Monkey Steals the Peaches

For the past half decade I wrote for and edited a small regional publication. One of my early assignments was to interview a local bank president, known for his commitment to charitable works. I found him genuine and pleasant. At the end of our conversation, he asked me, "What do you do?" Meaning, of course, not what do I do for work, but what do I do in the way of community service. I felt an instant sense of shame. How to answer? I sit around reading books when I have spare time? I never drop banana peels on the sidewalk? I make my own kim chi? Soon thereafter, inspired,  I applied to be on my town cultural council, and to sit on the advisory board of an arts organization. Earlier this week, I was made co-chair of the council, and I'm proud of this because it gives me a pleasant way to do something for the town in which I live for which I receive nothing in return -- nothing other than saving myself a sense of shame should I ever run into the bank president again and he...

At the lowest point of my job search, I was half-listening to an audio recording of a Joseph Campbell book, and focused in on a discussion of Ariadne's thread. I didn't hear the words with any precision, but I grabbed what later proved to be a useful idea. The hero Theseus rescues himself from the darkness, from the maze, not the grand act of killing the minotaur, but by following Ariadne's thread -- the barely perceptable. glimmer of guidance in the dark.  At the time, my job search had been completely pointness. I was broke and was sending out 10 or 12 job applications a day, while working as a substitute teacher. I couldn't pay my bills. And I had started the job search from a low point to begin with: burned out, bitter. In short, I had started low and remained there.  The idea of Ariadne's thread stuck with me, and I would repeat to myself frequently, like a mantra. Just follow Ariadne's thread. There will be no grand signs, no burning bushes, no...

We get the words epicure and epicurean from Epicurus, although he himself believed in moderation and simplicity. Perhaps later associations arose because he wrote frequently about the importance of the stomach.  * Before going to bed last night, my daughter drew me a picture of what she claims are her favorite foods: green beans and strawberries. But this can't possibly be true. * I was saddened to hear the news about Thich Nhat Hanh, but also realized in the wake of his death we were going to see a lot of bad poetry.

I am drinking the same coffee I always drink here, same roast, but today it seems sweeter somehow. From my post at the door I notice the shoes of the patrons as they enter the cafe. Despite the cold and ice, I see many pairs that are ungainly, blocky, loudly clacking on the wood. I have a joke with my wife that all clothing should follow the "bear rule." That is, it should not put you at increased risk of fatality should you be attacked by a bear. Forget the bears. Some of these shoes don't seem fit for a parking lot. We all know what the lack of any semblance of practical function signifies. And the clacking. Ahead, it's a free day with nothing to do and yet too much: Get my daughter out of the house, deliver paperwork, work out, cook, clean, read this and that. I have to return a stack of books to the library, all of them too terrible to read. I tried. (One book I liked but I accidentally grabbed the large print version, and this somehow throws off my ti...

This morning I got up at four for my usual routine. I don't try to wake up at that time. It comes naturally. Some meditation, some pranayama, some qi-gong, a buttered coffee. Soon, the kids are awake, pretend to be some sort of creature they call The Bud. When we've asked our older daughter what kind of animal it is, she says it's a mystery. What isn't a mystery is that The Bud can get into all sorts of mischief for which he or she will be blamed. Some type of scapegoat. When The Bud is awake at 5 a.m., we know it's going to be a rough morning. I won't miss The Bud when its forgotten. It is by turns whiny, hysterical, and disruptive. Nothing like The Bud could exist in nature because the other animals would consume it out of sheer annoyance. I drive to Lawrence for a medical clearance for my new job. No one tells me anything about it. Turns out to be a drug test. For what? No idea. A man stands outside the door as I piss into a cup. I'm not allowed to wash m...

Earlier this week, I wrote about some of the ways I occupied myself while working as a substitute teacher.  I left out one trick, which I used frequently, but less so as time went on and the substitute shortage meant I had less free time, and was often changing classrooms throughout the day. In the early days of the pandemic, I began to practice my handwriting, inspired by a interesting book called "Calligraphy," written by a local author and artist named  Susan Kapuscinski Gaylord . I have always had poor cursive, and her book, part guide, part memoir, part study, made me feel ashamed. It also pointed the way forward. So I bought some 19th century practice guides -- the major proponents of penmanship in those days were influenced by the Transcendentalists, and their ideas of standardization came from the observation of nature. This is why Spencerian handwriting has distinct, wave-like curves. Along with this came an interest in fountain pens. I cannot afford good fountain pe...

I sit near the milk stand. I drink my coffee black and notice how long some people take there, carefully adding the right amount of sugar, slowly tearing the packets. Even if there's a line behind them, they remain deliberate and unhurried. Some seem oblivious to me, only a few feet away. There is a man now, talking to himself, commenting on the number of packets, muttering complaints about the the milk pitcher is backwards. I'm not sure how a round object might be considered backwards. And doesn't the spout point in the right direction once you grab the pitcher by its handle? Still, he's very upset. I quickly glance at him. He is wearing a bitter frown.

Tomorrow, perhaps, I start my new job, and I can't focus on reading, thinking I don't have appropriate shoes.  Hiking boots were fine for substitute teaching. I keep putting my book down and looking at shoes online, only I have no money and can't afford any of them. The only appropriate pair I own is too narrow, and begin to hurt my feet within a few hours. I have to continually adjust the laces to make them bearable. If I wear them for too long, it becomes all I think about. The boots I'm wearing now I bought over a decade ago. They fit like socks. They weren't expensive. I somehow stumbled on something affordable and perfect. I'll finish my coffee then go for a walk in the woods. The slush of yesterday has frozen over and I'll need microspikes. Still, it's warmer out and the walk will be comfortable. Perhaps I'll visit the cranberry bog and look for a bald eagle I saw there once, but never again.

Prior to the pandemic, I had an impractical fantasy -- to one day own a Japanese-style jazz cafe. Instead of alcohol, I would serve tea in the Chinese manner (from a specialized ceramic vessel, with multiple infusions). If you don't know anything about these cafes, there are small bars (kissa) generally featuring an exceptional stereo system and a curated collection of records. The music doesn't even have to be jazz. There are jazz cafes featuring rock, noise, classical. Here, patrons sip high-end whisky while the owner smokes cigarettes in the corner. The mood is reverent and contemplative. No one speaks more than a few words. They listen. Or so I imagine. I’ve never been to one. I’ve read they’re becoming a thing of the past. It would never work in this country. It’s hard to imagine a silent space where people listen rather than speak. But I had an idea. I began to put together a nice stereo system, buying used components after researching how best to go about the tas...

Since leaving my publishing industry job in September, I've been working as a substitute teacher, hoping to find something permanent.  For context, there is a severe shortage of substitute teachers. For good reason. The pay is horrible -- less than what you would make working in a cafe. Some students see the substitute as an excuse for the sort of behaviors you are being hired to curtail. You are enmeshed in some power nightmare of Foucault's -- continually trying to limit minor infractions -- hats, hoots, ear buds, vape pens, phones, face masks -- while the students vigilantly seek to ignore the rules. Of course students, districts, schools, grades -- all these matter in how much work I need to spend as an enforcer.  Given all this, there is a pleasure in being a substitute teacher. Subs are needed, after all, and you sense your own importance, in some humble way. You never experience a crisis of meaning. Your presence means some teacher didn't have to step in and had a fr...

Serving tea for friends prior to the pandemic.

An evening snow turned quickly into a heavy rain, warm enough to make whatever lay on the ground dense and heavy, but not enough to wash it away. My front driver-side tire has a slow leak. Two months ago, it was the passenger-side. I had been hoping to get it fixed, but changed my mind watching a neighbor's car skid and slide along the road before he turned around and went home. Normally, I cram my spare time with books and diversions. After shoveling the driveway, I now have a rare moment when I'm not sure how to proceed. A mouse knocked an empty carafe out of our downstairs food cabinet. That must be cleaned. I was in the habit of drinking good tea before the pandemic, using ceramic vessels and quality leaf imported from places like Yunnan and Fujian. My tea tools gather dust, but I look at them now and then. They don't seem angry to me -- angry at going unused. They seem to evoke patience. Tea of this sort is best enjoyed with conversation. Still maybe I'll grab a ke...

My local cafe. I drink a large black coffee in a to-go cup and a double shot of espresso. In the early days of COVID, I began requesting the espresso to give me an excuse to leave a larger tip and the habit stuck.  In this cafe, I drink my coffee from  paper, despite the environmental implications, because their ceramic cups are unusually wide. This is not a good way to drink coffee, as it cools too quickly. Coffee cups should be tall and narrow. On the cafe's bookshelf, there is a book on Tiki culture. After, glancing at the pages, I ask the kindly barista if I can buy it. He hesitates and tells me I can borrow it. I was hoping he would tell me I could just have it, or that I can swap it with something of my own. Now, I have to consider. Do I add it to my library, with a sense of guilt for being a thief? Do I convince myself I'll borrow the book indefinitely? Or do I read and return? Really, I don't just want to read the book. I want to own it. A man walks in and I can hea...