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When it came to recording audio for my upcoming podcast, I thought it was merely an issue of buying professional-quality microphones, plugging them in and then riding that steep GarageBand learning curve. There were many more invisible steps involved in this journey, which didn’t take me very far, but I needed to take them.
Once I watched several YouTube videos and read many Googled articles, both URL microphones activated at the same time. I consulted more videos and online articles to learn how to record each microphone on two separate tracks.
After several failed attempts, I invited my roommate to watch the latest batch of videos with me to see if I’d missed anything while reviewing the notes I took the first few times I watched them.
This time around, I did something different. And that magical moment, in all its profanity, is captured below:
If I’ve ever teased my parents as they grappled with new technology, they have now been avenged!
On Christmas morning, I put on my best (and only) Christmas elf costume.
We’d long since stopped waking up early in the morning to open presents. Now, the priority was documenting the Christmas scene, including our outfits before we dove into the gifts.
When in actuality, the main picture we wanted to take was with the entire family.
My niece and I were the first two ready…for nearly 20 minutes.
Then my sister joined in.
We even took a combination of pictures, waiting for everyone else to get their acts together.
At last!
We finally had six people all together like a family.
This one shows more personality.
My sister dubbed it the “crazy” pose. She doesn’t get out much.
One of my nieces received a circle light mirror, so of course we all wanted to test it out.
I believe we were too close to the camera, but I love how this shot picked up the texture of my locks.
Something my brother-in-law was baking set off the smoke detector.
He thought he’d cancelled the emergency signal, but at least the firefighters had a sense of humor. They asked my brother-in-law if he’d burned Christmas dinner. Absolutely not! All the food turned out fine.
Fast forward to Saturday.
My sister’s family and I met other extended family and friends in a parking lot around 1 AM. After loading up our things, we all zonked out as comfortably as we could. We took one rest stop break, then a few hours later, ate breakfast at a restaurant in NC, where ten other extended family and friends joined us on the bus.
The kids on the bus cheered when we turned the last corner, bringing our cruise ship into view at a port in Charleston, SC. Since this was my first ocean cruise, I didn’t know if the boarding process would be as much of a hassle boarding a plane.
Turns out, it wasn’t, especially since I shared a cabin with my parents. All three of us were expedited through the line since Dad used a walker and a portable oxygen device.
While still in customs, one of my sisters gifted me a lanyard, which turned out to be invaluable. I realized that in the madness of the holiday season, I’d failed to research what one should pack for a cruise, which was uncharacteristic of me.
All the preparations I’d made for various things during the month of December had drained my energy. Packing for this part of my vacation was where I’d dropped the ball. In addition to not having a lanyard, I didn’t have a small bag to take a water bottle, towel and other things to go around the ship and when we disembarked at Nassau and Half Moon Cay. Plus, I totally spaced bringing enough cash for incidentals such as tipping baggage handlers or buying lunch off the ship at restaurants, which didn’t accept credit cards. I couldn’t believe that in this day and age business people wouldn’t accept credit cards. Just allot money for the fees as part of business expenses!
Once we cleared customs, I led my parents to the 6th floor on the ship, where our cabin was. I consulted the map near the elevator and walked straight to our cabin despite Mom questioning whether I was going the correct way. Additionally she questioned how we’d get our keys since we hadn’t gone to guest services.
I’d noticed envelopes tucked above the room number placards and hoped that the room keys were in it. We arrived at our cabin, just like I figured we would, and found our envelope with the keys in it, just like I figured they would be.
As soon as we entered the cabin, mom said there wasn’t enough room to “curse a cat.” I mentioned that the expression was “not enough room to swing a cat,” but she doubled down. We had to play cabin twister the entire time if more than one of us were walking around since their king size bed and my twin bed consumed most of the real estate. To gain a little more floor space, I asked our cabin steward to remove the mini fridge. In its place, I put Dad’s oxygen condenser, but it couldn’t use the outlet the fridge had used because it was a different voltage.
The upside: no iron in the cabin. Big victory for me since Mom would’ve nagged the shit out of me about ironing my clothes. Her choices were to live with wrinkled clothes or send them to be ironed. I’m proud to say, she chose the former.
For the first cruise activity, we danced on the deck.
Found myself doing those horrid line dances. The hardest thing about doing those monotonous dances was doing those monotonous dances.
Eventually, Thing 1 and Thing 2 joined us along with Mom.
This was the only way my 79-year-old mom would dance with me.
I would have preferred to wear one of the costumes.
Once things got rowdier, Things 1 & 2 & Mom disappeared.
Mom couldn’t look at the water while we were moving.
She had her back to the view during our first breakfast. She nor Dad didn’t even go to the upper deck to see the island when we were docked. Dad joked that they were like hermit crabs. On the last full day, my sisters and I finally got them to the open deck, but we first had them walk around the track twice although Mom tried her best to get out of it by first looking over the railing to see what other people were doing. After the first lap, she wanted to do a line dance because the music was playing, but we made her use that energy to take the second lap. We found them two seats in the sun and told the nearest married couple to take notes from our parents, who’d been married for 58 years.
Extended family and invited friends met in one of the clubs for a scheduled fellowship,
which included a brunch buffet. One of my sisters and an older cousin, who was now a grandfather, co-emceed the event. I read a poem to remember deceased family members. While I was up there, the host in me took over.
After reading the poem, I explained that whichever branch of the family they belonged to or was invited by as a family friend, they would come up on the stage for a group picture. Then, one member of that group would introduce everyone.
Prior to the start of the impromptu program, I had discussed this activity with my sister, who initially wanted to pass the mic and let each individual introduce themselves. I shot that down because I feared it would turn into an unwieldy quasi-graduation event.
The eldest member of a particular branch of the Strange family
(yes, that IS the actually surname!) introduced everyone in the group. Representing the Floyd Strange (#11) branch, in lime green, Mom fulfilled that duty.
Making introductions for the Theodore Strange (#12) branch,
in red, Theodore, Jr. fulfilled the duty, which included both Theodore the III and IV AKA “Q,” who was told he’d have to continue the naming tradition.
Introducing the Mary Strange (#9) branch,
in yellow, one of her grandsons, who was a grandfather himself, had an easy task since so few had attended the cruise. Make no mistake, this was a prolific branch of the family.
In total, there were twelve Strange siblings, of which, my maternal grandfather was the eleventh. Only nine out of the twelve had descendants, but no one from the other six branches of the Strange family came on the cruise.
I wish my immediate family would choose holiday cruises instead of exchanging gifts since it’s better to make memories. I envied a woman I’d met while gently boiling in the hot tub, who pitched just that deal to her family four years ago and they’ve been cruising every year since.
After the group photos and introductions, we’d only used up half of our allotted two hours.
I asked Mom to allow me to interview her on stage. Of course she didn’t want to do it, but I convinced her to sit in one of the two chairs I’d placed on stage. I grabbed the mic and sat down to ask her questions. Many were questions I’d asked her over the eight years I’d produced the Austin Writers Roulette because I’d written essays based on her answers.
We really got everyone’s attention, discussing our racist dog, Sandy. Mom steered the conversation to Sandy not allowing an Avon lady to visit the house when dad was home but Mom was not.
When I asked her about the first time she fired a gun, Mom said, “Oh, you mean the time I almost killed my brother?” Even the kids stopped playing cards to hear that story. Apparently, one of Mom’s brothers had been late to pick her and her sister-in-law (my aunt) up. Mom joked about pretending to shoot him when he finally showed up. My aunt, not wanting to risk harming her husband, suggested firing the gun out of the window to make sure it wasn’t loaded even though they saw no bullets. Sure enough, there was a bullet in the chamber. Mom never touched gun again.
Missing in action was another uncle, 90 years old, who had been very reluctant about cruising for the first time,
but he absolutely loved it. He spent most of his waking hours drinking and gambling. I was pleasantly surprised when I caught him drinking ice water, which I could easily identify because ice floats in water, but not in vodka. He actually disembarked during our Nassau stop because the casino was closed until six PM.
He made quick work of shopping at the market. He’d already bought a Bahamian fanny pack when my sister and I found him parked in his motility scooter. We assisted him in buying a straw hat. Afterwards he joked about the next thing he needed to buy: a drink.
Every evening, we ate dinner at an assigned table.
Although most items on our dinner menu were already included, alcohol, soda, and prime cuts of red meat weren’t. I didn’t miss having a glass of wine with dinner as much as I thought I would. I wasn’t merely being a cheapskate. I wanted to see if I’d experience motion sickness.
So, I drank lots of water throughout the day. Still, I ate more frequently, including about 3-5 desserts daily, especially the 24-hour self-serve chocolate frozen yogurt. At least I had CBD to put in my morning glass of water, which kept my ankle pain at bay for the most part and had the added benefit of keeping my colon rolling, which I credit the CBG for that.
We persuaded Mom to disembark at Nassau for a hot second,
but she was dead set against disembarking the following day at Half Moon Cay. Instead of docking at a port, the ship docked close to the shore. Anyone who wanted to visit Half Moon Cay had to take a water shuttle in form of a small boat. There was no way in hell Mom was stepping off a ship unless it was upon terra firma!
Not only was the ride smooth, but it also traveled slowly…
nothing like the previous water shuttle Mom had experienced with another cruise years ago. Despite the fact that we were the only ship docked, the beach with the complimentary lounge chairs was packed. Apparently one had to get up and off the ship far earlier than our little troupe cared to do.
We found four available lounge chairs partially submerged in the ocean.
The rest of us threw a large beach blanket on the sand nearby. The water was cold, but we eventually got used to it, even my cold-natured sister.
I did water aerobics, which probably did more to fatigue my trick ankle than anything else.
One of my nephews, who inadvertently forgot to pack his swimming trunks, became our photographer.
We cleaned up nicely in time to celebrate NYE.
Even got the hermit parents to come out and stay up to see in the new year.
But the NYE celebration was a little dicey since the free app that kept me informed about the ship’s daily activities hadn’t updated.
I thought the dance club opened at 11 PM, but it turned out to be 11:30. One drunk woman got rowdy about the doors not opening on time. Even her husband thought security was going to get her. He showed her on his phone that the doors would open later, but she wanted to use my phone as “evidence” that they’d advertised an earlier opening.
Then she wanted to us to bum rush the door by holding it open and telling us to walk through since we were first in line, but we didn’t budge. I don’t know if the other older black women in the front of the line had a similar thought, but the phrase “white privilege” kept replaying in my mind. I’m not sure what form of ship jail there was, but I felt confident that none of us blacks wanted to find out how we’d get punished more than our white counterparts. So we waited patiently.
Once we were legitimately inside, we secured great seats on the perimeter of the dance floor. All the stadium seating on the sides of the club had been curtained off. So we were fortunate to have been first in line.
I did more of those horrid line dances.
Around two AM, we hit the line at the 24-hour pizza place. For the first time ever, the line wasn’t terribly long. As I ate, I felt ready to be off the ship. Yet, that wouldn’t happen until the next day. I don’t know how anyone can stand more than a five-day cruise.
I wished my uncle a Happy New Year when I came across him at his home on the ship.
(That’s actually water beside the can of soda.)
Later in the day, on January 1st, I felt the clock ticking for different countdowns:
to disembark in Charleston, to load the bus, to eat at the lunch stop, to get to the airport, to catch the connecting flight, to ride the airport shuttle back home. Everything progressed without a hitch.
Even so, I saw a break in the mathematical pattern within that chain of events. Looking for my seat on the first leg of the trip, I wondered about row 33 off and on for the entire flight. Reminded me of something out of a Hogwarts train platform. Then I thought about how Christ was allegedly crucified at age 33. I trust the explanation of the missing row was probably something far less imaginative, but what a joy to see creative stimulus within a routine ending of a trip.
After hearing so much hype about the impossible burger, both from the marketing campaign and then from vegetarians/vegans, my roommate made trying one our latest food walk destination. I immediately coupled this food stop with a coffee shop that served alcohol to help the digestion of fast food.
As we waited in line, we witnessed a dad walk his family’s three burgers back to the counter because they all wanted cheese. At this point, my roommate stated that she wished she could take those sandwiches and give them to the campers–the people living in tents and lean-tos on the grassy median in front of the fast food joint.
I found her comment confusing since, silly me, I thought the food servers would merely add cheese to the burgers, especially since the sandwiches had sat on the counter for a while. Suddenly, the cashier swooped them up and threw them in the trash with such food-wasting flair.
I tried to comfort myself. “Well, I’m sure dumpster divers will enjoy those burgers later.”
My roommate popped that big happy bubble of delusion. “They bleach all the food they throw away.” Seeing the look on my face, she agreed that our country hates poor people.
Once we had our burgers, we sat at a table under too bright fluorescent lights, too close to the indoor playground, which was technically enclosed in another area, separated by glass. Foolish me thought I could improve the fast food burger experience with hot sauce–as if hot sauce was available.
Although the burger definitely tasted like meat, a feature some meatless eaters don’t like about it, I disliked the lettuce dripping out of the buns due to the excessive amount of mayonnaise. Nonetheless, I wolfed it down while thinking about how much food was thrown away on a daily basis, which meant my mind wasn’t obsessing about the cleanliness of the establishment.
We left in record time.
En route to a proper beverage, my roommate gifted her leftover fries to one of the campers who was walking in the opposite direction, eating a boxed fast food meal. What are the attainable food options for people experiencing both food and shelter insecurities? Granted, this neck of the woods wasn’t a food desert, but how could people prepare food? The cheapest, most convenient food is often the least nutritious.
The warmth of the coffee shop melted away the fast food experience. I knew I wanted hot chocolate with a shot of something, preferably Kahlua or some Irish cream whiskey. Instead, I basked in front of a wall of infused alcohol. After what felt like far too long, I chose a shot of vanilla and almond infused vodka.
I sipped my warm cup of chocolatey joy on the patio. Who knows if my digestive track needed an alcohol chaser to aid with that fast food. It was a beautiful way to end the day.
Since my roommate has trained for endurance sports for over a decade and I exercise every day,
I can count on her to walk with me for a couple of miles at least once a week. This normally occurs when there’s no capoeira class or I’m not in the mood to work out in the fitness room, especially if the weather is decent.
We figured these long walks would be more rewarding if there was a food destination attached. That way, we’d get a brief libation and bathroom break, then we’d walk back.
For this excursion, our destination was a Korean restaurant that looked relatively new. It wasn’t exactly in what most people would consider “walking distance,” but considering that we’re both very talkative, the time and miles would drift by.
About a fourth of the way into our excursion, we spotted Cowboy Santa coming our way. Some people start with the Christmas activities before Halloween, but since Thanksgiving had just passed, this horseback Santa was appropriate for the season.
(I normally like much clearer pictures than this, but the blurry Bigfoot aspect of this photo adds to the mystique. Actually, this is much better quality than most of those Sasquatch pictures.)
Once we were mere blocks from our destination, I said, “What if this Korean restaurant is one of those pretentious places that aren’t open on Mondays?” Of course that turned out to be the case. After all, there must be some universal truth that if you cross paths with something seemingly unlikely, like Cowboy Santa, then that’s got to be coupled with something like an overly hip place not being open for dinner at dinner time.
True, we could have researched their hours of operation online, but then we would have chosen another restaurant, perhaps taken a different route and NOT crossed paths with Cowboy Santa.
After 7 years of producing my monthly spoken word and storytelling show, The Austin Writers Roulette, I was ready to call it quits. Yet, Austin’s unofficial mayor of poetry sweet talked and flattered me into producing it for an 8th year. I split the difference and made this year bimonthly, thinking I may continue for a couple of years with that schedule.
What a difference a few months make! I started selling CBD in July with the hope of building up the business enough to generate residual income. One thing the company encouraged us to do was share our personal experiences with taking the products. Watching the training videos motivated me to provide a platform to share other people’s CBD narratives via podcasting.
When I announced my intention to end the Roulette to my family, one of my sisters flipped out. “But that’s your baby!” All healthy babies grow up. Besides, it’s better to end an event on a high note than to let it fizzle out to an embarrassing end.
Instead of stating any of the above, I said, “Shut up. You’ve never even watched an episode!” One of the most wonderful aspects of The Roulette’s fourth and longest venue, Malvern Books, was that they videotaped all events. So, no matter the size of the audience, the performances live on the internet until society collapses.
Next thing I know, my sister informed me that she was coming out for a long weekend in order to attend the grand finale. Just like her to invite herself–something I reminded her of nearly every day during her brief visit.
As soon as I picked her up from the airport, we went to my favorite costume shop to get contrasting outfits. My favorite staff member decked us out to resemble Louisianan conjure women, complete with binding us so tightly in corsets, they could have doubled as back braces.
Afterwards, we visited a few other stores down the street en route to the car,
including a tiny home remodeled as a store to showcase Louisianan jewelry, followed by a boot store my sister hadn’t shopped the first time she visited me. One of the saleswomen shared a story from her life about Louisiana. (That state again!) She’d become a huge fan of the New Orleans Saints after Hurricane Katrina.
Prior to her visit, I’d asked my sister which vegetarian recipe she wanted me to prepare. She requested that I surprise her. I knew that raw onions gave her gas. When I asked her if she could eat cooked onions, she told me that onions in general gave her gas, but she could still eat them. (Uh, no you can’t.)
So, after shopping, we returned home where I made a scrumptious linguini dish with roasted cauliflower, walnuts, garlic, and capers. I grated pecorino over my pasta, which completed the flavor bouquet, but she went without the cheese.
I’d also bought my favorite specialty red wine infused with habanero peppers since I’d wanted her to try it the last time I’d visited, but we couldn’t find it at any liquor store in her neck of the woods. Yet, my sister, who’d actually graduated from college, somehow didn’t understand how cocktails worked.
On her flight, she had not one, but TWO rum cranberries. Even the guy who sat beside her told her that she should have a vodka cranberry, but she ignored his advice and ordered the second one. Now, her stomach felt funny. At least she liked the pasta and managed a sip of the specialty wine, which she thought tasted better than my usual wine choice: Malbec.
Friday morning, we dined at a trendy breakfast/lunch place. A Meetup group I belong to had eaten there, but I refused to wait in a long line on the weekend. We walked right in and the host sat us in a cozy little booth. I ordered off the holiday menu. (Yes, that IS a giant marshmallow.)
My only regret was not trying a breakfast cocktail since I never consume alcohol before a Bikram yoga class.
Afterwards, we took a long walk along Lady Bird lake. I thought the trail was mostly paved, but as we soon discovered, most of the trail west of I-35 to the Stevie Ray Vaughn statue was dirt. My sister wanted to walk back through the city on the sidewalk because she was wearing “the wrong shoes.” They were comfortable flats, but made of cloth. That latter part made them wrong in her mind since they would be more challenging to clean. After living in Austin a decade, I’d forgotten that some part of the world cared how clean their casual shoes were.
Since we were an hour too early to go to yoga, we ended up parking at an upscale grocery store to use the bathroom. To kill time, we browsed in stores so posh that I felt I was on an anthropological outing, seeing how the other people, including my sister, live.
My sister’s first yoga challenge turned out being her desire to wear jewelry and lipstick to class. She removed most of the jewelry except earrings and her wedding band, but I couldn’t convince her to wipe off the lipstick. Our little spat amused the other yogis in the women’s locker room.
During the 60-minute class, she lasted for all of the standing series and half of the floor series, becoming so hot that she couldn’t catch her breath. After class, she sat outside the room to cool off. I added an electrolyte to her water. For all that heat, she hadn’t broken a sweat, which amazed me. She then shared that when she ran track in high school, the coaches always made sure she drank a lot of water because she never sweated.
She took so long showering that I waited for her outside only to discover she’d spent a lot of time looking for one of her earrings. Again, why the hell would anyone wear jewelry to exercise? Not to mention lipstick. The 90-min Bikram class on Sunday was out of the question.
For years, I’ve ordered two dozen tamales from a nonprofit’s fundraiser. For some inexplicable reason, they only allow individuals a two-hour window on a Friday to pick them up. So with my sister still freaking out with Bikram after effects and earring loss, I convinced her to get into the car to pick up the tamales. Just as I pulled out of the parking space, she had an epiphany: she’d snagged one of her ears with the shower cap. (Yes, a woman with cornrows STILL wore a shower cap!) She wanted to hop out and check her gym bag. Since I’d already recovered from my “yoga brain” fog, I reasoned that if the earring was in her gym bag, it would still be there when we reached the nonprofit.
The clock was ticking to get the tamales. I knew we’d waste time in traffic. As soon as we arrived, she found the earring in the shower cap. Once we got home, we snacked on almonds and I did two loads of laundry before leaving for my favorite Mexican restaurant to meet a friend and her husband.
Light traffic allowed us some time to stop by a store where I bought envelops for my handmade Christmas cards. My sister bought her husband a Christmas card, but the store across the street intrigued her. When I told her what it was, her eyes lit up. Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to visit before dinner, which was why we shopped at the adult toy store after dinner.
She was like a kid in a candy store. And why not? She’d been married for 30 years. They deserved adult toys. Even though I pointed out the portable sex swing to facilitate anal sex, attachable to any doorjamb, my sister stuck with the more conservative edible underwear, lube and sexy outfit.
Saturday morning, we returned to my usual yoga studio to take Inferno Hot Pilates although I’d kept referring to it as only “pilates.” The heat surprised her as soon as we walked it. At least she’d left most of her jewelry at home and wore no lipstick. Progress. Once again, toward the end, the heat started making her dizzy. Although Bikram hadn’t made her sweat, pilates did.
We ate lunch while watching back episodes of “Watchmen,” which brought her up-to-date for its regular Sunday night airing. After finishing the laundry, we travelled quite a distance, which was still considered Austin, to a hemp-tasting. We arrived early since traffic wasn’t bad, but ended up being the only two there out of 18 RSVPs.
Nonetheless, my ulterior motive had been to line up an interview with the owner of the company for an upcoming podcast. From what I learned about her during that tasting, she had an amazing story. Also, now my sister and I had the same shared experience of trying CBD for the first time with their chocolate. Her workout pain disappeared minutes after the tasting.
We transversed the city again to a shopping village, which she and her husband had visited nearly 10 years ago. It had been a few stores on a strip back then. We didn’t find what she wanted, but I bought an inexpensive wrap since the sun had set, plunging the temperature rapidly. Out of sheer hunger, we ate at the nearest restaurant, which turned out to be a hit.
Since there was no way in hell my sister would take the 90-minute Bikram class with me, I came straight home after yoga on Sunday and forgot to pick up costumes. She accompanied me to the costume shop. Along the way, a monk, who had a bunch of books, accosted me on the sidewalk. I firmly said no thanks, but once we headed back to the car with our costumes, he approached me again.
This time, I chose a book, whipped out my change purse to dump its contents into his hand and out plopped two cents. My sister augmented the donation with her pocket change.
After lunch, we fought with those damn corsets and didn’t go too crazy with the makeup.
Instead, I draped a necklace across my forehead, which looked interesting, but I fought with it off and on until the very end–it was the first casualty after the show.
Once at the venue but prior to showtime, my sister acted as if she was a wedding photographer, taking pictures with me and of me, and other rouletters, even wonderful candid shots.
I dealt myself quite a hand for the grand finale: announcing one-line introductions for the artists and timing them; handing out the heartfelt cards I’d decorated and written for them; and taking pictures of them for the blog. Once the show ended, I knew I’d done the best I could.
Some of us parked at a fancy restaurant across the street from the venue. My sister and I graced the place with our costumes, but still couldn’t get an inside table nor a discount. Some other rouletters joined us at an outdoor table. Fortunately, the weather cooperated.
After a breakfast of leftovers and tamales on Monday, I conducted a 10-min interview with my sister. I was pleasantly surprised that the settings I’d stumbled across the week before still worked, along with the aggregate device I’d set up. This reduced preproduction time down considerably.
I then whisked her off to the airport, returned the costumes, went to the bank and dragged myself to my desk to log on and work. As I cycled through the queued up calls, I knew The Roulette wouldn’t be the only thing I’d end.
Unlike other children, I never actually had an imaginary friend. I had an imaginary talk show! Conveniently enough, showtime coincided with bath time, which, like every other enthralling prime time show, lasted at least an hour. Mind you, this live show took place when my family of five lived on an Air Force base in Little Rock, AR in a house with one bathroom.
So, my two older sisters and parents worked around my bath time. The only documentation of my childhood live show occurred when one of my sisters snuck in a tape recorder on the pretense of having to use the bathroom. Once I finished, I joined my family in the TV room. That same sister retrieved the tape recorder and pushed play. Startled, I turned around wide-eyed at the sound of my own voice.
That cassette tape had been a source of entertainment for years until it mysteriously disappeared. Mom says that I took it, which I don’t remember doing, but I’d love to have that earlier recording of my nascent producing/hosting efforts, which was also my sister’s first known instance of wiretapping. So perhaps it’s good that the evidence has disappeared.
I’ve always credited travel and reading as necessary for good writing. Yet, creativity manifests out of the ether. As a child, I remember thinking that trees created the wind. Their rustling leaves made breezes while the force of their branches produced gusts.
Lack of facts have never stymied creativity, so if you think about it, we’re living the most politically creative times ever. Without the anchor of truth, fiction can soar as high as the conjuror of the tale can imagine.
All science fiction is speculative—until it isn’t. Every futuristic thing of the past is now either a modern convenience or within a few years of our grasp. The only thing we need to do is not prematurely destroy the planet. What I mean by “premature” is before the sun has a chance to vaporize our planet when it transforms into a red giant. Like all living things, Earth should ideally die of natural causes.
Before that great demise, a universe of creativity awaits within the ether. Compelling narratives. Innovative technologies. New words. Creativity abounds to entertain the masses, even if they’re imaginary.
This past July, I signed up to sell CBD even before I’d tried this particular formulation. When I attended the Zilis business presentation, I jumped at the opportunity to make residual income since I had grown tired of trading time for money. The compensation program appealed to me. Plus, I figured with the rising popularity of CBD and after the passing of Farm Bill 2018, the time was right to launch a business that wouldn’t take any salesy technique to attract people. As a matter of fact, all the company asked us to do was share our experience with the product with other people.
Once I received my starter kit and began microdosing CBD daily, my priorities reversed. I slept better, experienced less stress, and the inflammation throughout my body lessened to the extent that I achieved far more flexibility in yoga classes.
My friends and fellow yogis bought CBD sublingual and topical from me based solely on my experience. Even so, my passion has never been in sales. My first career had been teaching secondary math and science. The teacher in me wanted to more know about hemp products and their interaction with the endocannabinoid system.
Yet, I’d signed up to sell CBD products. I had to find a way to undertake the endeavor that best suited my skill set.
For over a year, I explored the film industry. I checked out different aspects of the industry to see where I could land. Since I’d produced and hosted a spoken word and storytelling show for the past 8 years and had written 2 books, the natural fits seemed to be writing and directing. Even so, something about my current finances and the expense to make even a crappy short film turned me off.
While attending a film producers’ Meetup, I had a conversation with another writer who had produced a few scenes of a show that she’d written, but had to put on hold because she’d run out of money. Another producer suggested that if her show was more narrative based versus visual, she’d save a lot of money turning her show into a podcast.
The suggestion energized me.
Instead of begging for money to make a movie, I’d write scripts for a podcast. After all, I’d completed a screenwriting class at the beginning of 2019, so I knew that I could tweak the one script I’d written for audio.
By the time I’d signed up to sell CBD and heard their suggestion to share my CBD experience, I married that idea with launching a podcast. By producing a podcast about CBD, I could merge two objectives rather than continue juggling many divergent projects, which would divide up my time.
I signed up for a daylong podcasting workshop. The most vital content consideration for creating a successful podcast is writing an engaging story. Regardless of whether the story was fiction or nonfiction, stories entertain the masses. I’d learned that as the producer of The Austin Writers Roulette.
The most vital technical aspect is capturing high quality sound. I sprung for 2 high-quality microphones since I plan to have one-on-one interviews with CBD users and experts.
I waited until the weekend to test the mics by interviewing my roommate. At least that was the plan. I never want to induce insomnia by trying out a new technology during the week after work. I’ve lived and learned. Once again, that was the correct choice.
I started very simply and naively by plugging in both USB mics. I immediately saw that another step was needed since I could select one or the other mic, but not both at the same time. I searched on Google and found several videos. I took notes about creating an “aggregate device.”
Past that hurdle, I spent nearly an hour figuring out GarageBand. Namely, how to get my roommate’s and my recordings on separate tracks. I watched video after video, all overlapping in most areas. Any unique tidbit of information had me tearing off to review what I’ve done, the specs of my laptop OS, the version of GarageBand…Turns out, most of the videos were showing older versions of mics and GarageBand. Commands weren’t found in the same places are called the same thing.
Then, I got my golden piece of information: enable multitrack or whatever the hell it’s called. I can’t even remember what all I did because during the umpteenth thing that I tried and it worked, I was no longer taking notes. My roommate and I were just talking about the process instead of the interview I’d planned to have with her. But the point is, we recorded on separate tracks!
A few years ago, I aged out of training capoeira on a regular basis.
I’d lost motivation to move that fast just to exercise.
I knew the risk I took. Inaction leads to negative results. Doubling up on yoga proved to not to be strenuous enough. Working out in the fitness room on my own, too boring. I joined a fitness place, which boasted “the best workout in an hour.” True, but I could only stand to do it once a week despite the pumping music and variety of exercises.
When I learned earlier this year that one of my favorite capoeira teachers had started his own side hustle by offering a Monday night “capoeira conditioning” class, I checked it out. Now THIS was what I’d been searching for: Core and balance training, using capoeira moves and music without any fast-paced sparring.
My enthusiasm for the class enticed my roommate to give it a try. Despite how self-conscious she felt with this new exercise discipline, she became a regular.
Since the facility is quite a distance and the capoeira instructor doesn’t have a key to the place, I text him either the day before or the morning of the class just to make sure that it’s still happening. As a matter of fact, this past Veterans’ Day, we had a special class at my former capoeira studio with the contramestre. What a jolt to the system! Not only did the contramestre teach a full capoeira class, but many advanced students participated.
The following week, my roommate and I were back for more. Fast forward to Thanksgiving week. I texted the instructor to see if class was on. My roommate and I didn’t care that we were the only students there. Core and balance training is its own reward.
“What would you recommend if you’re already having a bad day?”
“A curried margarita.”
So began the latest meeting of this writing group. Me drinking alone an hour early before the meeting at an Indian restaurant because it was too much trouble to go home. My chiropractic appointment was unexpectedly canceled. Of course it was since we writers planned to meet.
The first time I attended this writers’ group, I drove through the rain, which transformed into a deluge complete with flash flooding and damn near zero visibility. Worth the effort since we table read my short film screenplay. Not that I’ve polished it up much since then, but the experience brought me closer to the goal.
For my second meeting, we met at an upscale grocery store. I’d never shop there for my weekly provisions. Honestly, any “good for your health and the environment” grocery store is out of my budget. Anyway we’d met to discuss a feminist children’s religious book. Such a rich conversation ensued despite the unconducive ambiance. Plus, a con artist sat amongst us.
She brought her disruptive energy to the mix, which I fought everything within me not to tackle head on. Only my respect for the feminist religious children’s book author/illustrator restrained my verbal parry. I didn’t want to consume her creative feedback time by drilling the Imposter.
For our next meeting, we gathered at a relaxed chic Southern restaurant I’d recommended. Since the noise level inside rivaled a sports arena, we sat outside in triple degree weather. A Bikram yoga hot. The weather app on my phone read 105 degrees, confirming my suspicion. I’d learned years ago when I first moved to Texas that I couldn’t drink alcohol in such heat. Nonetheless we had an enjoyable discussion about one of our member’s poem. Another member brought a box of hats, which inspired our next meeting: to select a hat to write about.
I knew just the hat. A very wide-brimmed one with stuffed cloth bones dancing along the brim and long thin bamboo sticks jutting out the top. I wrote a haunting poem about how the hat evoked evil to the wearer and all who saw it. I wore red and black belly dance pants and a red lacy kerchief over my face. I’d made that costume for a performance at The Austin Writers Roulette and used it as my Halloween costume for that year. It had sat dormant for years until then.
Prior to joining the other members at our table, I talked extensively with one of the food truck staff about what to get. Unfortunately, another dude took my order. I believe the hat razzle-dazzled him into mixing it up. The silver lining: I had enough leftovers to get my money’s worth.
After finishing the last of 156 rough draft paintings for my upcoming “World’s Sexiest Dictionary,” I hopped into my car and sped into the nearest traffic jam en route to the next writers’ meeting. GPS guided me to a toll road. I’m still not sure how I feel about toll roads, but I was hungry for Thai food and anxious to share my paintings.
I transversed town much faster than if I’d taken the free route. That momentary win soured when I arrived in the vicinity of the restaurant but couldn’t find it. I parked and stomped around on foot. When I still couldn’t find the restaurant, I called the member who’d recommended it. I described all the other stores I saw, but none of that rang a bell for her. She exited the restaurant and into the shared parking lot. We saw one another after a few minutes. I took a few deep yogic breaths as I made my way to the restaurant with the understated signage.
At least the libations hit the spot and since no other member had brought anything to discuss, I had a captive audience to show my illustrations to, complete with reading the definitions and example sentences. What the experience lead me to believe was that I needed to revamp the sentences. I’d originally wanted to keep them short and sweet, but since I’m essentially telling a one-sentence story, the more descriptive ones received a better reaction. The nude illustrations didn’t hurt either.
By virtue of all experiences, good and bad, becoming writing fodder, my creative contribution to this latest meeting was documenting all the sideways shit that happens when I’m meeting these women writers. I’m sure I only see a pattern because these are the times I’m meeting with them. Bad shit happens all the time. I just don’t have a unifying activity to recall them and string them together.
Since Halloween is my favorite holiday, the ones that follow to close out the rest of the year are just a strain on time and money. Yes, I enjoy getting together with family and friends to share a yearly meal of thanksgiving, but I’ve become more of a Scrooge when it comes to bought gifts.
Many people see the arrival of cold weather as the signal of the coming of the holiday season, especially if it snows around Christmas time–a cliche I’m so over that I make a point to complain when I travel to be with my family in Virginia rather than us meeting in a warmer climate.
Yet, the arrival of the cold, sleet, and rain have worried me more than previous years. This is the first year that homeless people have camped out in tents along the grassy wide medians of major streets. As far as I can remember, they’ve been under major under passes, but now, they’ve spread out to what I would consider far more comfortable accommodations.
According to a recent article, homeless citizens feel that their things are safer in a public space versus the woods. Plus, when they are camped under an overpass, they are nearer to a bus line, so they can have transportation to their job(s).
In the past, I’ve donated coats and canned goods to the less fortunate. How does one donate better housing? Where’s the donation box for that? ‘Tis the season of giving and yet, everything is a band-aid for a temporary fix.
In another article, I read that the city is kicking around the idea of buying a motel (hotel?) to temporarily house the homeless. As a bonus, the city isn’t even going to require homeless citizens to seek services in order to respect a sense of choice.
With that in mind, I researched how to contact the mayor. I’m sure it’s no coincidence there wasn’t an email address for him. Instead, I had to read all the descriptions of his staff to find out which person was assigned to deal with homeless. The gist of my message was a request to donate money to a homeless shelter on the behalf of my family in lieu of buying them gift to add to their cathedral of material goods. If I even get a response, I’ll add that I’d love to help purchase one of those hotel rooms to name after my family. In that way, my gift to them would be housing homeless people.
