On V-D Day: A Long, Overdue Observance

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

Hello fellow Sh*theads. Are you surprised to see me? It’s been a bit… 7-8 months or so. When last we saw each other I was ruminating on shared cinematic and literary universes. It was late spring/early summer, and temperatures were… About 30-40 degrees warmer than they are, right now on this chilly and cloudy night in February. February 11th to be exact. You know what that means, if you’ve been following me for 30 or so years. Dare I say it? Dare I invoke the coming day that has been the bane of my existence for decades?

Survey says? Why the f*ck not. Happy V-D Day WEEK friends, family and country men/women.

As I write these words, couples are making plans for a romantic night out on the 14th. Some are at CVStress shopping for that perfect, heart-shaped box of Russell Stover chocolates that doesn’t remotely resemble the ACTUAL shape of the human heart. Others are ordering flowers and a few… A rare few are planning a night out at the bar or bars on Saturday in a vain effort to pick up a quick hookup not in the hopes of propagating the human species, but because they need to… Get their rocks off, so to speak.

Truth be told, I hold nothing against any of these people… These archetypes of different relationships in the Year of Our Lord, on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence, 2026. It’s not THEM that I take exception to. It’s the day itself, folks. Valentine’s Day. The most over-commercialized and pointless holiday in the pantheon of holidays. An attempt to make us think warm thoughts in the depth of the winter, and to FEEL warm things in our frigid bodies at the same time. Yes, that was intentional and yes, it means what you think it means.

O (😂) Valentine’s Day. Coined “V-D Day” by a former incarnation of the Madchronicler who is writing these words this cold evening: El Autoro.

Anyone that knows me knows my disdain for this “holiday.” You know all too well that in life and love, there are many things I cherish. An unbroken embrace. A long, passionate kiss that may… Or may not lead to certain actions that propogate the human species. Falling asleep next to someone you really and truly Love with a capital L. Moments of silence between two people that are not awkward, but necessary because love… REAL love doesn’t always need conversation. Simply presence, i.e. just being there with each other, not out of necessity but because of want.

All these things and others remain, despite my current status as a 50-year old, recovering romantic. But V-D Day? Never. Which begs the question that no one has asked me in the three decades since it became the equivalent of a curse word for me. Why? Why do I hate it so much?

I’m sure you crave details. Names. Places. DRAMA. Sadly, I will not give you that. Not out of spite, or a desire to deprive you of said information, but because… Because one of the things I value, along with the things I mentioned above is privacy. Secrecy. As stories go, this one is inherently mine. It involves others, but those “others” have moved past this particular story, and for me to reluctantly pull them back into it after so long… I won’t. I can’t.

What I can and will tell you is that almost 30 years ago, I enjoyed one of the greatest, most perfect nights of my life. There have been others… Moments in time that I treasure. My wedding day and the reception that followed. The births of my daughters. But the one in question? It was flawless. The most amazing Valentine’s Day ever. Yet that day and night… That particular moment was fleeting, and led to one of, if not the most chaotic arcs of my early, life story. There have been others since, but that one? I always come back to it, because for the first time in my life, I went through a gamut of emotions that shocked my then-20 year old heart, soul and mind to their cores. Love. Hate. Joy. Anger. Passion. Longing. Loyalty. Disloyalty. Loss. But from that loss? A gain… GAINS I would not sacrifice for anything.

The eventual result of this arc… This ACT of my life was a reshuffling of everything from my friends to my relationships. I came out of it a different person. In short? The boy that called himself El Autoro pre-that stretch emerged from it a man that calls himself the Madchronicler. It was my passage from boy to adulthood. My coming of age. Bloody, but necessary.

Now, here I am. Almost three decades later. A divorced, single (emphasis on SINGLE) father of two amazing teenage daughters. I have a single family home in Swarthmore, Pennsylvania. I drive a gently loved 2020 Chevy Equinox and not a 1984 Pontiac Sunbird with a leaky moon roof. I’m a Business Development Manager, not a college student/Shift Supervisor/Head of Evening and Weekend Circulation. I have moderately high Blood Pressure and Type 2 Diabetes despite being down almost 100 LBS from my all-time high weight. Yet despite this, here I am on February 11th, 2026 ruminating about something that happened to me three decades… 70% of my life ago. Talk about long-term emotional damage. And it all started on… You guessed it! Valentine’s Day. V-D Day.

Is it starting to make sense? I hope so. One of the most magical and magnificent days and nights of my life followed by one of the most chaotic stretches in my life which… Basically caused me to reboot everything from my romantic and non-romantic relationships to my mentality about ALL relationships. For the first time in my life, I felt Love with a capital L, and promptly lost it, along with certain friendships that dominated my early life. My heart broke for the first of many times. All because of…

Yep. Valentine’s Day. V-D Day: The scapegoat for my first, real heartbreak. The cause? No. But the catalyst. And the thing… The entity I choose to blame for it. Cupid can go f*ck himself with his own bow and arrow. THIS my oft time, casual readers is the reason why I despise February 14th so much. Combined with the fact that it’s little more than a retail holiday, built to increase Gross Margin and Q1 profits for stores like CVStress that no one shops at in the dead of winter because sh*t, who wants to go to the store in Sub-Zero wind chills and a half a foot of snow without the promise of candy and prophylactics? Survey says?

NO ONE. Hell, I’d be home under a blanket typing this and not sitting in my car were it not for the fact that my girls have dance and play rehearsal tonight. If given the choice I’d lock my house doors and shutter my windows in December and not open them again until mid-March.

But that choice is sadly not feasible, and the impact of that long ago, V-D Day which started by a river and ended by a phone booth is indisputable. Because of it and what happened after it, I became… Me. The Me I see in the mirror every morning with a bushy, salt and pepper beard, a receding hairline, crows feet at the corners of my once brilliant blue eyes and complimentary bags under them. A younger version thereof, but the Me I would one day be.

That being written and re-read, an unexpected question just popped into my always pondering mind. No, not why did I turn those closing paragraph sentences into an almost-rhyming couplet (I honestly don’t know). If that event from three decades ago and what happened after it was the early origin of who I am today…

Why is that a bad thing?

Don’t I like the person I am today?

Don’t I like him more than the person I was then? Now, I am a man… A self-published author (times two) with a good job, food in my fridge and money in my pocket, two loving daughters, a wonderful group of family and friends, a gently loved 2020 Chevy Equinox that doesn’t have a leaky moon roof and my own little slice of the American Dream, i.e. a home in Swarthmore, Pennsylvania. Isn’t he… Aren’t I better off than that lovestruck, pre-adult who selfishly sacrificed many of his friendships for Love, only to have his… My heart gutted and scarred for decades, scars which while not entirely healed have faded to little more than dull aches that only show up in the weeks leading up to V-D… Err, Valentine’s Day each year? Survey says?

No. I don’t hate the man I am. Nor do I or will I ever hate the early-adult I was back then. Everything I’ve been through… Everything WE go through in life contributes to who we become, both good and bad. Every decision that we make is a decision that WE make, and I do not regret the decision I made three decades ago because had I not… Had I opted for a different, less chaotic path then who knows how my life would have turned out? Who knows what Me I’d see every time I look in a mirror. Mayhap I’d be better off than I am now, but that thought line… That proverbial road leads only to regret. Or elation depending on the answer. And I will not traffic in what ifs.

So maybe it’s time… Maybe it’s FINALLY time to stop blaming V-D Day and start accepting it for what it is to the majority of Sh*theads that propagate the human species on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. Maybe it’s time to restore it to its once place in my subjective universe. Maybe it’s time to remember Valentine’s Day as a day when, almost 30 years ago, I was blessed with a moment of sheer and utter bliss that many wait their whole lives to experience but never do. The Perfect Day and Night. Maybe THAT’S why I remember it still after all these years. Not because of what came after, but because for one night, a 20-year old college student/Shift Supervisor/Head of Evening and Weekend Circulation got to experience an unbroken embrace with his first muse… His first Love with a capital L by a river’s edge…

Got to dance with her by moonlight and the flickering bulb of a phone booth which no longer exists…

We didn’t kiss that night. If anything, that was a line I was then unable to cross. I would cross it later, but in that moment, loyalty and sense overruled passion and disloyalty. It wasn’t until the feeling deepened that I forsook inhibition and said “what the f*ck?” And despite what happened after… I do not regret it. ANY of it. Because when I feel alone on nights like tonight… When I witness the rest of the populous on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence preparing in earnest for February 14th, I remember what once was, and I wonder… I ponder if I’ll ever experience another day and night like it again. If it happened once, why not a second time? Survey says?

Unknown. But I can hope.

Happy Valentine’s Day, fellow Sh*theads. Winky emoticon. Smiley face.

El Autoro/the Madchronicler

On Shared Cinematic and Literary Universes

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

These days, you can’t go to the movies or turn on a television without being pulled into one of the many cinematic universes that exist. The MCU. The DCEU and now the DCU. The Conjuring-verse. The Fast and the Furious-verse. The Flanaverse. Star Wars and Star Trek. I could continue but I’d wager you know what I’m referring to.

Shared literary universes are less common. I can only think of two that I’ve read: Stephen King’s Dark Tower universe (which basically encompasses many of his 70+ books in some capacity) and Isaac Asimov’s Foundation/Robot universe. If there are others that I’m missing, please feel free to drop them in the comments. I love a good, shared universe. Hell, my Endworld books have elements of other things I’ve written over the course of my life, some published/circulated and some not in them. I even have a rough plan to incorporate other ideas into what may, one day be my own, shared literary-verse. Sadly, there are days where I feel a bit like Geoffrey Chaucer, and I wonder if I’ll ever complete half the things I want to write outside of the Endworld novels. Time is never on my side. But the idea remains. I even have a checklist in my OneDrive of WIPs that if completed would amount to the bare minimum of published writing that would in my mind make me a legit writer/author. Some of you reading this, right now may already consider me that. If you do? Thank you. I appreciate you more than you know. But inevitably it all comes back to how I feel about it, and for me? I need more. I need to do more. Once upon a time…

…because all good stories, and some sh*tty ones begin as such…

…I set a goal for myself to one day be a published author, and I guess, in a way I’ve achieved that goal. But it’s not what I envisioned. I have a lot of work left to do. Which begs the question: Why am I writing this blog entry now when I could be working on my HEAVEN AND ENDWORLD edit and prepping that for publication? Well friends, occasionally, an idea grabs you by the nape of your neck and refuses to let go. Anyone that’s been reading these pieces of Mental Flatulence for the last, few decades knows that every so often, I need to write a JJ Abrams-esque take on Dora the Explorer, or outline a play called “You Got Old, Charlie Brown” which postulates what happens to the Peanuts gang as they get older. This is no different. A few years back, a movie came out about the Gen X, childhood icon that was Mister Rogers. I still haven’t seen it–though I fancy a good, Tom Hanks movie and I do have it DVR’d on my YouTube TV account–but at the time it was released, I considered the possibility of a public broadcasting shared universe, centered on the idea that Bob Ross–yet another Gen X icon–was the Nick Fury character, i.e. the guy that brings everything from Mister Rogers to Sesame Street, to Julia Child to Rick Steves together. This idea has recently resurfaced since I have been a frequent visitor in what down time I have to the official, Bob Ross YouTube channel which has been running weekend marathons of up to five of the show’s 32 seasons in chronological order, and is currently running what it is calling “A Happy Little Week Long Marathon.” That’s right: Seven straight days of 24/7 Bob Ross’ “The Joy of Painting,” linkable HERE if you’re interested.

You’re welcome. Winky emoticon. Smiley face.

So how would a public broadcasting shared universe work? Well, if you want to follow the template of the most successful, shared universe–the Marvel Cinematic Universe or MCU–you’d need to start with a recognizable, but not overly GOAT’ed personality, which means Big Bird is out. So is Elmo. I think I’ll stick with Fred Rogers though I’m sure my minions would prefer Abby Cadabby or the Super WHY kids. Just not DirtWorldGirl. Sheesh. She still freaks me out. Regardless, let’s say that at the end of “A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood,” they roll the credits. But mid-way through you’re back in Mister Rogers’ living room. He’s putting his shoes away and throwing on his jacket when he hears a knock at the door. He goes and opens it, and there stands Bob Ross in all his afro-tastic glory. He’s wearing his customary blue or white chambray work shirt, which is unbuttoned down to his naval and a pair of light-blue jeans. Fred Rogers says, “do I know you?” And Bob says “No my friend, you may not know me yet, but you will. I don’t know if you’ve been watching the news but apparently, the current administration wants to defund public broadcasting. Our happy little livelihoods are in jeopardy, and I want to talk to you about something I’ve been developing for some time now…”

“…I call it ‘The No Mistakes, Just Happy Accidents Initiative.'”

Okay. So that needs work. Regardless, Fred, though hesitant decides to follow his new, granola-esque friend with the bushy, brown hair and greying beard down the proverbial happy little squirrel hole. What follows is a series of productions (I’m okay with movies and/or television shows, along with some literary pieces, as well) wherein Mister Rogers and Bob Ross begin to recruit other members of the public broadcasting family onto their team of heroes. Big Bird and Elmo. Snuffy from Sesame Street. Daniel Tiger. The hosts of Antiques Roadshow. Bob Villa. And yes, DirtGirlWorld because the larger the team, the more chance they’ll have to offset the force arrayed against them by the current administration, even though she freaks them all the f*ck out.

Fast forward a few productions to what is now, in modern entertainment-speak an Avengers Level Team up even though the MCU didn’t really pioneer the idea (but IMO they did perfect it). I don’t quite have a name for it yet–I’m sure that will come when I decide what to call this team–but in it, the heroes team up to take on the evil forces of the administration. Not just the BBEG (Big Bad Evil Guy or Girl for those of you that have never played an RPG), but all the BBEG’s minions, departments and non-governmental groups that are tasked with promoting government efficiency and saving money via downsizing which includes all public broadcasting.

You can likely figure out what happens next. The heroes persevere, but in the process of defeating their enemies, they lose their leader: A curly-haired painter named Bob Ross, who sacrifices his own existence to ensure that institutions like NPR and PBS never disappear. The credits roll less a mid-or-post-credit scene, but they roll to the music that closed every episode of “The Joy of Painting” for 32 seasons as one, final Easter Egg honoring the passage of the man that gathered them together to ensure that evil doesn’t triumph and that good is not dumb ala Dark Helmet’s observation in “Spaceballs” because the world needs more people telling us that there are no mistakes… Just happy accidents.

Finis.

What do you think? Not quite as elaborate as my JJ Abrams Dora idea or my Peanuts one, but I’m still in the early stages of Creator Mode on it so give me some time and I’ll work it out. Or I’ll never revisit it again. I honestly don’t know, and truth be told I never do. Where do the majority of my ideas go once conceived of? It’s a mystery. Sadly, they do not often end up on the page in totality and that’s something I need to reckon with moving forward. Let me be honest, folks: I’ve no intention of reaching out to anyone and pitching this idea, anymore then I intend to dig up my Dora or Peanuts treatment and pitch them. If you really want to read them, they’re both on this blog somewhere. These ideas are, in essence Fan Fiction, a concept which makes me almost as squeamish as DirtGirlWorld did and still does. I pitch them herein to hopefully elicit a chuckle or two from you, my sometime readers and to keep my ability to create a story fresh, even if that story is a contrived take on a beloved institution, or beloved characters from my Gen X past. It’s an exercise that many writers/authors go through. In creating something unoriginal we gain the confidence we need to create something mostly original. I’ve gone on the record in the past as saying that most of the good story ideas are played out, and it’s not about coming up with something inherently original anymore. It’s about telling a story in a new, and different way that has both familiar, and unfamiliar elements.

Do I have original ideas that I don’t think anyone else has ever conceived of? Sure, I do. There are a couple of titles on that WIP list that offer new takes on everything from time travel to space exploration, as well as one or two that are slightly Meta. I guess what it all boils down to for me, this God awful warm and steamy, late July night in 2025 is that it’s not so much about the idea as it is about writing the idea… Getting it out of my head and onto a page. Some of those ideas will land and others–like my infamous blog post about Dennis Rodman which I’ve referenced in the past and will not link herein because God, why would I subject anyone to that ever again–will fall flat. Yet again, I find myself questioning the balance of my life as it is now, as it was before and as I want it to be in the future. I can’t always force myself to stay up until 3AM each night and wake up at 6 or 7 to take my kids to camp or school, start work et al. My soon-to-be 50-year-old body and mind simply can’t sustain itself like it used to on a combination of caffeine and nicotine. But much like how I sat down tonight and kept working on this idea despite my reservations about it falling flat–and I leave that for you to decide friends and countrymen/women–I need to do what I can, when I have the time and the energy needed to go into Creator Mode. Even the MCU… Even the other shared universes I mentioned above… Even Stephen King and Isaac Asimov wrote stories that didn’t land. Should I allow myself to be constrained by my reservations and my fear of not achieving my own, personal goals as a writer/author? Or should I simply nut up, and get back to editing HEAVEN AND ENDWORLD so I can move onto my next idea? There is another option. I could retire for the night and watch another hour or two of “A Happy Little Week Long Marathon” before I pass out.

This… This is a timeless question y’all. I wish I could answer it, but truth be told? I honestly don’t know. I guess I’ll appeal to my shared universe on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence again and ask it to point me… Yet another Sh*thead… In the right direction.

Please?

FM.

On Water, and Letting Your Art with a Capital A Flow

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

I have a couple of couches in my living room. One is positioned lengthwise across the front of the space, directly beneath my large, bay window. The other is on the wall opposite it, lengthwise so that if I lay on it, my feet are pointing directly at the window and the other couch. Said second couch is, actually a loveseat so please, enjoy the mental picture of me, a 6′ 2″ beast of a man lying in a V, with my pale, white legs hanging over the side of my loveseat.

Actually? Here you go. For posterity:

My apologies for the ankle socks. Old feet are cold feet, and I am proverbially wearing socks at the ripe, old age of 49.

I had to take that with my Night Sight setting on my camera because presently, I’m watching a thunderstorm, and it’s prematurely dark out at two minutes until 8 on a Wednesday night in July. For some reason, I’ve grown accustomed to this view over the last, few years. Even when my minions are here, and I make them unplug their always charging phones and turn off all the electricity that we can in the house to avoid electrocution, I assume this position and they… Begrudgingly engage in “conversation” with their dear old, almost 50-year-old, overly paranoid Dad, much of which centers on their complaint that they cannot plug their phones in for the duration of the storm.

I should note herein that I know the possibility of electrocution while on computers, phones and electrical devices in a thunderstorm is very minimal. Surge protectors help. But my own mother, God love her, conditioned the fear of horrific, flaming electrocution while watching TV in a thunderstorm into me at a very young age. And we couldn’t afford surge protectors. So, I’m simply keeping tradition alive with my own kiddos. Thank you, Mom, and your granddaughters thank you too…

Begrudgingly.

Believe it or not, it wasn’t the storm, raging outside that drove me to unplug my own, charging phone, stop watching “William Shakespeare’s Romeo + Juliet (1996)” and start blogging. It was this view… The view beyond my pale, white legs and ankle socks that did. You see friends and family, I love my home in Swarthmore, Pennsylvania. I love it despite the constant headache and oft times money pit it has grown into. This is the place where I started over, after my separation and eventual divorce. This was the first home that I, not my now ex-wife and I but me… That I created for the two most important people in my life: My Biggish Bear, and her not-so-smallish, little sister. This place is my ride or die as a single dad. Despite the leaks, the occasional carpenter ants etc., I cannot see myself nor my kiddos anyplace else.

For now.

And that leads me to the point of this piece… This freestyle, First Person composition, drafted in premature darkness to the sound of the rain hitting my bay window and the thunder rumbling nearby. As much as I love this place… This home, there’s one thing missing, and over the last few years, as I’ve inched closer and closer to the half century mark, I’ve felt a longing that I’ve not felt in a long time.

The ocean. A lake. A bay. An inlet. Water, and I’m not talking about the rain running down my street currently like a mini river. I miss water. Whether near a city, in the mountains or down the shore, I want to be able to look out my big, bay window and see water. Flowing, crashing… Or just sitting stoically, unmoving. I want to open my window and hear waves, lapping or crashing against a shoreline/lakeside/riverside.

When I drew up my dream existence, many moons ago in a piece of Mental Flatulence that referenced a little town in Florida called Weeki Wachee, there were kids… Two of them, and a thunderstorm raging outside. I’d just stopped working on my latest WIP: A book long prologue to the trilogy of books I’d penned and published… Something about Halcyon Days and eternal youth. I’d turned off my computer to avoid electrocution as my mother had taught me and was watching the storm from my front, bay window as its shelf cloud rolled in over the ocean/lake/river, a bit worried that my kids–who had been outside playing–had gotten caught in it. But my fear was quickly allayed as they ran soaking, screaming and laughing down the shoreline in my direction. I opened the door for them, and they ran inside, dripping water and carrying something in their hands. They showed it to me: A freshly formed piece of glass where lightning had struck the sand. They’d gathered it quickly so as to avoid electrocution and ran all the way home to me, enamored with their new treasure. I celebrated with them before cautioning them too never do it again. Satisfied at not being reprimanded or rebuked (for who would reprimand or rebuke two children for being children in the summertime?), they ran off into the house to dry off and grab a snack, leaving me to silently marvel at Nature’s Fury outside. Awe-inspiring. Beautiful. Serendipitous.

A perfect moment.

That was my dream then and apparently, it is still my dream now. I can picture that beach/shoreline/lakeside in all its many variations. I could draw it if I wanted to and have many times before this. I don’t consider myself good at drawing–I’m more of a pencil sketch guy–but I still do it. Because part of being an Artist with a capital A is being able to express yourself and your emotions in something palatable. Concrete. I chose writing, guys and gals, but I could have gone in a number of other directions. And in dreams? Emotion. Not palatable or concrete but can it be? Can I at this juncture of my life, on the cusp of 50 make my dream a reality? Is there enough power in my pen or pencil to write/draw it into existence. Survey says?

Probably not. But that’s not really tenable for anyone, is it? No one save for God or whatever deity or deities you believe in–I still dig the Roman Catholic one myself–has that power. Wishing something into existence is impossible. But willing it into existence? Working towards it… Grinding a 9-5, routine existence for it… That, I believe is attainable. And that’s what I need to be focusing on.

If everything goes well, I’ll retire in about 15-16 years. That is, of course wishful thinking because inevitably in my life on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence something or many things will not go well. But hypothetically, let’s say that 15-16 years until retirement is feasible. Come that day, when I turn in my 9-5 polos for a Bermuda hat and a pair of Birkenstocks, I want… No, I need to be near my dream. At least in the vicinity of it. I need to keep the plot and not lose it because those kids on the beach/shoreline/lakeside may not be my Biggish Bear and Smallish Bear anymore, but their kids… My one-day grand minions could easily assume that role.

I like that plan.

One thing remains however. There’s one part of my aforementioned dream existence that I haven’t addressed yet. Shortly after the kids have left and the storm has slackened (as summer storms generally do within minutes), I hear the front door open. I turn from the rainbow that is materializing over the water and there see her. She is the last piece of my vision. Once upon a time, I could see her face. Her faces. Because in lock step with my ever-changing and ever-evolving life, her face has changed and evolved. These days? I don’t recognize it. It’s a new face… A stranger one, and somehow unlike any other incarnation of her former faces. Her hair is white or maybe gray and not as easily distinguishable as brown, blonde, black or red hair is. She has crow’s feet at the corners of her colorless eyes, colorless because I, the Artist with a capital A haven’t written or drawn them yet and remain open to the possibility that they could be any color. Blue, brown, green or hazel… Any color that you like. Yet her smile folks… Her smile is distinguishable, not because I recognize it, but because it beams happiness. Peace. Contentment. I see it in her smile, and I smile the same smile back. How can I not?

The moment is perfect.

That is my past, present and future dream my oft times casual readers. Rebooted a bit for 2025 but in essence the same. Disclaimer: I’ve written this entire post in a bit of a fugue state. Somewhere between Stream of Consciousness and the state I used to lapse into when I smoked too much weed. I’m not stoned right now and have no plans to get stoned anytime soon. But for once I didn’t think. I just let my chosen art form do its thing. I let my words flow like water without thought or purpose and that is something I have not done for a very, very long time. It feels good. It feels freeing. It feels like Truth with a capital T. My Truth.

What’s yours?

Winky emoticon. Smiley Face.

FM.

On Almost 50 Years of Summer’s Enduring Impact

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

Good Evening, Morning or Afternoon fellow denizens of the universe on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. It’s been a bit, hasn’t it? Almost nine months by my count since I last wrote anything substantial on this blog. My absence has not been due to a lack of inspiration. In truth, I’ve probably written more in the last, nine months than I’ve written in a few years. You simply haven’t seen anything because it’s all been short stories, poems, started novels and WIPs–with a little bit of a HEAVEN AND ENDWORLD re-write thrown in. I’ve also been busy running what I like to call my “Dad Gauntlet.” Between school for the minions, their activities and other, related concerns–not to mention my job–my time to simply sit in front of a computer and randomly muse has been limited. But as of last Friday, school is out for the summer (respect, Alice Cooper) and activities, though still a factor, are less than they were a few weeks ago. So here I am, returning to what many consider my best writing format–freestyle, First Person and journal-lite–to write about… Summer! Yes, sirs and madams/madams and sirs, the title gave it away.

I’ve written about summer in the past, most notably in “The Mayor of Maple Street” which has been and remains my most read (and re-read) blog entry/piece of Mental Flatulence ever, even 10 plus years after I wrote it. I often revisit that one because it reminds me not just of where I came from, but of how enduring an impact those summer days of youth had on me–back when my entire, subjective universe was centered on a little place that I and my neighbors endearingly called “J-Town.” I look at my minions now–one 15 going on 16 and the other 13–and I marvel at how different their summers look compared to how mine did when I was their age. Nights out playing Spring and Doors with the neighborhood kids until after dark have been replaced by nights on their phones, watching movies and spending time with their friends at the shopping metroplex, their houses, the pool or away on vacations down the shore or to the mountains. I’m not averse to this evolution–technology has changed everything from how we work to how we engage in interpersonal relationships–but I often ask myself if their situation is better than mine was when I was their age. Survey says? Not better. But different. Their memories of summer that they will one day pass onto their minions are and will always be different than mine. And their children–my grandchildren–will have a different view of it, as well. Onward and upward, generation after generation until this old universe we Sh*theads inhabit finally heaves its last breath and consigns itself, and those of us still alive within it to the halls of oblivion.

To be frank (no pun intended), I’m not a huge fan of summer. I like aspects of it–thunderstorms for instance; God you know I love a good “thunder boomer”–and the refreshing embrace of cool water on a hot day, whether said water is from a pool or from an ocean/lake. But the heat and humidity thing irks me. Sweating irks me. Yet despite this, summer holds an enduring sway over me, even now after almost 50 years of life on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. I find myself considering the why of this, today–as the gray, hazy sky that vaults overhead threatens rain and a few days of thunder boomers beginning tomorrow. The answer is really quite simple: Memory. A repository of memories from summers past that follow me no matter where I am or what I am doing. I close my eyes, and I helplessly feel my mind ticking backwards like a clock, moving in reverse…

Tock…

…To two years ago, when my minions and I travelled to Mexico with a few friends and their families for a week of tropical relaxation. It was the first real trip we’d taken since my divorce. I carry many, lasting visions with me of the week we spent there but the one that sticks with me the most? Swimming in a cenote with them, the cool, subterranean water soothing our sunburns and easing the heat stroke that I am relatively sure we were all within moments of suffering. I remember thinking–as I floated with them and glanced up at the distant sky above–that for the first time since I left my once-home in Broomall, PA and moved into my now-home in Swarthmore, PA I felt alive. I could glance past the hazy sky above me and see into a boundless future. While the time since then has not been without issue–life never is–I can look back on that moment now and realize that it was the moment I healed. Not physically of course–life, and specifically age brings with it a progressive slate of physical maladies–but mentally? Emotionally? I was, for the first time in many years OK…

Tick…

…To 2018, when I travelled to Disney World with my then-wife and our two minions for a final, family vacation pre-the divorce which we would file for a few, months later. We’d already agreed in principle to the terms of our dissolution and given its inevitability, there was little to no pressure on us. We simply went with the intention of enjoying ourselves and fortunately? We did. Against all odds we spent a wonderful week together. I have a number of memories from that week, a few of which have been captured for posterity, and one in particular that I have a framed picture of, sitting roughly four feet away from me on top of one of my bookcases: Myself and my minions, sitting upon the stoop of a porch somewhere in Animal Kingdom, eating ice cream in the shade and looking like a group of travelers garnering a respite from the tropical heat and humidity. But the one that sticks with me the most is from the day we got caught in a pop-up thunder boomer in the Magic Kingdom. I was easily within a few moments of suffering from heat stroke (again; in case you missed my earlier observance of how much I do not like heat/humidity) and the storm? It cooled me and may have saved me from passing out. I snapped a selfie of the moment we found shelter and while many of the pictures I took, over the years of my now ex-wife and I have disappeared, that one remains on my photo reel, and likely always will. It is a reminder of my family as it once was, pre-the moment it was diminished and a foursome became a threesome a few, short months later…

Tock…

…To the last time I ever saw the woman who I once called “the feminine bane of my early existence.” We ate Chinese food on the unfurnished floor of my then-apartment in Northeast Philadelphia, PA and mused upon our lives, which had been so irrevocably entangled for more than a half a decade. We focused on the good–our friendship, and our capacity to always find a way back to each other–and we avoided the bad. When we did touch upon the latter it was done in jest, and it elicited many long, overdue chuckles. I remember the red, golden glow of the setting, late-summer sun as it streamed in through the front windows of my duplex, like something out of an ENDWORLD novel. We said goodbye and parted with a long hug. I kissed her on her forehead and called her “kiddo” for the last time. She reminded me of my long-before promise to “write this all down someday” before she smiled, walked down the stairs and out of my life forever. I remember thinking as she departed that there was something left unspoken: Two words in a foreign language. “Je t’aime.” They hung upon my lips though, and they would for another, 10 plus years before appearing on the dedication page of my first, published novel. ENDWORLD was not dedicated to her publicly but privately? It was for her. It was the fulfillment of the promise I made to her when we were young, in love and allied against the world around us.

Tick…

…To the night, many years before that in 1995 when we hung out at my above mentioned, once-feminine bane’s house. We sat around her pool. We drank Zima malt liquor despite the oldest of us still being a few months shy of 21. We smoked regular and clove cigarettes, talked, laughed and sang. I remember crooning “Gallows Pole” by Led Zeppelin as my good friend played his guitar. We took requests. There was no love at that time between her and I outside of the love that one feels for a good friend. Yet by the time I had finished singing “Thank You” (also by Led Zeppelin) per her request, I was experiencing the early vestiges of what would soon grow into a feeling, and a relationship that would threaten to tear down everything that we as a group of friends… A family had built. Yet that conflict was still six months away in our collective future. At that moment under a clear, summer sky in far, Northeast Philadelphia, PA there was only a group of kindred souls, spending a summer night together in celebration of their existence.

Tock…

…To the day, a few years earlier when my friends and I–my newly minted family–gathered in Lorimar Park in Huntington Valley, PA for Water War 2.0, a war which I and my team would eventually win. We celebrated that evening by eating dinner as a group in Abington, PA on 611/Old York Road at a restaurant which no longer exists. Winners and losers alike drank Shirley Temples and Roy Rogers because alcohol was still a few years in our future. We shared baskets of fries and onion rings and marveled at how full our lives were. We were young. The world beyond our Super Soakers and water balloons was still a half a decade away. Our proverbial clocks had long, stopped ticking and we were frozen in a moment in time, something akin to the one described by Sting in his song “Fields of Gold.” With my eyes closed, I can still envision that moment as the sun set outside. I remember the feel of the air conditioning on my still-damp clothing and the goosebumps dotting my skin. I can see their smiles and hear their laughter and as much as I do not want the vision to end, I know it will remain with me, long past this moment, over 30 years later: A rapidly graying, divorced Dad with a complimentary pot belly, a bruised tail bone and a touch of osteoarthritis in his left shoulder and in his knees. Reluctantly, I open my eyes.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Beyond this there are other memories, but I’ve devoted much of my freestyle, First Person, journal-lite writing to them over the years (“The Mayor of Maple Street” is only one of a handful of pieces I have written that I hope to eventually compile into a novel tentatively called “Searching for J-Town”). Not much of what I have written in this format has focused on my life post-J-Town, and today felt like as good a time as any to revisit that era… That epoch of my life. There are others–a weekend away with my then girlfriend, one day to be fiancé, wife and ex-wife in Margate, NJ on my mother’s houseboat with our good friends who just so happened to be staying on another boat in the same marina. A day in Seaside Heights, NJ with the woman I was at the time living with in celebration of her birthday, a woman who I was hopelessly in love with and who I am relatively sure felt the same toward me. It was about as close to a perfect day as I can remember.

Obviously, these days and others, along with the days of pool parties and water wars carried over into the days of Mexico and Disney, and many of the same folks that armed themselves with water guns sometime in the early 1990s were with me for those experiences, as well–my always family. Family, friends and countrymen and women, is an all-encompassing term that goes far beyond blood, and while I love my minions, and I adore my blood family, the classification does not begin nor end with them. It includes them. Including my most recent memories of summer in this rumination simply demonstrates that the title I chose before I wrote “good evening” at the start was the appropriate one. Summer is and always will be a time that breeds stories for me because so many of my greatest memories are of it. ENDWORLD kicked off in the summer. “The Mayor of Maple Street” was about summer. And this blog entry? It further bolsters the claim that at even a few months shy of the big 5-0, summer’s enduring impact on me–whether I go by the pen name of El Autoro or the Madchronicler, or by my given name of Frank/Francis Marsh–will remain until such time as I breathe my last, proverbial breath in this universe on one side of the proverbial wormhole of existence, and consign myself to the halls of oblivion. Their laughter. Their smiles. Always with me.

FM.

On Six Years and Appeals to the Universe

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

Six years. It doesn’t seem like a long time, does it? Given an average, human lifespan of 70 years in 2024 (SOURCE), and a universe that is billions of years old, six years seems like nothing. Less than a drop of water in the world’s biggest bucket. Less than a grain of sand on the largest beach on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. Six years is miniscule when compared to other, time-reliant concepts. Yet for me, your old buddy The Madchronicler, who was formerly known as El Autoro and before that, Frank Marsh, six years feels like an eternity.

I was shocked upon opening what my good friend Ed likes to call “The Book of Faces” this morning, going to my memories (one of the rare things I check daily on it; on that point, I apologize for not wishing all of my 350 or so followers a Happy Birthday consistently for the last, few years–I simply don’t spend a lot of time on social media these days) and realizing that today, September 30, 2024 is the six year anniversary of when I moved into my current home in Swarthmore, PA.

Six years. Six years since I left my once-home in Broomall, PA for the last time as a resident, my then-truck (my trusty Honda Pilot, which finally fell apart at a shade under 160K miles, last Fall) loaded down with the last of my sparse possessions–the others were already here in the place I am writing these words now, from my now-combination office/bedroom on the second floor, overlooking a dreary, humid and chilly early-autumn day which hangs over the street below. Blackrock Road. What a cool name for a street. I should really look up, after six years, why they call this street “Blackrock.” Be right back. Or, in teen-speak, BRB.

Not unsurprisingly, there was nothing on Google (or Bing; I use both on this computer) to explain why my street is called “Blackrock.” The most I could find was a Wikipedia article on SwarthmoreWOOD, which is the sub-sect of Swarthmore, PA that I reside in. Given the lack of online information about Blackrock Road, I am going to simply assume (even though doing so generally makes an ASS out of U and ME), that when this area was developed in the 1950s, they found a bunch of black rocks lying around or in the soil. My apologies for how anti-climactic that probably is to a few, if not all of you reading this. Even storytellers, sometimes are forced to simply say “ah, f*ck it.” Acknowledge and move on.

I digress. Back to six years. I remember that day vividly. It was a surprisingly beautiful Saturday given what was happening–I guess Mother Nature didn’t think my situation was dire enough to warrant a gray and gloomy day like today. The temperature was about the same as it is currently–hovering in the high 60s/low 70s–and it was a bit humid, as the last vestiges of summer seem to hang on the longest in the Mid-Atlantic, every year. I remember watching my soon-to-be ex-wife drive away from our home in Broomall with the girls in tow, heading to dance class. I remember my friends and some family arriving to help me pack the last of my belongings into my U-Haul and Pilot. I drove the U-Haul down Route 320 (known colloquially as “Springfield Road”), 20 minutes away first, left it here, and then went back to get my Pilot courtesy of someone driving me back (apologies that I cannot remember who). Thereafter I was back here and have been here almost every night since I arrived save for those few nights, over the last six years where I was away for the weekend, or on vacation, or on a business trip. I never slept another night in Broomall, and that house is no longer owned by either a Marsh or a Gentile, my ex having moved out many years ago. As best I can tell–because I still spend a lot of time in Broomall and Newtown Square between school, and dance–it is now owned by someone who doesn’t like trees–they cut them all down–and hates decorating for the holidays. Every time I drive past it, I say a prayer for them. I hope they made/are making as many, wonderful memories as we did for many of the years we lived there.

Six years folks. Over the last, six years I’ve watched my two daughters grow into teenagers. I’ve been in a few relationships, but all ended for one reason or another–usually me. I retired the Pilot in favor of a gently loved 2020 Equinox which I hope to pass onto my oldest when she starts driving. I’ve maintained my abode in SwarthmoreWOOD as best I can, though admittedly, some repairs are starting to evade my expertise. I’m on my third job, but I’ve been in my current one for almost five years. I’m a lot greyer than I was in 2018 and a bit skinnier, and I can no longer deny the fact that my once-beloved head of hair is beginning to recede. I’m less than 365 days away from the Big 5-0 and I’m having difficulty coming to grips with the idea that the average human life expectancy in 2024 is 70 and I’m less than 21 years away from that. Maybe my keen awareness of such things is a product of the comfort level I have achieved in my life after the six most turbulent years of my existence. I’m not averse to the changes. Time can be a cruel companion, but only if you let it be one. I tend to look at time these days as a welcome partner on my journey deeper into the latter third of my life.

Six years. Gone in a blink. 21 more until I hit (and hopefully exceed) our corporeal terminal velocity as human beings. Six years to get to a point in my life where things have grown relatively quiet again. The past remains–the pain I felt, the hurt I endured and what I regrettably dished out at times–but only because, to quote Matthew McConaughey, “sometimes you gotta go back to go forward. And I don’t mean going back to reminisce or chase ghosts. I mean go back to see where you came from, where you’ve been, how you got HERE.” There are lessons to be learned from the past, but you cannot let all of the above factors affect your present, or your future.

Six years. When I started writing this piece, I was fixated on that. But the more I compose, the more I think that this little blog entry, piece of Mental Flatulence or Dissertation is more of a reflection on where I’ve been, and where I’m going. Inevitably, we humans reflect on where we’ve been and consider what we could have done differently. I’ve done plenty of that in my 49 plus years, here on my side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. When I was in college, I considered going into IT like many of my friends at that time. Frank Marsh, Computer Programmer. There was and remains a ton of money in that field, though the landscape has changed a lot–I see it every day in my current job. IT folks are opting for the life of a digital nomad versus a steady, in-office, 9-5 mundane, routine existence. Many of them become independent contractors and work multiple gigs for multiple companies at a time. They’re not tied to one place… One location. They can do the same job from East Jipip that they do from Bumf*ck (or, if you prefer a less vulgar comparison, SwarthmoreWOOD and Dominica). IT folks in 2024 are part of a world in which there are no borders save for the ones that their forefathers and mothers drew, hundreds of years ago. It’s about as close to the digital world of Neuromancer as we’ll ever get as a species (sorry William Gibson, but AI is going to take the digital highways and byways of this world over long before people start “jacking in”). That could have been me. But sometime in mid-high school I fell in love with English and there was, from that moment forth no line of code that could or would ever replace it.

Speaking of English, my plan had always been to teach. I had it all figured out, and I came closer to it than I did a career in tech: A few content credits and a stint as a student teacher away from an MA in Education. Yet those of you that know me know that didn’t play out the way I drew it up either. Life, and Probability and Statistics intervened, and I settled for a career in the staffing industry which… If we’re being honest, has absolutely nothing to do with English unless you count drafting emails as a similarity. That decades old vision of me, bearded and standing in front of a group of high school or college students as Frank Marsh, MA or PhD in a pair of faded jeans, a button-down Oxford shirt and a corduroy suit jacket with patches on the elbows teaching Shakespeare is only a memory now. It too could have been me.

I could continue to cite examples–Frank Marsh, Actor/Director. Frank Marsh, Published Author (I guess this one kind of happened, though if you ask some folks, self-publishing does not count, even if said self-publisher made a profit, and maintains a relatively high rating/review standard for his two, SELF-published novels), Frank Marsh, Outside Salesperson for a hydraulic and pneumatic distribution company, Frank Marsh, Training Store, or even Regional Manager for CVS/Pharmacy–but to do so at this point is fruitless. All could have been me. But this is not about reminiscing or chasing ghosts. This is about NOW. I am a 49 plus year old Business Development Manager. I know how I got here. The answer is simple: I made a choice. I made choices that led me to this point. And let’s be fair friends: I wouldn’t trade it for anything. My success as a BDM is one of the main reasons why things have grown quiet in my world for the first time in… Honestly longer than six years (because none of what led me to that beautiful but fateful, late September Saturday morning six years ago today happened overnight). I still deal with stressors, but for the first time in a very long time, career-wise they’re not primarily employment-related. I have and will continue to embrace my NOW, here, on the cusp of 50. I intend to make the best of whatever life I have left beyond this moment in time, up to and God willing past my corporeal, terminal velocity. But there are still questions that beg to be answered because despite the general silence, there remains a desire for more. Six years. I know where I was six years ago today. The question: Where will I be, six years from NOW?

It’s later now. I’m at dance, waiting for the girls to finish their nightly slate of practice–four hours for the oldest, and only one for the youngest. The above asked question has haunted me since I posed it to myself (and you, readers) a few hours ago. I don’t know that I can say, for sure where I WILL be. But I know where I want to be, and that may be the closest a non-divination human of 49 plus can get (yes, that was a veiled D&D reference).

Leg one is simple: I want to be even more secure and at peace than I am now. No more lingering home repairs or financial concerns. Fewer stressors. A better sleep pattern and about 25 additional pounds lighter than I am presently. But legs two, three et cetera are trickier (or “tricksier” to quote everyone’s favorite Gollum). Here’s where I grow tentative because I know what I want to answer. I’ve answered this same query, the same way multiple times pre-tonight. But I’ve never had the ability or, to be honest (TBH in teen-speak) the energy/desire to follow through. I’m okay with being a co-parent, homeowner and BDM. I’m okay with being a Dance Dad, Theater Papa, Basketball Father (and occasional private coach for my youngest daughter) and whatever else the universe on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence desires me to be. I ask only one thing in return of said universe, and if he/she/it can grant me this, okay. Let’s f*cking go (LFG in teen-speak).

Six years. Six years from now, I want to be, nay I need to be a writer too. I have too many stories kissing my subconscious, some more forcibly than others to not keep doing what I’m doing right now. Here in this silence, I’ve never felt more imaginative. I feel like I have a new idea, or the return of an old idea every day. My words are beginning to flow, more freely than they have in some time and there’s something new in them. Good or bad–I leave that up to you, friends; I can see it in this blog entry–I have… I am changing. Evolving once again, both as a writer and a person. I want to harness this. 21 years is still a lot of time, and assuming my trusty Marsh/Hamilton genes keep me upright like my trusty Pilot kept me mobile, 70 may just be the start. After all, my mother and father are both well into their 70s and my grandparents, for the most part lived well into their 80s and 90s. There IS time. And if you, oh universe grant me this, I swear to you, this night–as the rain that has been threatening all day begins to slowly, methodically pitter-patter on the fuselage of my new, so far trusty Equinox–I will be everything that you require me to be and more.

Back home now and sleep is calling. Or some semblance thereof. I know I need to be up early in the morning to run the girls to school before returning, back here to Blackrock Road in SwarthmoreWOOD to work. I’ve no scheduled meetings tomorrow–which is not always a bad thing. Tomorrow is October 1, 2024: Day One of Q4 and marks the start of my yearly “sprint to the finish.” Can I hit my numbers this year? Can I exceed my output from last year? Thus far, each year has improved on the one before it. Hopefully this year–which has, at times been very good, and at times less so–follows suit. Good, bad… The continued duality of my existence on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence, no matter whether I’m living in Broomall or SwarthmoreWOOD, PA, or somewhere between the two. Much of my life, these days is spent in that gray area between the two locations, and some is spent between the two poles of morality. Maybe that’s just me, going too hard on myself. I do believe I am inherently a good person. Even good people do bad things sometimes. I guess I’ll leave the final ruling on that up to the universe that I am appealing to but one thing I know for certain is that every decision I have ever made, not just in the last six years, but over the course of a good portion of my 49 plus year life has been a measured one. I trust in that. I trust in myself. I trust in the universe to hear me this night and maybe, just maybe, the next six years WILL prove to be less chaotic, and more peaceful than the previous six.

Six years. An appeal to the universe. And hopefully a good night’s sleep. I wish you all the same, friends.

Booyakasha. RESPECT. Winky emoticon. Smiley face.

F.