Tag: relationships

The Quiet Edges.

There was once a resident in a condominium I owned, a man so enigmatic that no one ever quite claimed to know him.  He drifted through the halls like a rumor made flesh, and before long he became the quiet talk of the association.  Here’s the story:

He kept to himself, and barely anyone knew his name.  It was said that Alonzo’s jet black, laid down styled hair shone so bright it might have lit up all of Sage Pointe.  His hair was a shimmering emblem of confidence and unspoken connection.

“Alonzo,” those who knew his name would say, “He got the thickest, the baddest, the most outta-sight edges this side of Sage Pointe.”

“Alonzo?  Ain’t he the one with the black patent leather hair?”

“Shiny and bright, that Alonzo is.”

I know that Alonzo’s secret was SoftSheen Dark and Natural in “Jet Black.”  I’ve seen the box he threw out in the recycling bin.  His “secret” might have looked unnatural as vinyl patent leather shoes, but he had not one grey hair on his head.  It was a one-tone black from the back of his head to the slicked down edges in the front, from sideburn to sideburn.

As time passed, Alonzo’s hair became more than just a spectacle; it turned into a beacon of curiosity and a source of fascination at Sage Pointe.  People were in awe about him at the monthly condominium association meetings – the few times he bothered to show up.  They marveled at him in the church, drooled at him in the grocery store line, admired him at the barbershop, and speculated about his unknown secrets at the local diner.  Yet Alonzo carried on, keeping to himself, his glossy raven hair unfaltering, like a strange moon in its perennial glow.

But one summer evening, at the annual Sage Pointe party, Alonzo broke his silence.  He sauntered onto the wooden dance floor at the activity center with his head held high, dressed sharp as a razor in a cream‑colored linen suit that caught the breeze just so, a narrow burgundy tie tucked neatly against a crisp pale yellow shirt, and red shoes polished to a mirror shine.  The flashing dance lights cast dazzling reflections off both his raven‑black hair and the blinding shine of his shoes.  Eight gold rings gleamed on his fingers — thick, heavy bands with diamonds, emeralds, and garnets that flashed each time his hands cut through the air, catching the lights as surely as his raven‑black hair.  He moved with an easy, unhurried confidence, swaying to the beat of funk music like he had been born for that moment.

Earlier that evening, I watched as he stood off to the side of the party room sampling the appetizers— deviled eggs dusted with paprika, tiny ham biscuits, and those colorful cellophane-tipped toothpicks that skewered a variety of cheese cubes that squeaked when you bit into them.  He washed it all down with two strawberry daiquiris so cold that the condensation rolled down the red plastic Solo® cup like sweat on a July window.  He sipped them slow, savoring each icy, syrup‑sweet mouthful as though it were part of some private ritual that he wanted no one else to be a part of.

I watched him in awe along with the crowd and laughed when Alonzo pulled a small group of kids into his groove.  “It’s all in the soul, you crumb crunchers!  Dance like your hair shines brighter than the stars,” he declared, a wide smile breaking through his elusive façade.  That night, he wasn’t the enigma they had speculated about.  He was the rhythm, the light, the joy.

That is what everyone wanted to believe.

By the time the party was over, it was said that Alonzo’s edges shone so bright it might have lit up all of Sage Pointe.  After the party, although he disappeared into the quiet mystery of his condominium once again, his name would be remembered as the man who brought the condominium association an evening they would never forget.

But in the weeks and months that followed, people began to notice something strange: no one saw Alonzo at church, or in the grocery line, or even passing by the barbershop window.  His apartment blinds stayed drawn, his mailbox appeared untouched.  Some said he’d moved away; others whispered he’d simply slipped into the night the way he’d always lived— quietly, without explanation.  His silver car would be in his parking spot, and sometimes not.  His monthly assessments still were paid in full and on time.  But no one actually saw him.

Now on certain humid evenings, when the streetlights flicker and the cicadas fall silent, a few swear they’ve seen a glint, just a brief flash, like moonlight on patent leather, disappearing around the corner before they can call his name.  And in Sage Pointe, that is enough to keep the legend alive.

In time, the condominium association learned to stop asking where Alonzo had gone.  Life in Sage Pointe moved on, as it always does, yet something in the air felt slightly altered, as though a faint shimmer had been left behind.  The wooden dance floor where he’d once spun the children around seemed to hold a deeper polish, catching the light in ways no one could quite explain.  And every so often, when the dusk settled low and the streetlamps hummed to life, someone would pause mid‑stride, certain they’d caught the scent of pomade or felt the whisper of a beat only Alonzo could hear.  Whether he had slipped away to some quieter corner of the world or simply stepped into the shadows he’d always belonged to, no one could say.  But the memory of that night, and the man whose hair shone like a secret, lingered in Sage Pointe like a story half‑told, waiting forever for the rest of its truth to surface.

 

 

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When the Hallways Talk.

A short story from the past.

For hours, JeVaughn Willard sat in his recliner, frowning at the sporadic thuds and rolling rumbles echoing through the Sage Pointe Condominium building.  He took another puff of his Kools and listened hard.  The sounds came and went with no discernible pattern, bouncing off the walls and rattling his nerves.  He strained his ears, trying to pinpoint the source, but the building’s acoustics made it maddeningly elusive.  He slid out of his recliner and ambled over to the picture window.  He pushed aside the slats of the Venetian blinds and was glad he was not in the howling thunderstorm.  JeVaughn returned to his recliner.

As the clock struck eight, he took a break from reading his latest mystery novel.  His overflowing garbage bin finally gave him a reason to investigate the noise in the hallway.  He grabbed the bag and shuffled out into the dimly lit hallway, trying to keep his ragged brown corduroy slippers from flying off of his feet.  The carpet muffled his footsteps, but the strange racket had grown louder.  Then, as he rounded a corner, the mystery revealed itself.

Two neighborhood kids, the brood of the Reverand and Mrs. Stankle, were tearing up and down the long corridor, kicking a slightly deflated soccer ball between their feet.

Bam!  The ball slammed against a wall, leaving a faint smudge before careening into the air.

Thud!  The ball rebounded off the ceiling, narrowly missing a flickering light sconce as it came down.

JeVaughn Willard sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching with restrained annoyance.  He trudged to the garbage chute and let the bag drop with a hollow clang, watching it disappear into the void.

“Pointless,” he muttered under his breath, sparing one last glance at the kids.  They laughed and shouted, blissfully unaware of their disruptive echoes.

JeVaughn tightened his terry cloth robe and shuffled back to his door.  “No use mentioning it to their parents,” he thought grimly.  “The reverend’s sermons are loud enough.  I don’t need him aiming one at me!”

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Morning at The Kalamata.

Saturdays bring a delight to our weekends, especially when we change our routine.  For something a little different, last Saturday, mid-morning, we headed out to The Kalamata Kafé.  We weren’t disappointed.

The simple brunch was nothing short of pleasant; it was one of those simple meals that somehow feels like a small private celebration.  Soft violin music emanated from the ceiling speakers.  The waitresses were modestly dressed in pure white short togas tied at the waist with gold belts.  My companion ordered a knish—a strangely sweetened roll made from a dough similar to pillowy Hawaiian‑style bread.  It was filled with soy chorizo and melted queso chihuahua (an imported cheese), a combination that gave it a savory kick and a five-fingered punch beneath the sweetness.  I took a small bite and so did my companion; it was unlike anything either of us tried before, unexpected in the best way, and definitely memorable.  I ordered an almond croissant sprinkled with sugar and sliced toasted almonds, still warm from the oven, its flaky layers giving way to a soft, fragrant center touched with just enough sugary depth.  A cup of weak lemongrass tea sweetened with mesquite honey for the two of us gave the oomph our light brunch needed.

Afterward, we strolled up the bay, the morning light glinting off the water, then we looped back along the main road where the breeze carried the scent of salt and sun-warmed sand.  The walk stirred up memories for both of us—those long rides we used to take on the Indian Chieftain, chasing the horizon with nothing but vast open road ahead.  Only this time, the adventure came with greater comfort, steadier footing, and a quiet sense of security that felt like its own kind of freedom.  We eventually found our car, hopped in, and headed back home.  Later that day, the soy chorizo-queso chihuahua knish thing didn’t agree with my companion and we spent the late afternoon paying for it dearly.

We’ll go back to The Kalamata, but with a different menu ordering plan.

 

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The Age of Performed Identity.

How much of our lives have we spent trying to be something—or someone—we’re not?  It is one thing to pursue growth, to refine our character, and to enrich our inner life, yet it is quite another to adopt a false identity for the sake of impressing others, whether for money, status, or the fleeting approval of strangers, family, and acquaintances.

Lately, it seems that the art of pretending has become a widespread habit, a kind of cultural contagion.  Over the past decade especially, I’ve watched this phenomenon snowball.  It has become easier and fiendishly tempting to put on a polished façade while abandoning genuineness, humility, and empathy.  Social media, with its curated illusions and endless opportunities for self‑promotion and keyboard commandos, has been the chief purveyor of these false faces.

And how easy it is.

In a world moving at swift speed, the pressure to perform seems to be ceaseless.  Some people feel compelled to reinvent themselves for every audience, to appear more educated, more virtuous, more high class, more enlightened than they truly are.  Some people, unfortunately, strain to become the moral authority in every conversation, to project wisdom they have not earned, and to cloak their insecurity in a thin veil of false humility.  Some people invent and re-invent their live story continuously.

It must be exhausting.  From my vantage point, watching someone puff himself up by preaching from an imaginary pulpit, presenting himself as all‑knowing while sprinkling in counterfeit modesty, or looking down their nose at others, is a disheartening sight.  There is nothing admirable in self‑inflation or pretend self-deflation.  It does not elevate a person; it exposes him.  False humility serves only the ego.  It leaves no room to serve God, despite all their claims of “thanking God everyday” for such-and-such.  It comes across Pharisee-like when you know their true history and that they are putting on a public show.

Putting on an act for selfish gain is, at its core, a fabrication of the truth.  Duplicity demands constant maintenance, and after a while, there is so much maintenance that fabrication becomes sloppier and sloppier.  One must remember every false detail with perfect precision just to keep the fiction intact, and that’s the hard labor one has to do for a hollow reward in the prison of their mind’s fantasy.

It is far better to remember that the one thing you can do better than anyone else is to be yourself.  Of course, one could make the argument that being phony for some people is “being themselves.  Yet there is less work and stress to admit one’s true self and not make up stories to impress an audience.  Or in one case, I have seen one person who has shared his childhood as first “middle class,” then defined it as “not quite middle class,” to the sad Dickensian tale of “being poor.”  Is that the “fake it until you make it” mantra at work, or the pretend “rags to riches” story?  I won’t bother to hazard a guess.  All I can say is I have little regard for counterfeits.

The world does not need more people parroting platitudes or mimicking the latest persona.  It needs more of the original, the sincere, the unvarnished.  Pretending to be someone else is not only dishonest because it is truly a quiet betrayal of your own dignity.

As we step into another day, we should do so with sober eyes and clear hearts.  Remember who you really are beneath the noise and the pressure, and do not compromise that reality.  Be honest, be considerate, and be grounded in your principles.  Respect yourself and extend that respect to others.

 

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When the Day Grows Weightless.

Evening had only just begun to gather when we stepped out of the house, leaving behind the familiar busyness of the day.  The sky was already settling into that muted greyish‑blue that feels less like a color and more like a threshold of an in‑between hour when the world loosens its grip and invites you to breathe unworriedly.

We drove to the historic part of town, where old brick and weathered wood seem to remember more than they reveal, and where the streets narrow as if encouraging you to slow down.

We parked near the waterfront at Twilight Bay.  I gathered my sweater around me and took a deep breath; the salty air and the freshness of the evening made me forget the world.  We wandered toward a small bench built for two, its placement so perfect it felt almost intentional, as though someone long ago had known that people would come here seeking a moment of quiet.  The lazy breezes carried a crisp coolness, brushing away the last warmth of the day.  As we settled into the bench, the sun began its slow, deliberate descent; that an unhurried surrender that painted the bay in streaks of rose, amber, and fading gold.

Above us, pelicans glided in near‑silence, their wings steady and sure.  They usually lingered on the lawns or sidewalks nearby, waiting for a passerby to drop a morsel, but tonight they moved with a different kind of intention.  Their silhouettes drifted toward the boats anchored in the harbor, as though they sensed a more certain feast waiting among the sailors.  Watching them, it was hard not to feel that even the birds understood something about seeking what truly nourishes rather than what merely distracts.

A stout gull perched on the railing before us, facing the sunset with a composure that felt almost ceremonial.  Its white feathers caught the last light, turning the bird into a soft, luminous creature.  We admired its quiet splendor as I took out my camera.  And wouldn’t you know it?  Just as I lifted the camera and clicked the shutter, the sea gull opened its wings in a single, fluid motion and rose into the air.  The moment felt like a small benediction; unplanned, unearned, yet somehow perfectly timed.

Far out in the bay, a solitary sailboat rocked gently, its silhouette dark against the shimmering water.  It drifted without urgency, as though content simply to exist in the cradle of the evening.  There was something instructive in its stillness: a reminder that not every movement must be purposeful, not every moment must be filled willy-nilly.

Sitting there, it became clear that serenity is not something we manufacture; it is something we allow.  The bay freely offered its calmness, asking only that we pause long enough to receive and embrace it.  In a world that often demands speed, noise, and constant reaction, this quiet corner felt like a small act of resistance, a place where the soul could unclench, relax, and accept a bit of freedom.

The twilight deepened, and with it came a sense of interior spaciousness, the kind that arrives only when the world grows quiet enough for the heart to hear itself again.  A quiet truth settled over us, reminding us that stillness is its own kind of blessing.

 

 

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Erosion of Thought and Thinking.

This past weekend came and went in a blur—swift, full, and satisfyingly productive.  I don’t think I had ten consecutive minutes of idleness, except during sleep, and truthfully, I relish weekends like that.  There is a certain peace that comes from purposeful accomplishments.

In one of my conversations over those busy days, a curious topic surfaced: the increasing need to remind people—again and again—about the simplest responsibilities.  A bill due.  An appointment scheduled, a task promised, or a basic, everyday obligation.  I remarked that in these present times, many people seem capable of focusing on only one thing, whether it be children, grandchildren, entertainment, work, or some other singular preoccupation.  Everything else, such as duties, commitments, even common courtesy, all fall by the wayside.

It has become difficult to hold a meaningful conversation with someone whose world has narrowed to a single point.  The most engaging and educated people, in my experience, are those who can move gracefully across topics, who can offer insight, curiosity, and a well-formed exchange of ideas.  But to enter into conversation only to discover that the other person can speak of nothing beyond their kids or chasing the almighty dollar, a meaningless sports statistic, or their favorite sports team quickly becomes futile.  Unfortunately, the dialogue collapses before it begins.

Alongside this narrowing of attention, there is also a rising tide of blatant selfishness, that inward curl of the human heart that makes genuine engagement even more difficult.  Many people have become so absorbed in their own preferences, comforts, and routines that they no longer consider how their choices affect others.  Commitments are treated casually, responsibilities are postponed indefinitely, and the smallest inconvenience is met with irritation rather than maturity.  It is as though people have allowed themselves to be trained to prioritize their own ease above all else.  This self‑preoccupation doesn’t merely strain relationships; it impoverishes the soul.  A life turned inward eventually collapses under its own smallness and vapid reality.

Something has shifted in recent years, revealing a kind of dullness and a thinning of interior life.  Perhaps it stems from weakened social skills, the isolating effects of social media, the aftershocks of the scamdemic years, a decline in religious grounding, or some combination of these.  Whatever the cause, the result is the same: many lives have grown small, distracted, and strangely brittle.  And in that narrowing, something essential and human seems to have been lost.

If anything, these observations should stir in us not frustration but a quiet resolve.  We cannot control the narrowing of other people’s worlds, but we can refuse to let our own shrink.  We can choose to cultivate curiosity, to read widely, to think deeply, to converse generously.  We can reclaim the art of attention—toward religion, toward others, toward the responsibilities entrusted to us.  Renewal begins not with grand gestures but with the simple decision to live awake in a culture that drifts toward distraction.  If we desire a richer, more meaningful world and personal life, we must first become richer, more meaningful people who are anchored, attentive, and alive to the fullness of life that really is intended for us.

 

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