great Outdoors, and the combination of tree and grass pollen made me look like a boxer who lost the heavyweight championship and a parent on the same night.

The work got done, however, and I good about what we accomplished.

Another bonus: I listened to Beyonce’s “Cowboy Carter,” and Alejandro Escovedo’s “Echo Dancing” in full. That was a win.

March 31

An Easter miracle: My wife and I hope N.C. State will win the NCAA tournament.

March Madness ended, at least for us, with the losses by UNC (Jill’s alma mater) and University of Houston (mine, sigh) on this Sweet 16 weekend. I look at it this way, if State can pull off what has become a miracle run, maybe I won’t have to see the PTSD-inspring clip of Jim Valvano running across the court looking for someone to hug every… single… year…

April 1

Ben, Emma, and Kate at the White House Easter Egg roll in 2002 (left photo); Kate’s daughter, Marley, at the event on Monday

Twenty-two years ago, we took Ben, Emma, and Kate to the Easter Egg roll at the White House. Today, we embarked on the same journey with our grandchild Marley.

Both trips were arranged by Tom Pratt, who works in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building next to the White House. Tom, who I met 36 years ago at the Tyler Morning Telegraph, has graciously helped our family and friends see the White House up close.

Today’s trip was special, and a full circle moment. And thanks to another kind person at the exit, I was able to snag a White House egg for our youngest grandson, Colin, too.

April 3

I went to the doctor yesterday for my semi-annual oil change and tire rotation, cursing at myself enroute as I tried to anticipate the ongoing list of marching orders: Eat better, exercise more … you know the drill.

Genetically, I’m already behind the 8-ball on cholesterol and blood pressure, and impending arrival of 60 means the health boogeyman lurks ominously in the shadows. But overall, things weren’t … terrible.

I’ve lost a few pounds since my last visit, which came at the height of a shitty challenging 2023. But things have been better so far this year, and my body is starting to reflect that. So that’s a win.

I start cracking jokes when I’m nervous. My doctor knows this now, thankfully, because my one-liners often are visually vivid. Example: She noted that I’m due for a colonoscopy and, as if reading from a script, noted that the prep is not as bad as it once was. As if on cue, I responded: “The prep is no worse than the beer I could afford in college.”

She looked, pondered, scrunched her face for a moment and said, “Well, that’s one way to look at it.”

Today

I was working on another project — ghostwriting a piece — and found myself stuck. No matter how long I’ve been doing this, getting stuck is something that happens often. It happened yesterday after the doctor as well, leading me to spend a couple of hours catching up on other Substackers’ works for inspiration.

After a Zoom meeting this afternoon, I opened another screen and, as I often do, started writing down everything I could think of to break through the block. Here is today’s entry:

I was a writer before I became an editor and did both for years before moving into photography. Those three things represent — professionally speaking — my life’s work.

Writing came naturally — I didn’t know what I didn’t know — until I started learning the nuances of editing, which has resulted in decades of second guessing every word I type onto a screen.

Editing came naturally as well. I enjoy the process because it’s a challenge to see and shape/refine others’ storytelling without losing the writer’s voice. (Think of it as disassembling sections of a puzzle and putting it back together.) But editing my own writing — whether it’s for freelance clients or for the work I post here — is a study in conflict.

Visual analogies abound as I think of ways to describe the relationship. Angel on one shoulder, devil on the other is one. Any film by the Davids (Lynch or Cronenberg). The writer screaming at the editor standing over his shoulder, clicking a cheap pen received in an annoying hardware store promotion. You get the picture.

On the photography side, capturing people in candid moments always has come easily. I attribute that skill to the situations I’ve found myself in as a reporter and observer, and the ability to anticipate when something is going to happen.

Developing the skill in an artistic way — photographing “things” and “places” instead of “people” — has been totally by feel and by the things that catch my eye. It helps to think of photography as “found art,” with the best pictures reflecting the joy, challenges, and beauty of discovery.

Mostly, I try to avoid editing my photos too much beyond color, contrast, and cropping. I don’t want to get to the point where my inner editor constantly second guesses the photographer every time I press the shutter.

But the more I shoot, and as I try to evolve my skill set to match the capabilities of the camera I’m working with, I feel that persona lurking, the impending clicks of the mouse replacing those of the pen.