flyover

Day 73: Flyover Follies

I really hate the term flyover country. And yes, I do realize that I have often used that particular phrase here quite frequently in the many fits of my quarantined literary insanity.  But that was intentionally conceived as my attempt to somehow reappropriate that offensive phrase, trying my best to gracefully redefine the once insulting connotations, and accompanying implications, that all the hard working people who choose to live in this part of the country are somehow second-class citizens, living hopelessly out of touch from the supposedly hip and happening world out on the coasts. That is just some either-coast elitist self-aggrandizing bullshit. Because so much real life happens here, every single day.  And those over-indulged oceanside dwellers do not have even the slightest inkling of …

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Day 71: Never Look A Gift Fox In His Words

They often call it a gift. Far too often over the preceding years, when I have allowed myself to be so brashly ignoble as to actually share some of my haltingly hesitant words, I have heard that particular phrase being uttered with what I am sure were genuinely earnest intentions.  And I always struggle to hold my tongue and simply make awkward acknowledgement of the objectively unwarranted good graces of their kind intent. But it is not a gift. And yet, neither is it wholly a curse.  It instead finds an elusive definition somewhere in the middle, seldom seen and running deviously unnoticed in the encroaching shadows, just like the mischievous fox, slinking his way cunningly cautious through the darkness of another Indiana summer night draped …

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bridge

Day 70: Buy the Ticket, Take the Drive

I had to get the fuck out of this town before I burned it all down. Again. The memories have lingered unwelcomingly hard this year, ignoring the many good graces of my sacrifices and availing themselves nightly on the wings of a pandemic’s socially-isolated cough.  Everything inside pushed me to leave behind my tires this little part of that infected world, wheezing and sputtering and still dying with predictable statistical regularity.  Everything I touch these days becomes a gamble anyway, so why not just lean into it in a last-minute chance to go and chase down other parts of that same world now growing green again at the start of another Indiana summer. I selfishly used the excuse of possibly locating a new typer as motivation, …

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brokenheart

Day 68: Under the Spring Oaks

Fuck, this one is going to hurt. All day I tried my best to ignore the many electronic reminders set years ago, the ones bleeping and blinking up at me accusingly from nearly every electronic thing I own.  I knew already from past experience that trying to do my day job today would only end in unmitigated Excel-tainted disaster, so I did not even bother trying to fulfill those obligations quickly mounting in my overflowing inbox. Instead, I kept myself as busy as possible with all the stupid little details of the day to day pandemically-tainted grind- masking up and going to the store, just to buy stupid shit that I really did not even need.  Or want.  A cursory cleaning of my little blue house, …

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misterrodgers

Won’t You Be My Neighbor?

It is abundantly clear that over these past 25,000 or so words, so earnestly written and spilled out unabashedly throughout these front two months of an unexpected pandemic’s first wave, that I have a profound propensity for the ponderingly introspective.  That I far too often turn the night hours back in upon myself, focusing hard on the catalogue of my many experiences and misadventures, all for the sake of hopefully capturing some words somewhat meaningful in their candor. And I used to see that, through eyes both bleary and more times than not, tragically hungover, as my biggest fault.  Now, though, I am no quite so sure. Not when the world- at least my favorite part of it- is still locked down behind masked barriers and …

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