Daylight Sneak-Thief In The Neighborhood

Have you seen this bandit? "Who? Me?"

There is a  sneak-thief in the neighborhood, a robber, a bad-man, a rapscallion doing some daylight unauthorized home shopping. There is a neighborhood creep doing some widespread creeping.

I hate to think that someone has looked through my underwear drawer. (I was meaning to throw away the pair with the hole in the ass, just in case Monsieur Light Finger reads this and is of the judging sort- the rest of you Folks can just ignore and move on, okay?) Violation of personal space is somehow worse than any loss of material wealth.

So what did we lose? Just a handful of change, as far as we can tell. And let me be clear on what I mean about neighborhood, because here in Maine, that might not be the same as other places. We live on a dead end dirt road with seven houses and everyone has at least two acres (.8 hectares) of land. The sneak-thief knows we all work during the day and being so isolated, has taken advantage.

The days of leaving homes unlocked here in Maine seems to have finally become antiquated. How crushingly sad I feel.Things change, but not all change is of the nice variety and this, Folks, is the nasty kind of change I wish did not exist.

In the grand scheme, home invasion where a change collection of twenty dollars is lost, is no big deal, especially when it is considered that other home invasions turn deadly. Yet, there is the looming shadow of what comes. I think I see the shape of that change coming over the horizon and you know what?

I don’t like what I can see.

Conversations With Ollie-Dog

Ollie-Dog  Keeps up on his hygiene. From Foreverhouse

Ollie-Dog and I sit on the lawn and watch in the murk of the passing day the neighbor boys play guns, mini commandos darting in and out of sight through the trees. There’s no wind, so the cool evening invigorates both of us, though we stay close together for a little extra warmth.

Ollie-Dog is a good listener. Most of the time. He’s still a puppy and he gets bored and wants to play, nipping at hands and feet to get a reaction, to show his excitement. Tonight he just sits, fascinated by the rattling gun and the flashes he spots in the dim light, better than me, of boys at play. Tonight he consents to play the calm, attentive puppy role.

We talk about the kids a bit, then I ask “Do you want a baby brother or sister, Ollie?” He turns his head at the sound of his name, I say his name again, questioning, waiting for a response. His head cocks to the side, considering the possibility. He turns away, uncommitted. “I’m talking about a baby, Ollie, not a puppy. Does that make a difference?”

The staccato of the gun and the incongruent call of “Stealth mode!”, holds more interest. Ollie-Dog is happy with me scratching under his chin. Babies- human or otherwise- aren’t of interest tonight it seems.

I’m not bothered. Ollie-Dog is often like that, so I’m used to his indifference.

We move on to talk of work as the sun finally gives over the day to the night. Neither of us are interested in talk of work and conversation drifts to silence. Even the boys have quieted, or perhaps they’ve managed at last to discover the elusive stealth mode, aided no doubt by the darkness.

Ollie-Dog re-adjusts closer. I move my leg enough for him to tuck against my chest and we wait in silence. Mommy is supposed to be home. Ollie-Dog wants to jump and do circles in front of her when she arrives to show her how much he loves his Mommy. And Mommy might give him a treat when she goes inside because he’s Cute and a Good Dog.

We wait as long as we can but Mommy is late. She won’t want to talk about work, either, but that’s okay with Ollie-Dog. It’s okay with me, too. I think about a quiet evening at home with my wife and the little ball of sporadic red-furred chaos who now sits so innocent wrapped in my arms. By the way Ollie-Dog is shifting, I can tell innocence is almost lost. He’s ready to move.

It’s time to go inside, finish our waiting in the warm and bright where the balls wait to be chased and chewed and maybe a crumbly might fall from the sky for patient dogs who are always vigilant for such things. I can talk just as well indoors as I can out, I think, so down the walkway we go.

Ollie-Dog and I, on the move, going places. “Nice talking to you, Ollie.” He wags his tail, nips my hand, and together, we go in the house.

Defending My Closet, Defending My Vests

Shayna Nickerson ‏@ShaynaNickerson
@mt_nickerson Can your next blog post be on vests? please?#organizingthecloset #imarriedahipster

Ah, so a hipster, am I? A couple vests hanging in the closet and we get to the name calling (no offence to all the hipsters out there, but hipster is not where I aim in my fashion choices). I feel the need to defend my closet from scurrilous remarks. Not for a second do I want anyone to think I write this because the suggestion was made by my wife.

I’m my own man.

(I might have more than a couple vests, Folks. I mention this, a full disclosure, as I have nothing to hide. It is my closet, right?)

Michael T. Nickerson ‏@mt_nickerson
@ShaynaNickerson Dear, it's called a collection, which makes me a connoisseur. You should be proud & honored

Proud and honored of a connoisseur was my thought, but the mind of a woman is a mystery. She saw an opportunity and without knowing, I was perched on the very top of a slippery slope.
Shayna Nickerson ‏@ShaynaNickerson
@mt_nickerson Ah. So this is also true for my coat collection? #denial #obsessedwithvests

Those coats. There are more coats than winter days it seems in our house. I even have three winter coats myself when one is quite suitable in my opinion. How do you even think to compare the versatility and style of a well-made vest with a clunky and cumbersome coat? Silliness.

As I said, women are a mystery.  
Michael T. Nickerson ‏@mt_nickerson
@ShaynaNickerson Vests and coats are clearly separate entities- complete different rules governing each #coatobsessionworse #vestsrule

I try to set the record straight, to interject some sense in the conversation. Really, coat obsession? What is the point of that?
Shayna Nickerson ‏@ShaynaNickerson
@mt_nickerson Vests are just coats without sleeves. #wannabecoats

Ahhh! Wannabe coats. Wannabe coats? I’m trying to find my footing, but how do I respond to a statement so blatant in its disrespect?
Michael T. Nickerson ‏@mt_nickerson
@ShaynaNickerson Vests dare to do more with less #coolfactor

Lame. I have been reduced to a response of Vests dare to do more with less #coolfactor. A stinging return, huh, Folks?
Shayna Nickerson ‏@ShaynaNickerson
@mt_nickerson Coats are functional. Vests appear to have been born in superfluousness. http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=vest …

Born in superfluousness.  And there it is, the brick wall at the bottom of the that short, slippery slope. And there’s a link involved just to rub in the fact that though my intentions valiant, my ability to defend the contents of my closet was never equal to the task.
Michael T. Nickerson ‏@mt_nickerson
@ShaynaNickerson Ouch. Why do always have go all smart on me?#can'tcompete (#vestsstillrule)

The bruise square on my ego is hidden from view. I can at least be thankful for that and besides, I have two, or five, or... a few more vests hanging about just waiting to be worn. Intellectually bettered, perhaps but bettered while remaining stylish.

I’ll do that trade.

Back To School: Redux

Between emotional extremes, life continues, unfinished, uncertain, frightening but marvelous.

Yesterday I met with my academic advisor, a woman I have not seen in a decade, and together we poured over my college transcripts to decide my best course of action for the upcoming semester. Yes, indeed. I’m returning to school.

The run from the parking lot (in which I parked illegally, as I did almost my entire career in college) was longer than I remembered. I was late as usual, a steady reminder that even older, I still misjudge the travel time from my hometown to the university. I never seem to factor in the parking and walking portion of the trip, a rather important portion of the equation. Perhaps this time I will learn more and reform.

Or not. I muddled through the first time.

From english major, to maintenance man, to possible teacher. A longer path than I anticipated with a destination I hadn’t expected, but there you go, Folks. Life in all the vagaries, in all the guises and missteps and exaltations, is nothing in the end except life. My life in this case.

I start next week back to the grind, taking education courses while planning for my ultimate goal of getting into a masters program next summer. Then an intense year in which being broke will be an aspiration as the hunger will prod me to achieve that wonderful prize at the end; a chance to teach secondary school.

Let that sink in. Jealous?

Me, I’m equal parts fear and excitement. But that’s life, isn’t it? We just have to find a way to live it the best we can.

Manuscript Length A Thing Of The Past

I was speaking with a friend yesterday who asked me what I did with my writing. I was confused at first with the question before realizing that he didn’t read my blog, didn’t know much about that aspect of my life. After a silent and brief sulk, I told him about my blog.

He then revealed he was writing, scribbling as he said on note paper, and not knowing what to do with the poems and stories and true-life confessions, destroying them for lack of an appropriate alternative.

I suggested a blog or publication.

He returned with the comment that presenting his work to the masses was akin to walking around naked; not appealing and certainly not an option.

I thought, What’s the problem?

Of course, I had the same hang-ups, the same fear of being judged before coming to the conclusion that my fears were an excuse not to try and that in the end, any embarrassment was tolerable when weighed against the alternative of failing due to simple inaction. If people think my writing is crap, then so be it, but at least I’ve given it a chance to be judged, to be weighed and measured.

Being enlightened and refined, I of course said none of this to my friend. Instead I told him to just do it, using the stand by psychology I learned from Nike in my formative years. I’ll share in my writing, but mushy face to face stuff? No thank you.

Rub some dirt in it and stop crying, Man!

Damn the torpedos!

You know what I mean, Folks? Manly shit between manly men. I ain’t talking about fears and such with a friend, no way. Besides, I’m pretty sure that the phrase, just do it, implies all that anyway.

Getting past the mushy minefield, we moved into the merits of publishing, as blogging was met with an instant disdain. The question arose as to length of manuscripts. What is the correct length in order to publish? I’ve been thinking of this question for awhile now and this is the simple answer I gave:

Whatever length you want. If you self-publish.

The conversation veered at this point but my mind still worked on that question of length. It was the first time I had vocalized my thoughts on manuscript length, even if briefly. Manuscript length is no longer valid in the digital age tied as it was to production cost more so than any other factor and shouldn’t be a top consideration for writers any longer.

If my friend wants to publish a two page short story or poem or laundry list and charge $1,000 dollars to the public, then why the hell not?

I want to explore this more, but for now, what do you Folks think? Does anyone care about manuscript length or should they? Shouldn’t the writing take precedence rather than the business?

Or did I plant a seed in my newly writing friend’s mind that basically screwed him before he even begins?