Go With (Your) God…

I live in Minneapolis. My wife lives in Atlanta. I necessarily commute between the two cities, regularly. Last year my hectic pace earned me silver rewards status on two separate airlines. In Minnesota, I have predictable 9-to-5 (remote) job and a reliable chauffeur (my mother). In Atlanta, it’s more…complicated.

My wife travels regularly for work. Often we’re flying in on the same day but not at the same time. The notion of her driving home from the airport and then (later) back to the airport (to pick me up) and then back home is unfathomable.

First, we live 52 minutes from the Hartsfield-Jackson International, if we were driving there at 3 AM. Most other times of the day, it’s a completely different story. Put it this way—if you think you have a traffic quagmire in your city, swing on through Atlanta any day between 3 PM and 9 PM and get back to me.

Next, Atlanta has a public transit system called MARTA. With a station at the airport and another a scant 20 minutes from our house, it’s a sanity preserving alternative. Accordingly, I ride it either north or south usually four times each month. As I’ve been at it for over a decade. I feel I could write a book—two, actually—entitled Adventures in MARTA-ing, because it’s always an adventure.

As an example, earlier this month, a dude swung onto the train and plopped down in one of the vertically oriented door-adjacent seats. He was packing a Nerf gun—so that was something new! After a few minutes, he inexplicably began treating himself to a full pedicure. For the record, these seats are earmarked for the elderly and folks with limited mobility not (armed) amateur estheticians.

98% of my journeys go off without a hitch. But 2% of the time I’m subjected to shenanigans like: full-on brawls, drug-induced meltdowns, smoking of every substance imaginable, booming music emanating from actual boom boxes, impromptu out-loud singing, relentless panhandling that would make most politicians blush, and of course the unwashed (for months) masses.

As a settled in for the 45-minute jaunt from AIRPORT > NSS on my latest trip, a little note was peeking up at me from the heating grate. It was the cursive that alerted it to me—and not too shabby cursive at that! I probably glanced down at it a dozen times before the suspense overtook me.

Was this a literal sign from God? I bemused…

Was it just the idle rambling of a lunatic? I wondered…

Was it an earnest message from a caring soul? I contemplated…

All I know is that the author in question had exceptional penmanship. When I finally snatched it off the grate, I noticed it was actually written on an Avery address label. I contemplated peeling it off and sticking it somewhere on my backpack. Instead, I left it for the next rider for whom the message might truly resonate. I’m guessing that’s what the author intended.

I hope they can read cursive.

#adventuresinmartaing

—
© 2024 – ∞ B. Charles Donley

And (I) Quote…

’80s Ladies—The Women Who Raised Me.

This photo was staged and snapped back when you had to stage a photo—back when photography was a leap of faith. There was no looking at the screen of a phone to make sure no one was blinking, everyone’s smile was perfect, no one’s hair was askew, etc.

My mother is sitting in the arm chair on the far right side of the shot.

This photo is paramount in my lifetime. It has “appeared” in speeches (delivered to small groups), it has been referenced in numerous blog posts (read by no one), and it has harbored a treasure trove of memories that will continue to fuel my written ramblings (read by no one). There is already a vignette from my first novel straight out of this era.

There are two exceptional exceptions, however—Iris and Tammy. Iris was my mother’s BFF and my second mom for a long stretch. Tammy started cutting my hair when she was 18 and I was 12. We grew up together one haircut at a time. Both of these angels moved on to the next astral plane way too early for me. Both were quintessential.

This photo was taken on the cusp on the ’80s. My mother is sitting on the far right. She was “El Jefe”. For 55+ years she ran a wildly successful hair salon that did a whole lot more that haircuts. I asked my mother if I could have it. She dropped it off today on her bi-weekly visit. She said, “If I need to see it, I’ll just stop by.”

These women taught me how to be a man. I grew up in their unique orbit. They were all unique, interesting, wonderful. A handful of them would watch me grow from a kid, to a teen, to a man. Forever, this photo will hang somewhere near where I write. There is so much here, and I’m blessed to have it.

They represent a time when looking sharp was not an anomaly. They were sophisticated beyond their years. They were all strong and sometimes salty women. I spent so much time around them, that I eventually became more comfortable around women than men. This persisted throughout my college days and career. They literally made me the man I am today.

—
© 2024 – ∞ B. Charles Donley

Trust Me…

Critics, are like…

Professional criticism is like masturbation—if you could stick your cock into something real, you would. But since you can’t, fucking your writing hand is the next best thing.
—
© 2023 – ∞ B. Charles Donley

Writing about music is like dancing about architecture.
—
© some year– Martin Mull

Hey Dave!

Hey Dave!

First and foremost, how are you? The last time I saw you, I was getting married for the first time. It’s been a while, literally. I truly hope all is well with you and yours.

Next, thanks for commenting on my writing (or even reading it). I started writing in earnest again after my divorce in 2010. But it was not until 2017 when I decided to write a novel. That first attempt got interrupted with what turned into a pair of novels. I’ve since returned to that initial foray, and I’m nearly finished with that initial novel. As you may have guessed, it’s loosely based on my relationship with my father. More broadly, it’s a story of fathers and sons and trying not to retrace your parents’ footsteps but falling in lockstep despite oneself.

Anyway, in writing it, I’ve done a lot of exploration of the past. It’s been nostalgic, and bewildering, and downright trippy at times. Much of it harkens back to the decade of the ’80s and rambling around the big empty rambler on Christmas Lake. There is a key moment in the novel that occurs in a fictitious Mt. Calvary, which I not cleverly named Mt. Calvary. I was going off the premise that there have to be at least a hundred “Mt. Calvary’s” in the U.S. alone. 

Writing is a whole body/mind/soul exercise for me. Writing that church scene shook loose a gazillion memories. Most were from, what was for me anyway, the mystifying and terrifying confirmation years. But in contrast to the unpredictable and near criminal behavior of my fellow confirmees, you were quite literally the Rock of Gibraltar.

Likely, I was slightly ahead of my peers from a developmental—heavy on the mental—perspective. Plus, I was a shy introvert whose intuition vastly outstretched my percieved toughness and endurance. But even then I could see how completely preposterous your job truly could be at times. For example, a weekend retreat at Gustavus when you were tasked with wrangling a slew of teenage ne’er-do-wells to get some sleep when most had plans to the contrary. 

My mother was (and still is) a master of biblical quotes. She’d often describe people with “The patience of Job.” Whatever is more than that, that’s what you had back in those tumultuous and confusing (for me) days. 

Anyway, there was one weekend retreat to a camp that I want to say was in Wisconsin. As you can well imagine in ’87 (or ’88), taking 60 almost high school co-ed’s to a camp in the autumn was gonna be a slog for the poor chaperones. An while the weekend was disastrous on many fronts: bras up the flagpole, kids out smoking in the woods, animal skulls in the toilets, no one ever wanting to sleep ever, etc. You somehow managed to remain sane, and calm, and unimaginably patient. I guess that’s the job. You did blow up at the usual suspects causing commotion one too many times in the wee hours in the boys’ cabin, but I’d have gone much further than you did when stretched to the extreme limits you were.

That particular weekend, you and the staff did an exercise where we all wore paper bags on our heads that indicated our “role” in the exercise. We all were then tasked with walking around and acting toward each other in such a way that the person wearing the bag could guess our assigned role. 

The genius aspect of this exercise, which by the way could never be done today, was that the roles given were the opposite of how the kid in the bag behaved in real life. My bag, if I remember correctly read “Bully”. Predictably, the other “bagged” kids in the room acted scared toward me. And quite obviously, this is the opposite of how I felt that entire weekend. 

This is one of those moments in life that stays with you forever. In fact, I can recall the room and the setting, and the reactions of my fellow confirmees. But, it was also transformational for me. You see, the power of that exercise is that it leveled (so to speak) the bolder of the bunch, and it lifted (so to speak) the meeker. And in that, it was perfectly biblical. Maybe that was the point, but I promise you it was lost of most. On me, however, it was not. 

There are snippets of time, in his lifetime, that are pivotal. That was one such snippet. Not only did I feel understood in that I was given an opposite role that perfectly fit, but I felt seen. That was rare in those days. Like really rare.

As I was writing my little novel that likely no one will ever read, I decided I needed to reach out to you and let you know that you made a massive impact on teenage me. And there weren’t many who did. You exhibited a “gentle strength” that I rarely saw. Maybe it was the times, but strength in the ’80s was a literal notion. Wisdom and grace were not yet recognized as the superpowers they are today. And yet you were an OG, at least for me.

I never saw myself being a pastor. But I promise you I am a better father to both my (high school) daughter Karli and my son Nate, because you were my pastor. Your example was impactful in ways you could’ve never imagined 40 years ago. For that, you have my eternal gratitude.

Writing this book has taught me to call out the excellent humans who have helped me along the way. You are one, for sure. I’ll be forever in your debt for the gentle guidance you provided and for the grace you displayed. Few look at a pastor and sees a superhero, I do. Thank you for making the road a bit less rocky. It meant a lot. It’s not forgotten, and it’s always bouncing around in my writer’s mind.

Cheers!

P.S. He never responded…
—
© 2023 – ∞ B. Charles Donley

My Friend Ninja

Since I can recall, my son’s gamer tag has been “YourFriendNinja.” He chose it when he was in 4th grade. I believe he wanted something that was simultaneously intimidating and not intimidating. A ninja is no joke, but when it’s a friendly ninja…well…then…that’s not so scary.

As I was on one of my bi-weekly flights between MSP and ATL this past week, I spied something near my feet that initially resembled a popcorn kernel. Accordingly, I ignored it. Spirit Airlines is not know for their extreme tidiness.

But the more I just sat in my empty-besides-me row and listened to my audio book, the more I stared at the would be kernel. It was interesting. It had a bit of a sheen that I’d never seen in popcorn. Also, it had an interesting appendage. Sure, popped popcorn can result in all manner of unpredictable shapes, but this one was particularly unpredictable.

Eventually, I reached for it. I was both shocked and delighted to find it was not popcorn, but a tiny ninja figure. Immediately, I decided his name would be “MyFriendNinja” and I would take a number of action shots featuring my new friend.

The subsequent 30 minutes of my flight flew by. He will live in my backpack forever. We will go on many exciting adventures together…

—
© 2023 – ∞ B. Charles Donley

Dudes in Scuba Gear in the Family Room

There are snippets of fragments of memories that comingle intrigue and sheer terror. I have kids—I’ve had them for a while now—and I can imagine how most of the things that adults do seem utterly bonkers to them. Considerably more bonkers than the reverse of that equation, of that I’m positive.

Growing up on Christmas Lake Point was a blessing. There was a certain degree of gravitas afforded anyone with GPS coordinates that ended in “Christmas Lake Point.” And yet, as a bewildered kid, it was hard to explain everything I saw and experienced there. Especially in the ten-year period between birth and my parents splitting in ’82.

I do know we lived on a western suburban Minneapolis lake amid a gaggle of wealthy folk. And while my dad had a solid office gig selling weapons to the Europeans, and my mother ran her own beauty salon, we had not ascended to the same upper financial echelons as many of my friends’ parents.

At some point in the late ’60s, my folks essentially stumbled into the most profitable rent-to-own real estate situation in history. OK, probably not in history, but the difference between what they paid to purchase their rental cabin on Christmas Lake Point and what my father eventually sold it for was in the $700K range (give or take).

Anyway, shortly after the purchase, the cabin was torn down and my maternal grandfather replaced it with a sprawling 4,000 sq. ft. rambler. The new home was decked out with the most gaudy interior design trends of the epoch. It was a poster-home for the funky, groovy, kaleidoscopic aesthetic that dominated.

Passing through the front door, your eyes were drawn to the side-by-side living room and dining room featuring carpet as white as driven snow and pink foil and fabric wallpaper that you could pet like a kitten. A smattering of lead crystal accruements like lighters, ashtrays, and a spectacular punch bowl (with sterling ladle) took up space on various tables and buffets. Walking from the dining room through the pocket door into the kitchen you were greeted with yellow linoleum flooring, dark walnut cabinets, taupe laminated countertops, and mustard appliances. A veritable cornucopia of vibrant plastic fruit and vegetable displays punctuated the flamboyant landscape. Continuing from the kitchen into the family room landed you on some of the most plush brown shag carpet ever made. A massive stone wall with and indoor BBQ and fireplace in the center was flanked by humongous dueling perpendicular brown and orange davenports. A wrought iron and wooden chandelier that hung between the sofa’s looked as though it was salvaged from the captain’s quarters of a pirate ship. Needless to say, we grew up in a very colorful time.

The rest of the house was no less garish, but no less fantastic.

Getting back to the notion of crazy shit adults do…my little brother and I witnessed all manner inexplicability over the years. One such mystifying event occurred the day we found a pair of dudes sitting on the fireplace hearth casually chatting with our folks. Normally a couple of strange men hanging out in our family room wouldn’t make the top 100 list of crazy shit, but they were both dressed in head-to-toe in wetsuits. Each possessed a large gear bag parked in the foreground on the floor.

Christmas Lake is a unique suburban lake. At the time, it was considered one of the clearest lakes in the state due to the lack of a public access. It was also 90 feet deep in a couple of spots, including just to the left of our dock. The combination of clarity and depth attracted a fair amount of interest from local SCUBA hobbyists. But lacking a public access, you needed to know someone living on the lake in order to get onto the lake in the first place.

I was too young to be privy how these mermen had finagled their way into my house. But it was clear even to me that my father was somehow integral. He fancied himself a bit of a James Bond type, and this was right up his alley. In retrospect, it had a very Wes Anderson Life Aquatic vibe. Also, the old man watched a ton of The Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau on PBS on weekends. So, this nonsensical scene probably made more sense than naught.

As I lurked in the back of the room and silently observed this strange negotiation, I couldn’t help but be utterly captivated. Despite only being five or six at the time, I got the distinct impression something fantastical was happening. I was pretty positive other kids in my school never had SCUBA divers in their family rooms. I was pretty sure their fathers didn’t pull such capers. And with the exception of my friends who also lived on Christmas Lake, I was pretty sure the other kids who also inhabited my tiny safe suburban snow globe didn’t have a backyard anywhere nearly as magical as Christmas Lake Point.

Eventually, we followed the divers down the switchback path that led from the basement patio to the lakeshore. I stood on the deck as my father helped the divers get ready to shove off the end of the dock into the depths. I could only imagine the wonderous things they’d encounter at the bottom of the lake. I desperately wanted to see what they saw. I don’t recall them stopping in after their dive. As far as I know, they just dissolved into the depths for all of eternity.

Years later, during the fleeting Minnesota summers, my brother and I would explore the water ourselves. We’d don masks, snorkels, and flippers from the lake shed and kick off into the relative depths of the lake just off the tip of the point. Mostly on weekend mornings, it was a tradition I relished. There was something so peaceful and wonderous about underwater life. And on our little weekend excursion, I always wondered what those divers saw when they explored the deepest corners of our little lake.

Looking back today, I’m struck by how idyllic and American-dream-like the setting truly was. It was a perfect spot to be a kid in the late ’70s and ’80s. The old man eventually sold it just before the turn of the century. But up to that point, it retained all of its majesty regardless of how too-old I became or how too-busy I was to visit. It was truly the only place you’d find dudes in SCUBA gear in the family room.

—
© 2023 – ∞ B. Charles Donley

No One Truly Creates; It’s Already There

Traveling during the pandemic was a trip, literally.

I live in suburban Minneapolis. I have local responsibilities in the form of a 17 and 15-year-old.

My wife lives in suburban Atlanta. She has responsibilities in the form of three adorable doggies, a prolific career as a commercial photographer, and my in-laws, who live just up the road from her.

We both maintain houses, lives, and careers separately and together. It’s a strange dichotomy, and yet after more than a decade, it’s as familiar as our respective front door handles.

The pandemic, regardless of your take on it, threatened to disrupt our lives in a cataclysmic manner. We see each other thanks to the fortitude of Delta Airlines almighty. MSP and ATL are thankfully hubs. There are a few dozen flights a day, and we can generally pick out the one that suits us best without great cost. We understand we are blessed. For if she lived in Panama City, FL, or I lived in Butte, MO, the story would be quite different (and a lot more costly).

Love is oblivious to flight paths or airline hubs or geography—this I know.

Thankfully, graciously, miraculously, Delta never stopped flying between MSP and ATL—pandemic be dammed! I flew from MSP to ATL (and back) as though everything was normal. Except I flew on more than one occasion with just two other humans (on a plane with 150 seats).

Honestly, I will cherish these experiences. Firstly, because I cannot tell you how on-time you are when boarding the plane takes 3 minutes. And there is overhead space forever! Peeing was breeze. Getting off the plane in ATL and getting to baggage—generally a cluster-fuck of biblical proportions—was literally like a walk in the park. Sure, there was no place to grab a bottled water, but that was a miniscule price to pay to be able to regularly see my wife during the oddest year-and-a-half of this lifetime.

The one complaint I have about air travel during the pandemic is the selection of movies.

Yeah, this sounds utterly preposterous—I know! And yea, I know, no one was making new movies. I get it. But the best part about flying Delta over say…Spirit…is the amenities. And one of those amenities is having Blockbuster Video right there in front of your big fat face.

The last flight I took prior to the cessation of life as we knew it was a few days before my birthday in very early March (think like the second day of that month). Things were pretty normal. It was the weird period of time when everyone knew shit was about to get real, but no one acknowledged it, aloud anyway.

For me, it didn’t matter. I had to see my wife. And air travel was the only way. So come hell or high virus, I was going to be on planes as long as planes flew. To Delta’s credit, they flew through it all. It sounds trite, but no one who doesn’t live our reality will ever know how much gratitude I have for the pilots and flight attendants who made seeing my wife a reality despite the chaos going on in the world.

Anyway, back to the movies, on the back of the seats, that were occupied by no one. In fact, I could’ve fired up all six screens in the row I was in, and scanned the movie I was watching from once side of the plane to the next. And thankfully, these films—in-flight entertainment—took my mind off of the abject craziness I was experiencing.

But traveling throughout the pandemic caused me to watch every single film that was available. In fact, not only did life cease to move forward, but entertainment did as well. Eventually, I’d watched nearly every film that Delta had stashed in the vault prior to the pandemic.

FFWD >> to the last flight I took from ATL to MSP,—it was a shitshow! Clearly, my fellow humans who, unlike me, had been deprived of travel, decided they all gonna get the fuck outta here. Hartsfield-Jackson is more congested today than I’ve seen it in a decade. And I’ve been there about two-dozen times annually since 2010.

The last Delta flight I took late on a Monday night from ATL to MSP was a nightmare. Long lines, I got the window seat (36A) next to the heater—why are there heat vents on an airplane that open into the cabin??? We had a “plane change” that caused “issues”. We sat on the runway for about 90 minutes in 90-degree heat waiting for this and that. Honestly, it made me yearn for the halcyon days for traveling with three other intrepid Minnesotans during the spring of 2020.

On that fateful flight, I watched a (new old stock) movie titled: At Eternity’s Gate. It’s the Van Gogh biopic staring Willem Dafoe as the tortured artist. I’m not savvy enough to be good at appreciating paintings. I’m much better at music. But, my wife and I had visited the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam in the mid 2010s. Of all the museums I’ve visited with her, it was far-and-away my favorite.

I may be due to the general lack of nuance, or the frenetic brush strokes, or the bright colors, but I could relate to Vinnie’s desperate painting more than…say…the impressionist masters. I can appreciate what they did (for the most part), but none of their paintings grab me in the way Von Gogh’s do.

The thing that appeals to me most, however, is the artist himself. He’d never so much as picked up a brush until his late ’20s. He’d had no prior artistic training. And he was slightly deranged. Sure, he was never properly appreciated in his time, but I doubt his main impetus for creating art was fame and recognition. In fact, it appears that he had a deep love affair with nature and believed painting would restore the balance in his life. As a result, he often found himself in nature painting.

He was an idiosyncratic artist, but he just translated what was literally before his very eyes onto the canvas in front of his face. The works my wife and I admired in the gallery were his translations and interpretations of what was already there.

Many other artists in many other genres have expressed a similar sentiment. Be it Stephen King, George Michael, or Nick Cave, many artists have expressed the idea that creating art is not actually what an artist does. It’s more like uncovering beauty, or prose, or melodies that already exists and may have always existed in some form.

I write, obviously. It’s the only “art” at which I can pretend to claim any proficiency. And that’s up for debate. I can’t exactly even properly appreciate paintings. Music is vital, but my attempt to learn to play the guitar was laughable. But I’ve always had a knack for writing, or at least that’s what I’ve been told. It goes beyond just liking it or or finding it fun—it’s necessary.

In a Rolling Stone interview from November of 2015, Elton John’s prolific songwriting partner Bernie Taupin summed it up best…

That can be extremely frustrating. But it’s what we have to live with. The thing is, you can be Billy Joel and just give up making records. But the thing is, if you really have the drive and the passion for music and writing, you’re going to do it whether it sells or not, because it’s there inside you. If you don’t get it out, you’re going to explode.

—Bernie Taupin

And so I “get it out,” or as Stephen King put it ever so eloquently in his advice novel, On Writing…

Sometimes you have to go on when you don’t feel like it, and sometimes you’re doing good work when it feels like all you’re managing is to shovel shit from a sitting position.

—Stephen King

Regardless of whether I’m writing to stave off an epic explosion, or I’m shoveling shit from a sitting position, my desire to write is rapacious. And thankfully, to this day, still effortless, I never feel like I’m writing anything new. There is a minute, or two, when I sit down where I have to rediscover my bearings, but then the flow—or whatever you want to call it—just swallows me up. That person who is me rapidly dissolves. Hours later, x amount of words later, I realize I was just a secretary taking dictation.

In her essential guidebook for other writers, Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott pretty much nailed it…

Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve thought that there was something noble and mysterious about writing, about the people who could do it well, who could create a world as if they were little gods or sorcerers. All my life I’ve felt that there was something magical about people who could get into other people’s minds and skin, who could take people like me out of ourselves and then take us back to ourselves. And you know what? I still do.

—Anne Lamott

So here’s to the flow, whatever the fuck it actually is? May it never desert you, or me, or anyone who aspires to uncover all of the great stories, tales, lies, and exaggerations floating around waiting to be translated.

—
© 2023 – ∞ B. Charles Donley

David Foster Wallace—The Canary

According to the University of Exeter…

From 1911 to 1986, it was traditional to send two canaries down to each pit. More susceptible to toxic gases, such as carbon monoxide, the canaries warned miners by growing more distressed when the gas levels were rising too high, allowing the human miners to escape safely. Hence the phrase “like a canary in a coal mine”, is used to indicate a whistleblower or indicator of danger.

According to David Foster Wallace…

And this “danger of irony” theme appears over and over in Wallace’s interviews. Salon.com did an entire article in regards to Wallace’s deep concern over the corrosive nature of irony for irony’s sake. I highly recommend reading the entire piece, but here is the key…

Great art must be achieved through the integrity of its own internal principles. Irony alone has no principles and no inherent purpose beyond mockery and destruction. The best examples of irony artfully expose lies, yet irony in itself has no aspiration to honesty, or anything else for that matter.

Ultimately, Wallace decided his was a soul that could no longer breathe in the dense ironic air that had permeated and indeed corroded our culture. On September 12, 2008, at the age of 46, Wallace hung himself from a rafter in the home he shared with painter Karen Green. Her book, Bough Down, is a shattering account of their fragile relationship. It’s a hard read; it’s a necessary read.

My interest in Wallace began with the notion of actually reading Infinite Jest. After all, the jest among literary luminaries is that everyone has a copy on their shelves, but only for show.

So I read it. And predictably, it changed everything for me as a reader and a writer. Yea, it’s that good (if you hang in there). Although I’d argue not as good as the clipped and shouldda-won-the-Pulitzer The Pale King. The level of postmodern fortitude on parade in that one is bracing. But like with everything DFW did, it was utterly earnest. When you read anything he wrote, you can tell he cared about his fellow humans, just not about himself as much.

But looking back at Infinite Jest looking forward, Wallace clearly saw the future. He predicted so much of what has addled humanity in the 21st century. Just the sponsorship of the actual year is indicative of so much of what passes as normal today. In fact, I feel like DFW and Bill Hicks would’ve been fast friends—they shared many beliefs…

But more than anything, Wallace predicted the current reductive and excoriating state of media. He warned that all of this irony would lead us nowhere good. Guess what? That’s precisely where it lead us. The fact that every single late night show now kicks off with 20—Orwell, that imaginary lackwit, only imagined two—minutes of hate is, as the immortal purple one once sang, a sing of the times.

And DFW warned us, over and over and over again.

R.I.P. (pale) King!

—
© 2023 – ∞ B. Charles Donley