481. Clutter

Posted on October 17, 2016 by Adam Stück

I spent hours yesterday sifting through clutter in my apartment: books, blowgun darts, office supplies, ocelot pelts, papers, outdated foreign currency, clothes, and centuries-old trinkets of carved stone and bone.

It occurs to me that my life is kind of strange.

My parents, who are missionaries, have used my apartment as their home base during their slow transition from working in Uruguay to working in Spain. Since they plan to depart for Galicia in a few weeks, we began sorting through their stuff yesterday in preparation for packing. It was an… interesting process.

My dad grew up in the jungles of Ecuador, and my mum loves antiques. Between the two of them, my family has accumulated a ton of awesome junk, much of it very old. I found a toucan beak, a stone axe head of incalculable age, an armadillo shell, and an ancient Incan figurine, among other things. I felt like I was reorganizing the office of Indiana Jones; I could almost hear him say, “This belongs in a museum!” (In case you were wondering, my parents are nothing like Indiana Jones; sorry to disappoint.)

My parents have spent time in the state of Indiana. Does that count?

Of course, these exciting souvenirs were merely sprinkled over heaps of modern, ordinary items such as clothes, books, and kitchenware. My apartment currently contains my stuff, my younger brother’s stuff, my parents’ stuff, and even a little bit of my older brother’s stuff.

My apartment is, um, a tiny bit cluttered at the moment.

Gathering my parents’ possessions uprooted some of my own, like unto the parable of the wheat and the weeds. This is actually a good thing. In a month, when my parents are bound safely for the rainy shores of Spain, I intend to take inventory of my worldly goods, and then to get rid of some.

Since my parents are missionaries, we moved around a lot. We never got a chance to accumulate much clutter. Every move to a new place stripped away all the stuff we couldn’t take with us. I learned to live light.

At any rate, that’s what I thought.

O’Hare International Airport proved me wrong. When I traveled from Ecuador to the US for college, I carried all of my worldly goods with me in a backpack, a carry-on, a computer bag, and two duffel bags the approximate size of adult male hippos.

Artist interpretation of Adam’s duffel bags.

On that day the air traffic controllers of O’Hare decided, in their infinite wisdom, to make my plane unload its luggage at one end of the airport, and its passengers on the other. This required me to walk approximately two hundred sixty extra miles along dingy airport hallways, and I had a bus to catch. Of course I did.

So I ran—well, I shuffled—dragging my carry-on, with my pack and computer bag slung across my back, and a duffel bag dangling from each shoulder. As I stepped, my duffel bags swung with the ponderous force of battering rams. Straps cut into my back and shoulders. I kept stepping—well, shuffling—wishing for a luggage cart, or a team of porters, or the sweet release of death.

That experience shaped my guiding philosophy for owning stuff: If it isn’t worth moving, it isn’t worth having. I want to live without clutter or extra weight. When I move somewhere new, which I’m sure I will sooner or later, I want moving to be as easy as possible. If I wouldn’t move something to a new home, I probably don’t need it right now, and should probably get rid of it.

For the most part, my clutter-free philosophy has worked well. (At any rate, it has left enough empty space in my apartment for my parents’ worldly goods.) A minimalist approach makes it easier for me to keep things organized, and helps me to appreciate my individual possessions. I feel lighter, freer, and calmer without so much stuff.

My friend JK wrote a blog post about tidy living. Henry David Thoreau wrote, “Simplify, simplify.” Even Jesus Christ said, “Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; life does not consist in an abundance of possessions.”

It will be cathartic to take inventory of my possessions later this year, and to give away the stuff I don’t really want. I hope the nearest donation center doesn’t mind books.

469. Be Wherever You Are

Posted on September 5, 2016 by Adam Stück

For years and years, I’ve been waiting for something.

Don’t ask me for what, because I have no idea. I can’t shake a subconscious conviction that I’m fighting to get somewhere, somewhere, and I’m not yet there.

I’m waiting for… something.

When I was in college, I thought it was a career as an English teacher. After those plans crashed and burned, I assumed it was the publication of my book series. Those plans eventually wound up in the crash-and-burn category along with my ambitions of teaching English. At that point, I was waiting for a better job situation, or for my religious skepticism to go away, or for something beyond the grind of my day-to-day existence.

Still waiting? Still waiting.

My job situation is much improved, thank God. I’ve come to terms with my decision not to pursue a career in education. I’m resurrecting my failed book series as a project for fun, and have decided not to pursue professional writing… for the moment, at any rate. My faith survives. I’ve faced my doubts, acknowledged them openly, and persisted in spite of them.

I feel fairly stable, settled, and contented, yet can’t shake a vague dissatisfaction. It’s a feeling of waiting for I know not what.

In other news, I’ve been watching a lot of Steven Universe lately.

Steven Universe is a television series about a boy who loves pizza, wears flip-flops, and protects the world from monsters and hostile invaders. He lives in a seaside town with the Crystal Gems: three survivors of an ancient, ill-fated attempt by an intergalactic civilization to conquer Planet Earth. When Steven isn’t helping the Gems clean up the lingering threats of the alien invasion, he’s probably watching cartoons or hanging out at his dad’s car wash.

“We’re good and evil never beats us. We’ll win the fight and then go out for pizzas!”

Steven Universe is an amazing show. I could spend an entire post explaining why, but I have other things to discuss today, so I’ll keep it fairly short.

Steven Universe balances adventure with slice-of-life stories. It’s infused with magical realism, sincere positivity, and hints of geeky nostalgia. (When Steven is baffled by a VHS tape, his friend explains, “It’s like a DVD shaped like a box.”) An intricate narrative and compelling characterizations slowly emerge from the show’s charm and humor. Steven Universe has a gift for tackling serious subjects (grief! war! trauma!) without ever veering into the extremes of gloominess or false cheeriness. I could say a lot more, but will leave the rest to smarter writers than I.

Oh, and Steven Universe is just fun to watch. I shouldn’t forget to mention that part.

At this point, the show has become one of my all-time favorites. (It probably ties with Gravity Falls as my second-favorite, surpassed only by Avatar: The Last Airbender.) It has been incredibly fun and satisfying to revisit the world of Steven Universe over the past five or six weeks, and the show has often made me think.

Truth and wisdom turn up in unexpected places. There is truth in Batman and Doctor Who, and apparently in Steven Universe. Who knew-niverse?

At one point, Steven finds himself stranded on a deserted island with a pair of acquaintances, Lars and Sadie. Lars, understandably, freaks out. He can’t get cell phone reception. He doesn’t belong on the island. He needs to get home now.

Steven doesn’t panic. Instead, he finds the good in his situation, and asks his companions an important question: “Why don’t you let yourself just be wherever you are?”

I’d vacation there.

It takes a little while (and a chipper musical number) for Lars to realize it, but the island actually ain’t so bad. Being stranded is basically an extended vacation. He might not be in control. He might not be able to move on quite as soon as he wants. However, if he accepts his situation instead of fighting it, he can enjoy it while it lasts—and it doesn’t last forever. In the end, of course, Lars and Sadie and Steven make it safely home.

There’s a lesson there.

Instead of waiting for something to happen, living in faint unease and dissatisfaction… why don’t I just let myself just be wherever I am?

465. The Five-Step Writing Conference

Posted on August 8, 2016 by Adam Stück

I recently attended a professional writing conference. It was… well, it was a lot of things. I’ll outline my experience at the conference in five steps.

1. Early Misgivings

I hit the road a few days ago. My car, Eliezer, is dependable but dilapidated—after all, you can’t spell trusty without rusty. Eliezer lacks such vain frills as air conditioning. I call it a car, but it’s more like an oven on wheels. Thus it was a hot, disheveled Adam who arrived at the conference, sweating like a traveler in the mighty Kalahari, and having second thoughts.

Artist interpretation of writing conference weather.

I should also mention that my jeans kept creeping stealthily toward my ankles. This utterly baffled me. These jeans had previously fit me just fine, and their tag claimed they were my size. They insisted nonetheless on their downward trajectory. I found myself frequently hitching up my jeans until I was able to change into another pair in the privacy of my room.

The conference was held on the campus of a university. It gave me repeated flashbacks to my own college career, which began with severe depression and ended with existential dread. Speaking of which….

2. Crushing Despair

As I attended the conference’s early sessions—which were excellent, by the way—I slid slowly but inexorably into depression, guilt, hopelessness, and acute social anxiety.

This really surprised me. I suffer from chronic depression, as you’ve probably noticed if you’ve followed my blog for more than five minutes, but it usually comes and goes gradually. At the writing conference, it crushed me with the steady force of a steamroller. I was also surprised by the social anxiety. I’m an introvert, but I can usually deal with social events.

The guilt and hopelessness were worst of all.

Artist interpretation of depressed Adam. (In case you were wondering, I didn’t actually make faces like this at the writing conference… I don’t think.)

I was surrounded by people with serious aspirations of professional writing, and people who actually write professionally. By comparison, I’m half a writer. I know a few things about writing as a craft, but hardly anything about writing as a profession.

In those early sessions of the conference, with their unfiltered insights into a tough and competitive industry, my bravado and optimism were quick to evaporate. I felt seriously out of my depth. I felt like a fraud.

3. Redeeming Peace

As a pragmatic (and sadly skeptical) follower of Christ, my faith leans more toward intellect than emotion. I don’t often have those moments of raw emotion sometimes called “religious experiences,” and I talk about them still less often, but halfway through the conference, I found one.

Having retreated to my room (which I had formally christened the Introvert Cave), I switched on the air conditioner, sat on the bed, and prayed. I told God that as I held on to faith in him, I had to believe he had brought me to that conference for a reason. I asked him to help me find it, and to see him at work.

I immediately felt a profound peace—a sudden, absolute conviction that everything was going to be okay. This peace carried me through the rest of the day, redeeming it, and giving me a little hope.

4. Shower Misadventures

The showers at the conference deserve a mention. They were lined up along a hallway in a communal bathroom, and guarded from the public eye only by flimsy and ill-fitted curtains. After a long day in the summer sun, I really needed a rinse. I had no choice. Casting off my misgivings, I cast off my clothes. I would not be conquered by a public shower.

I immediately ran into another problem. It was my old enemy, the Tiny Hotel Soap.

We meet again.

Have you ever stayed in a hotel and tried washing yourself with those itty-bitty bars of soap? It’s impossible. The Tiny Hotel Soap provided at the conference was roughly the size and shape of a saltine cracker, with the density of carbon steel. I tried to work up a lather with the Tiny Hotel Soap. It would have been easier to work up a lather with a soap-sized slab of sculpted marble.

I finally concluded my shower, only to realize I had forgotten my towel. (Forgive me, Douglas Adams.) It was a wet and abashed Adam who sneaked back to his room. It was a good thing God had given me peace, or that shower may just have broken me.

5. Caffeinated Resignation

I blundered through the rest of the conference with a kind of resigned determination, fueled by coffee. I learned a lot, actually, and took pages of notes. I also hung out with an old friend, a fellow blogger, and a couple of nice ladies from Argentina, so that was cool.

In the end, the writing conference made me seriously question my vague pretensions of someday being a professional writer. It would be a radical shift, and would take tons of hard work and research for no guaranteed payoff. If I ever make that plunge, I’ll have to go all in.

The conference also reminded me that there are so many other dedicated writers out there, many of whom are admirably ambitious, successful, and gifted. I must keep a healthy sense of perspective. I am, to echo Gandalf, only quite a little fellow in a wide world after all!

When in doubt, quote Tolkien or Doctor Who.

A speaker at the conference made a good point: “A hobbyist writes for himself. A professional writes for his audience.” I’m a hobbyist. I write for fun, and God only knows whether that will ever change. If it does, I now have a slightly clearer idea of what to expect. If it doesn’t, I now have some idea of what I’m missing.

Either way, it’s nice to know.

I never tire of quoting the good Doctor from Doctor Who. (My readers probably tire of it, but I don’t.) As he might have put it, while the conference itself was excellent, my experiences there were a pile of good things and bad things. The good things didn’t always soften the bad things, but vice versa, the bad things didn’t necessarily spoil the good things or make them unimportant.

And the conference definitely added to my pile of good things.

459. That Time I Started a Church Ministry by Accident

Posted on July 18, 2016 by Adam Stück

Today’s story is a testimony, I suppose, but not mine. It’s the story of a pastor who founded a ministry, and of a congregation that supported it. My part in the story is actually very small. It’s kind of an anti-testimony, really.

Once upon a time, my laziness inspired the creation of a church ministry called Change the World. It gathers donations in the form of spare change and small bills, and then uses this money to support charity projects across the world.

At one point, when I was in college, I acquired about forty-five dollars in loose change. That’s a lot of coins, guys. Seriously, that’s like five flipping pounds of money, stuffed haphazardly into a sagging resealable bag.

Spare change is kind of a nuisance, really.

This little fortune was more of a nuisance than a blessing. Where was I going to spend five pounds of change? I couldn’t use it at a store or restaurant—no sane server or salesclerk would accept a bag of coins. I was too lazy to put them in paper wrappers for deposit at the bank. How was I going to get rid of them?

In the end, I sheepishly handed over the bag of change to my pastor. In my defense, I was transparent about my own laziness. Giving the money to my church was the easiest option; I didn’t pretend otherwise.

My pastor—I’ll call him Socrates—accepted the coins, apparently unfazed by my laziness and ineptitude at being a capable adult. Instead, he realized how much spare change people tend to have scattered around, and decided to redeem it for the kingdom of heaven.

Together with the church’s leadership team, Socrates founded Change the World, which redirects donations of loose change toward a new charitable project every month. A number of church members supported the project enthusiastically. It continues to this day.

In college, I served that church in a number of capacities, from mowing its lawn to running its soundboard to whacking bongo drums during its worship services. I find it hilarious that my only enduring impact on that church was not only completely accidental, but openly lazy.

As Linus from the Peanuts comic once put it, “There’s a lesson to be learned here somewhere, but I don’t know what it is.”

Peanuts by Charles Schulz.

My accidental involvement in the Change the World project reminds me of a story from the book of Numbers. It’s the tale of the wicked prophet Balaam, who was sharply criticized by a donkey. (It’s a funny story.) That donkey probably wasn’t planning to get involved in the work of God, but then neither was I.

My legacy of laziness endures to this day. I hope it has done the world a little good.

Welp, I’m going to take a nap or something.

The Brutal Art of Speedrunning

Posted on July 6, 2016 by Adam Stück

This is a special week. America celebrated its Independence Day, sure, but that’s not all: Games Done Quick is currently running its summer marathon for charity.

Games Done Quick, whose current marathon supports Doctors Without Borders, is an event celebrating the art of speedrunning. A speedrun is an attempt to complete a video game as quickly as possible. There are endless variations upon this concept, but they all have one thing in common—they are ridiculously fast.

The video above is a brief feature on a young man nicknamed Darbian, who held (and still holds, I think) the world record for speedrunning the original Super Mario Bros. He beat the game in under five minutes. The entire game. That’s bonkers.

I don’t really follow Games Done Quick or other speedrunning projects, but I’m fascinated by the metagame they create around existing games. They add rules, objectives, and strategies never intended by the games’ developers, building new games upon the old ones. It’s neat.

It’s also pretty brutal—a tiny mistake can derail an entire speedrun. A successful speedrun requires near-perfect timing, comprehensive knowledge of the game, tons of practice, endless patience, and perhaps just a touch of insanity.

I only ever tried speedrunning one game; coincidentally, it was Super Mario Bros. When I was in college, I spent a week or two playing and replaying the game, whittling away the seconds, until I managed to finish it in under ten minutes. I felt quite accomplished. Now, knowing that speedrunners like Darbian can beat the game in less than half that time, I feel… less accomplished.

Ah, well. I suppose what matters is having fun!

Sandwiches

Posted on February 8, 2016 by Adam Stück

There comes a time in the life of every blogger when he must blog about sandwiches. That day has come. This, dear reader, is my destiny.

I consider sandwiches the crowning achievement of humankind, surpassing such modest inventions as the printing press, the steam engine, and the Internet. The sandwich was bestowed upon the human race by John Montagu, an eighteenth-century British statesman. Montagu was the fourth Earl of Sandwich, and possibly the greatest man of his millennium.

I salute you, Lord Montagu. Long may your name be remembered and your namesake be relished!

I salute you, Lord Montagu. Long may your name be remembered and your namesake relished!

As the story goes, the Earl of Sandwich wanted to eat while working without making a mess. (A popular version of the story suggests Montagu didn’t want meals to divert him from playing cards.) He asked his servants to bring him meat between pieces of bread so that he could eat without using silverware or getting his hands dirty. Montagu’s culinary triumph was eventually named after him, and the rest is history—shining, glorious history.

I have had the privilege and pleasure of sampling many sandwiches in my twenty-something years. (Heck, I ate a sandwich just an hour or two ago.) The possibilities are endless. There are hundreds of varieties of bread, and thousands of ingredients to mix and match. Whether you prefer a simple turkey and Swiss on whole wheat, a sweet honey and butter on white, a robust blend of meats and vegetables on an Italian sub, or any other of the millions of combinations out there, there is a sandwich for you.

My personal favorite is the chivito.

As it is written, "Man shall not live by bread alone." I'm certain this ancient Scripture refers specifically to this sandwich.

It is written, “Man shall not live by bread alone.” I’m pretty certain this ancient Scripture refers specifically to this sandwich.

The chivito is a sandwich popular in Uruguay, where my parents live and work. In Spanish, the literal meaning of chivito is small male goat, which is a misnomer in the case of the sandwich: the Uruguayan chivito contains beef, eggs, lettuce, tomatoes, and occasionally mayonnaise, bacon, onions, peppers, olives, or cheese.

Chivitos are the best sandwiches I’ve ever tasted, and I spent three and a half years in college working part-time in a sandwich shop. I know sandwiches. The chivito is by far my favorite sandwich, and possibly my favorite food.

While visiting my parents in Montevideo, I dissected a chivito prior to eating it. For science.

While visiting my parents, I dissected this chivito prior to eating it. For science.

I haven’t tasted a chivito in years: my quiet corner of Indiana boasts no such exotic sandwiches. All the same, I continue to enjoy old favorites such as turkey and cheddar, peanut butter and jam, grilled cheese, and a variety of subs from local Subway restaurants.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need a sandwich.

This post was originally published on March 13, 2015. TMTF shall return with new content on February 22, 2016!

Don’t Interrupt Me While I’m Reading a Book

Posted on January 20, 2016 by Adam Stück

A friend of a friend of mine writes a blog called The Lingering Lamb, and a recent post reminded me of a song from my college days. “I’m Reading a Book” seemed funny at the time, but now it’s a painful reminder of how irritating it is to be interrupted while reading. (Maybe I should write another Hulk rant.)

I read on break at work, and a coworker has tried to start conversations on inane subjects while, y’know, I’m clearly reading a book. Once or twice, my coworker has entered the room, seen an open book in front of me, and apparently told herself, “Oh, Adam is reading a book! That is obviously an unspoken permission for me to chatter at him for the next ten minutes.”

I don’t want to join a conversation when I’m reading a book. As friend of mine pointed out, when I’m reading a book, I’m already having a conversation. It’s rude to interrupt.

I’m beginning to think I should wear a “DO NOT DISTURB” sign around my neck when I read on break. At the very least, I should look grumpy. (I’m getting pretty good at grouchy expressions; you should see my Power Scowl.) I’ll work on it.

They Have Their Exits

Posted on December 2, 2015 by Adam Stück

A Tragedy

Hector Cage sat alone in a padded room. “Shut up,” he growled, clamping his hands over his ears. “Shut up!” He closed his eyes and ground his teeth together.

“If I hear one more word—one more word—I’m going to scream,” he said.

He screamed.

The door opened. Dr. Lopez stepped into the room to find his patient howling at the ceiling. “Hector!” he said sharply. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve told you and told you and told you, but you won’t listen!”

Dr. Lopez knelt next to the insane man.

“I’m not insane!” screamed Hector, scrambling away from the psychiatrist.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t. He did.”

The psychiatrist frowned. Hector was getting worse.

The madman giggled hysterically. “Of course I’m getting worse. Weeks in a padded room will do that to anybody. You try living here and see how you like it.”

Dr. Lopez extracted some coins, a pen, and a ring of keys from his pants pocket. After placing the pen behind his ear, he stuffed the rest back into his pocket and searched his coat for a notebook. He found one wedged behind his phone, and carefully fished it out.

Hector had not taken his hands from his eyes.

“You think I’m crazy,” he babbled, “but I can prove the Narrator exists. He said what you have in your pockets. Coins and keys, in your pants pocket. I didn’t look. I swear. He told me.”

Dr. Lopez shrugged. “Nobody said anything, Hector,” he said, speaking in the gentle, condescending tone usually reserved for children. “Are you sure you weren’t peeking through your fingers?”

“Phone,” murmured Hector. “In your coat pocket. I didn’t see it. You never took it out.”

The psychiatrist raised his eyebrows. “You’re a good guesser, Hector. I’m impressed.”

“Didn’t guess,” insisted Hector, shaking his head violently. “Narrator said it was there in your pocket.”

“So the Narrator talks to you,” said Dr. Lopez, taking the pen from behind his ear. He opened the notebook to a blank sheet.

“Not to me,” said Hector. “He narrates the story.”

“What story?”

“This story. The story in which we’re characters. I hear him narrating.”

“That reminds me of Shakespeare,” said Dr. Lopez, trying to change the subject. “Shakespeare wrote, ‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.’ Tell me, Hector, have you ever read Shakespeare?”

The psychiatrist disliked Shakespeare, but wanted to steer conversation toward a neutral subject. The patient’s delusions were upsetting him. Hector needed to calm down.

“I do not,” said Hector, sulking. “I have every reason to be upset. Changing the subject won’t change that.”

Dr. Lopez felt an uncomfortable tightness in his chest. Damned heart problems. Why did Hector insist on being so difficult? To keep himself calm, the psychiatrist began sketching in his notebook. A butterfly was the most peaceful thing he could think of. Very slowly and deliberately, he drew a blue morpho in a corner of his notepaper.

“Very slowly and deliberately,” intoned Hector, whose eyes were still shut, “you drew a blue morpho in a corner of your notepaper. The heck is a blue morpho? Some kinda butterfly? Whatever it is, you drew it.”

The psychiatrist shuddered. “Another good guess. You’re good at guessing, Hector.”

“Lucky me,” said Hector.

Dr. Lopez fought to keep his temper. “Hector, I’m going to be honest. I don’t feel well today, and I’m not in the mood for games. I want to help you, but you’ve got to help me. You can start by—”

He stopped for breath, and realized how much the pain in his chest had grown.

“We’re just characters in a story,” said Hector. “You know it, don’t you? I think you just don’t want our story to end. You know that when it does, we won’t exist anymore, except in the memory of the reader.”

Breathing deeply, Dr. Lopez forced himself to calm down. “That’s an interesting idea, Hector, but I don’t believe it’s true.”

“Of course,” mused his patient, “our quaint little story might be a tragedy. It sure isn’t a comedy—hell, do you feel like laughing? Today’s parable might end in our deaths. Even if it doesn’t, we’ll end when it does. We’re screwed either way. The Author will get bored with us, make some new characters, get bored with them, and continue the morbid cycle of creation and abandonment, like a god with ADHD.”

The psychiatrist began to write with short, jerky strokes. The pain in his chest refused to go away.

“Tell me, Hector, what’s the difference between the Author and the Narrator?”

“They’re the same,” said Hector, as if explaining to a toddler that two and two made four. “Use your head, won’t you? Use it while you still can.”

Holding the notebook out of Hector’s sight, Dr. Lopez scribbled the date and the following words:

Patient: Hector Cage. Condition worsening. Still hearing voices. Metafictional delusion persists. Morbidly preoccupied with death and nonexistence—experiencing suicidal ideation? Keep on self-harm watch in Personal Safety Room. Probable diagnoses: depression, schizophrenia

“I do not have schizophrenia!” yelled Hector. “You’ve locked up the only sane man on Earth, and schizophrenia is your best diagnosis? And you think I’m crazy!” He pounded the wall with his fist, and then threw himself on the floor: a shattered wreck.

“I’m not a shattered wreck,” he sobbed to the ceiling.

Dr. Lopez took a few deep breaths. He felt very sick. “Listen, Hector,” he said as gently as he could. “You and I, we’re going to work through this. We’re going to—to—”

He stopped. The pain in his chest had spiked. He fought to breathe, and felt himself blacking out.

Hector sat up. “I guess this is a tragedy,” he said, suddenly calm. “Rough luck.”

Dr. Lopez crumpled to the floor.

Hector stood, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’ll get someone,” he sniffled. “Not that it matters.” He stumbled to the door and shouted for help. A nurse came running, and gasped at the sight of the psychiatrist sprawled over the padded floor.

“What did you do?!” she demanded.

“I told the truth,” said Hector. “Better call some help, hadn’t you? There’s a phone in his coat pocket.”

With that, he took off down the hallway.

Ten minutes later, Dr. Lopez was on his way to the emergency room. Nurses and aides gathered in the hallway, chattering with the euphoria of tragedy averted. “You’re a hero, Liz!” cried an assistant, hugging the nurse who called the ambulance. “You saved his life! Dr. Lopez would have died if you hadn’t found him in time.”

“His patient yelled for help,” said the nurse. “The guy ran off in the hubbub. They’re looking for him now, but I kinda hope he gets away. He saved Dr. Lopez—how bad can the guy be?”

“Not so bad, I guess,” replied Hector Cage from beneath a pine tree half a mile down the road. He sat in tall grass, breathing heavily, chewing a clover blossom, and looking up at the big blue sky.

“It’s funny how the madmen are the ones with a grip on reality,” he said. “Poor old Noah and Socrates and Jesus, and all those Minor Prophets. All crazy. Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’m alive and free, free, free as a bird. No more padded rooms. Just I and the sky and the world at my fingertips.”

Hector spat out his clover, wiped his eyes, and closed them in tired resignation.

“Such a pity I won’t get to enjoy it.”

Author’s Note:

I wrote this one back in college, around five years ago. Those days are a brightly-colored blur. I don’t remember much about this story—I don’t remember much of anything, really—but I recall pondering the idea that a totally self-aware fictional character would probably be locked up as a lunatic.

Think about it. If your neighbor or coworker told you we were all just characters in someone’s story, would you believe her? I wouldn’t. In fact, I’d nope out of there as quickly as possible, and avoid all eye contact with that person in future.

I rescued this story from my personal archive: a dismal place, littered with false starts and abandoned ideas from high school and college. This story seemed salvageable, so I updated and edited it, because recycling is good for the environment. Planet Earth is the only one we’ve got, after all.

386. Marching Home

Posted on September 11, 2015 by Adam Stück

TMTF will be taking a one-week break. The blog shall return on September 21.

A dear friend of mine recently passed away. I’ve mentioned him before on this blog, calling him Socrates, but today I’m going to call him Nick. His friends and family are devastated by his death, and I’m dealing with it in exactly the same way I deal with a lot of things—by writing about it.

I mentioned Nick in TMTF’s very first post; he was the friend who pretended to rip out and eat my still-beating heart every time we worked together. Nick and I met a few years before I started this blog. I was on a bus to Chicago when Nick, who was sitting in the seat behind mine, got my attention and said, “Okay, this is kind of a random question, but have you heard of a show called Avatar: The Last Airbender?”

Nick and I were friends from that day onward.

I was starting my first semester at Bethel College in Indiana, and had just begun the nightmarish chapter I call my Thursday Afternoon of the Soul. It was about a year and a half of deep depression. That was a dark time, but there were flickers of light, and some of the brightest were the nights I spent watching Avatar: The Last Airbender with Nick and another dear friend, whom I’ll call Socrates. (I have to call someone Socrates.)

Although Nick and I had seen the show, Socrates had not. Nick and I took it upon ourselves to introduce Socrates to the epic adventure and captivating world of Avatar: The Last Airbender. (Seriously. If you haven’t already seen the show, you should. It’s a good one.) Starting at the beginning of our freshman year and ending on its final day, we watched the entire series together, averaging a couple of episodes every week.

It may sound silly or trivial, but those nights were gulps of sweet, fresh air in a year spent drowning in depression, anxiety, and loneliness. My best memories of that year are of those nights, which I called Avatar Evenings. Between episodes of the show, we munched junk food, discussed life, and laughed.

Nick, Socrates, and I hardly knew each other when we began watching the show. When we finished it, we were good friends.

Nick, here pictured choking Socrates. Good times.

Life went on. Our friendship endured through our college years. Nick, Socrates, and I were housemates for nearly as long as we attended college. We watched a couple of Pixar movies in theaters, and suffered through M. Night Shyamalan’s wretched film adaptation of Avatar: The Last Airbender. (It was really bad; we left the theater laughing at its awfulness.) It was only in our final year that we began to drift apart.

I sporadically kept in touch with Nick. In fact, he suggested the book I’m currently reading; I won’t be able to pick it up again without thinking of him. We remained fans of Avatar: The Last Airbender. Our final conversation a few weeks ago was a short series of Facebook messages about the show’s sequel series.

Earlier this week, the news reached me that a health complication had taken Nick’s life.

Nick suffered from depression and existential anxiety, and in later life, from medical problems. Through all of it, he never gave up. He was honest, creative, and compassionate. I’m glad we were friends.

At the moment, I find myself even more thankful than usual for the dear friends God has given me. For all of my friends who are reading this, I have this to say: Thank you for being my friend. I wish I had told Nick how much I loved, admired, and appreciated him. I wish it were easier for me to say how much I love, admire, and appreciate every one of you.

On a less sentimental note, I will be taking a one-week break from this blog. My transition toward becoming a CNA at work has been stressful and a bit rough. I could use a little extra time to catch up with other things. Finally, after the tragic news about Nick, I’m not sure I have the heart right now for this blog’s usual geeky nonsense. TMTF shall return on September 21. There will be no posts until then.

I conclude with a song. No, really. It’s an odd, geeky way to say goodbye to a friend, but I think Nick would have approved.

There was a scene in Avatar: The Last Airbender that Nick and I loved, and discussed at length. It’s my favorite moment in the series. I’m not sure I shall ever be able to watch it again without remembering Nick and Socrates and our Avatar Evenings.

In this scene, a wise old man named Iroh bustles around town gathering items for a picnic. Everywhere he goes, he helps someone. When he sees a flower wilting, Iroh gives its owner advice on how to make it bloom. When a thug tries to rob him, Iroh disarms the man, makes him tea, and eventually convinces him to find a legitimate job.

And when Iroh passes a crying child, he calms the little one with a lullaby.

At the end of the day, Iroh sets up his picnic… as a memorial for his son, who died long before. “Happy birthday, my son,” says Iroh tearfully. “If only I could have helped you.”

Then Iroh sings that lullaby again. It was at this point, when we watched the series, that Nick and I held back tears of our own.

In much the same way Iroh brightened the lives of others, Nick brightened mine.

God rest your soul, Nick.

Leaves from the vine

Falling so slow

Like fragile, tiny shells

Drifting in the foam

Little soldier boy

Come marching home

Brave soldier boy

Comes marching home

346. Sandwiches

Posted on March 13, 2015 by Adam Stück