Winding down the year, changing up The Thread, and a story called Fred

Hi there! In case you’re confused, it is not Wednesday. It is Friday. But this week I’ve given up knowing what day it is anyway, and yet here we still are, whenever it is. Here’s a quick year-end digest, wrap-up, announcements, a mea culpa, and a new lil’ story at the end, all wrapped into one email and in no particular order:

• I’ve been writing The Thread for nearly three and a half years and I’ve managed to mostly keep up with a weekly email (with a few breaks here and there). I’ve been grateful for the rhythm but increasingly aware that I can’t keep up the pace. Beginning in 2024 I’ll make the shift to sending the Thread monthly instead of weekly. Thanks for reading, and I hope you stick around here for 2024!

• This weekend is your last chance to purchase a Thresholds print from my spring collaboration with Elaine Buss. Visit my website and find a print that would look good on one of your walls! They’re on sale until New Year’s Eve.

• Because I love a good “Best of 2023” list but don’t have a ton of time to overthink rankings and whatnot, here’s a haphazard list of some of the books and music that I loved this year. Tell me if you enjoyed any of these, and let me know if you have recommendations for 2024!

  • Books: Carlo Rovelli’s The Order of Time / Chuck Klosterman’s The Nineties / Lydia Davis’ Essays / Virginia Tufte’s Artful Sentences: Syntax as Style / Rick Rubin’s The Creative Act: A Way of Being / Lucinda Williams’ Don’t Tell Anybody The Secrets I Told You / Steven Millhauser’s Enchanted Night / Clare Dederer’s Monsters / Elaine Scarry’s On Beauty and Being Just / Steven Millhauser’s Martin Dressler / David Bohm’s On Dialogue / William Maxwell’s So Long, See You Tomorrow / Michael Lewis’ Home Game

  • Music: Zach Bryan / Maggie Rogers / Joy Oladokun / Sylvan Esso / boygenius / Leif Vollebekk / Gregory Alan Isakov / The Freedom Affair / Noah Kahan / Lucinda Williams / Moby / The Swallowtails

• I made some big promises and declarations with my lil’ Taylor Swift experiment email, now didn’t I? I appreciate those of you who reached out to say you tried the experiment for yourself. I remain bothered by the ubiquity of a single pop star across all realms of culture right now, and I still want to draw attention to how . . . you know . . . attention falters and wobbles and scrambles for better paths. I still am considering ways I might resist such forced ubiquity and shift focus to cultivate a wider, richer, more colorful garden of music and art in the coming year. But also, after dropping fifty bucks in the jar in two days, I knew that I’d made a terrible mistake, especially considering the fact that I do not bring into our household much of what we might call “income,” whereas my lovely wife who does bring home the bacon is a hugely big time Taylor Swift fan and did not quite see the humor in me conducting quantitative research on her dime. Long story short, things got awkward around here for a bit. BUT I swallowed my pride and did the right thing by ceasing and desisting dropping the dollars in the jar and using some of that money instead to gift my ten-year-old ukulele-playing son a Taylor Swift ukulele songbook for Christmas. If Taylor Swift is going to be a consistent presence in my home, at least it can be in service of my kid’s musical development on an instrument that is not a trumpet.

• In case you missed Closure Is Not Justice when it was installed at Vulpes Bastille in September, don’t worry! You’ll have the chance to visit the multimedia exhibition when it’s installed and featured at Avila University’s Thornhill Gallery January 8th through March 21st as part of the Center for Truth, Racial Healing, and Social Justice’s spring art show. I’ll share more in January, including details for the opening reception on Thursday, January 18th.

• Lastly (butly notly leastly), to round out the year, here’s a short story I’ve titled “Fred.” Enjoy.

  ---

  Fred. It’s neither a thought nor a feeling, not so much an idea nor an instinct: this inner sensation I get that tells me I'm not getting everything done, that there’s always more to do, that I've not done enough this year, that I cannot rest, not yet anyway. It lives at neither of these two false poles we call Think and Feel, though it does reside somewhere in between. It does have external influences but it does not live somewhere "out there," like so many of my other convenient blame-ables. 
  
  Nor is it an it. It is actually a he. His name is Fred. Fred has taken up residence in a small cabin on my upper-right ribcage, fourth row from top rib, cabin number six. 
  
  Fred is an asshole. He parks his Harley on the sidewalk outside his front door and revs the engine at two a.m. while I'm trying to sleep. Fred keeps two German Shepherds in an outdoor pen built for a pug, and they bark day and night because they are in desperate need of a walk and some water and some love. But Fred just yells through his open window, “Shut UP you dumb ASS hole DOGS!” 
  
  Most of the year I tolerate Fred. I can’t completely ignore Fred. He’s always just there, making so much noise. But every now and then, there’s a day (and today is one of them) when all I want to do is settle down, get cozy, grow still, make a silence of everything. That’s all I want in the world, if only for a day or two. It’s not so much that I’ve earned it, but I remember that I deserve it anyway, such a deep peace. And once I’ve finally found the source of this calm within me (because of course it's still in there and never leaves), that’s the precise moment when the dogs start barking and the motorcycle is revving all at once, and somehow Fred’s yelling rises above it all. The German Shepherds escape the pin, Fred screams in fear, they bark and chase him, he does donuts on the Harley in the middle of the street while screaming louder, the angry dogs run in circles chasing Fred, all of this ruckus taking place on my own rib. 
  
  It’s then that I realize that this asshole is not the typical neighbor, the one whom I am called to love as if myself he be. No, he has crossed my boundaries, colonized my being to build his abode. He has barged his way into my ribcage. He’s a squatter attempting adverse possession of my soul. He’s overstayed his welcome. 
  
  Of course I've never expected a life free of disturbance and disruption. Of course I've learned to accept that the world does not heel to my unrealistic expectations,  or at least I am aware that I am in the process of accepting such tragic news. In fact, truth me told, sometimes it's the disruptions that bring the spice into life, it's the disturbances that keep me surprised, on my toes, and mostly laughing about it all. It's even possible that it's the usual daily disturbances and disruptions that make the peace I seek all worth the while.
  
  But Fred is different. Fred is not mere disturbance or disruption. Fred bears down on my bones and screams and pesters of all the scarcities he wants me to believe in. Fred is an asshole.
  
  So I am not wrong to issue an eviction notice. I am not wrong to want him gone. I am not wrong to stand up, take a deep breath, rattle my clenched fists until the tremors of my bones become an earthquake across my upper-right ribcage, fourth row from the top, and rattle the cabin to pieces. I am not wrong to scream, “ENOUGH! Shut the fuck up, FRED, and get the hell out of here!” Fred only responds to such displays of strength — my strength. 
  
  Fred hears my outburst. He halts the Harley and stops screaming. The dogs stop chasing, sit down in the middle of Rib Road, perk up their ears in my direction, and angle their slender noggins. It's then that Fred looks at his dogs, his cabin, his Harley, the black tire-mark circles in the street, and concedes the absurdity of his existence. "Oh fine. FINE!" 
  
  He parks the Harley, takes his dogs gently by the collar, slunks up his porch stairs, goes inside, shuts the front door, and disappears. 
  
  He is not a feeling. He is not a thought. He is not even real. But he and his obnoxious voice somehow find new ways to exist until I remember how to deal with him once again. Sure, I've tried prayer and meditation. They are worthy of practice for many reasons, but when it comes to eradicating Fred and his aims, they are futile. Fred just thinks it's hysterical. It only eggs him on. Asshole.
  
  No. I know by now that telling Fred to shut the fuck up so I can get some rest is the only way to get Fred to shut the fuck up so I can get some rest. It’s the only way, and always ever shall be for me, world without end. Enough is enough. Shut the fuck up, Fred. Ahhhh. Yes. Enough. Amen.