Notes from the Red Bird House

A few moments ago, as I was putting my Christmas Eve dinner in the microwave - a Tupperware of Olive Garden I took from leftovers at work because I knew I would be too lazy to stop at HEB on my way home - I pondered about how pathetic I probably seem from the outside looking in. It's Christmas Eve and I'm alone. My choice, lest anyone think I'm playing the victim. There's no "Oh, poor me" about it. I've been fond of saying this year that "It's not my religion, not my holiday. Not my circus, not my monkeys." And it's true. I'm an atheist. What do I have to celebrate? Of course I could. Other atheists do. Again, it's my choice. Mine. But tonight for the first time in years, I did stop to ponder. Part of it is gifts. Well, that and the debt they bring. I like buying things for people. When I find something perfect for them or something I know they need. I'll buy stuff year-round (when and if I have the money). I don't think...

Right up until I sat down to write, the exciting part of my Friday night was going to involve deciding which book to read next. I have never felt so cool and un-cool...simultaneously. I know. I know. I'm a non-reader. Historically speaking anyway. I proudly told all of my graduate school professors (It might have even been in my application essay) that I don't read. Unless it's assigned (and much of that was a BEATING and undertaken begrudgingly). Yeah, I gave up TV over the summer in favor of reading, bought a Kindle this fall, AND this makes my second blog in barely a month about books, but I often still really, really feel like the non-reader I have long professed to be. I stayed up an extra half hour to finish a book last night. I'm not presenting that as evidence that I'm now a reader . I'm merely stating a fact. I could have turned out the light with fifteen pages to go. Could have. Somehow, though, it would have felt unfinished. Because it would have be...

I've determined that life is all about having the courage to live it. Ok, so full disclosure. It's Christmas Day and I just got done watching "Love Actually." I know. I know. Several of the storylines are about adultery and you're squeamish, if a bit offended. I'm going to ask you to look past that. And, really, no one commits any actual adultery....even though they think about it. So let's agree to focus on the movie's broader theme of fearlessness and courage. It's far more positive and can be applied to more in life than just the pursuit of love. Not much chokes me up or makes me cry, but when Sam breaks free and runs through the airport in pursuit of "the love of his life," I cry EVERY SINGLE TIME. Because, dammit, here's a ten-year-old kid who has the courage NONE OF US HAVE. In his mind, his entire life has been whittled down to this one moment - Run after her and tell her just so she'll know or live the REST OF HIS LIFE (...

"It's always your favorite sins that'll do you in." ~ from Kenny Chesney, "You and Tequila" "What's this?" I asked as I took the Sonic cup from her hands and peered inside. A spoon stuck out of the top. It had to be ice cream, by the look of it vanilla with tell-tale black specks. Only one thing that could be. "Oreo Blizzard," she confirmed as I handed the cup back. "My favorite." No lie. I love Oreo Blizzards, I just seldom eat them. "Have some." She gestured the cup back my direction. I shook my head. I'm trying to lose weight or at the very least trying not to gain it. Plus it's the holidays and sweets have been everywhere. She knows this. "It's just a bite. It won't kill you." Resigned, I agreed. I took the cup from her and looked at the spoon, the only spoon handy. "Can I use your spoon?" I asked. She looked at me like I was an idiot. "I don't hav...

I wanted to touch her hand. Feel her fingers intertwined with mine. That's it. Just once. For a moment. Then I'd be done. I'd be good. It would be enough. Or it would be addicting. And I'd be fucked. Absolutely. Unequivocally. Fucked. So I did nothing. I sat, I spoke. Gestured with my hands. Perhaps too much. I don't know. One day it would go away. The craving, the necessity, the need to know. It always did. Surely, she was like the others, the rest. Wasn't she? Surely, I thought. Still talking, still gesturing. Still keeping my hands busy. But as I looked at her, I realized. She wasn't them; they weren't her. And there was nothing I could do. I was fucked. Absolutely, unequivocally fucked . She was becoming what she shouldn't be, couldn't be. There was little I could do to stop it. A touch or not. It didn't matter. I talked on, tried to take my thoughts elsewhere. Willed myself to ...

"Ever since that first meeting, I have known you were my fate, however from time to time I may have disguised that knowledge from myself." A.S. Byatt,  Possession . I'm reading a novel that it turns out - after a fashion...ok, like 210 pages - is about a forbidden love. He's a somewhat older famous poet who's been married for many years. She is an aspiring poetess who lives in a sort of solitude with a (nutso) lesbian who secretly or not-so-secretly (I haven't gotten all the way there yet) covets her and dislikes (ok, abhors) her seeming affection for the poet-guy. A chance meeting leads to letters (it's the mid-1800s so...) which lead to a not-exactly-chance meeting or two. In the midst of all that nutso lesbian rips up and burns a bunch of letters and a bit later in the story throws herself off a bridge with heavy rocks sewn into her pockets. I'm certain that there's more...I don't know...literary stuff I'm supposed to be getting fro...