Broken things

A fan with no power cord, a bike missing wheels, a broken clock, a piece of copper screen, an old guitar amp. Broken things I’ve given a home.

I like to fix things, I collect them here and there. I can do it easily and well, though sometimes things look different when I’m done, maybe the function is changed, sometimes I just clean them up change a few things and leave them broken, liking them better that way.

You can’t do that with people, fix them that easily. People are not machines, and sometimes they are broken for a reason, something that’s not fixable. But broken is it’s own beauty, like in the machine I leave broken.

I have an antique clock that worked for nearly 70 years, then it was carelessly broken by my house painter, he pulled it off the wall and broke the tiny wire that connected the power cord to the clockworks motor, I set it aside to fix, first carefully collecting all the separate pieces storing them in a little bag that I put inside the wall clock itself and hung it back up on the wall, meaning to come back later to do the intricate repair. The clock stayed there for over a year reading 11:01, and whenever I would look at it I would say to myself, it’s only just past the 11th hour.

In movies or books, often they leave the plot resolution to just past the 11th hour. It’s then that all hope seems lost, yet if they try harder, magic always happens to save the day.

The clock, always at the eleventh hour, reminds me to not waste time but instead to keep at it and let the magic happen.

Today I decided that it’s fine broken, and if I ever get around to fixing it, I’ll have saved the day, in the eleventh hour.

Maybe I’ll have my shit together (or as my dad used to say ‘in one sock’ which always made me think, why would I put it in a sock at all?) and will not need the constant reminder that it’s always the eleventh hour in someone’s life.

Until then it helps to look and think that magic is waiting to happen, just in time.

One minute past 11

©The autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2018

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Dear readers

Lots of thoughts in my head today, but I’m fine, the news of Anthony Bourdain’s passing has made me think. I didn’t know him, but admired his lust for life, at least as he showed the world on his shows. We never truly know what others are feeling. But, to those who know and love me, don’t worry, today’s posts were started earlier this year and late last year when I was a little blue, I’m not sitting here planning to check out. I’ll save that for fate’s Hand.

Ciao, and have a beauty filled life.


©The autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2018

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I saw a whale today

Looking for the green flash

I saw a whale today, the spout gave it away.

I was looking out over the pacific in Carlsbad, California.  Sitting there waiting for the mythical ‘green flash’ when out of the corner of my eye I saw a spout of steamy water blowing up from the surface of the ocean between me and the horizon. Catching my attention the spout drew my eye to the area and was rewarded by the back of a grey whale broaching the surface to bring in a breath before it disappeared below the depths.

Feeling lucky I turned to you to say look! A whale! But of course you weren’t there.  Instead you were on the other coast.  So tied to you at that moment I felt lost, but still greatful that I could function and see wonder in a dead (to me) world.

I miss you terribly, nearly so much that I can barely function, but yet I do. The human machine is very resilient, I think that the only thing that keeps me going is the fact that I’ll see you again. Else, I’d just assume it end, what’s the point?

The point is that I love you and can’t imagine disappointing you, that’s enough to keep me going until I see you again, if only to tell you the wonderful things I saw and did since last we touched.

I saw a whale today, and it made me go on, that’s a good day.

©The autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2018

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Beauty is for life

Rainy day in Birmingham

Beauty is not just a pretty face, it is a biological imperative, primal man learned that beauty helped to survive.  Studies show that most people see a painting of a savannah with high ground and a hint of water as beautiful.   The study says that this painting shows all the things that primordial man needed to survive.  Beauty became a way for our brains to see the safe path.  Furthermore we valued beauty, so most of us see beauty in things we value and protect, that is why we see children and spouses as beauty, it keeps us from just eating them I suppose.

Today, we often find beauty in strange places, but I thinks that at some level it is all tied to things we love, we see them as beautiful so we save them and cherish them, and not devoure them.  To that end children, spouses and true lovers become beautiful beyond measure. And don’t we need our children and the great loves of our lives to live?

I worry about people who are so sad or depressed or sick that they can no longer see and appreciate the beauty around them. Maybe that’s part of the reason some take their own lives, it’s easy to see that a life without beauty could be not that valued.

After the recent news about the increase in rates of suicide, I resolve to stop and see the beauty around me, to really see it in all its forms because some days that may be the only reason I have for living. You should too…and don’t forget to look in the mirror to see beauty there as well.

Rest In Peace my friends who have taken that terrible choice, I know that your suffering is ended, ours is to cry, grieve, endure and remember.

©The autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2018

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Catch me

Do you know when you hear a quiet noise, you stop holding your breath,. listening deeply – Maybe it’s just the refrigerator.

Lately, I’ve caught myself pausing holding my breath wondering what is it that I’m trying to hear. It’s not like there’s not a lot of stuff going on in my life right now there is, and it consumes me.

But sometimes I think it’s my life calling out to me, speaking ever so softly.

I’m getting ready to sell my house and the thought of what comes after scares me. Do I move downtown? Will everything be OK? Will it be a disaster? Will I be happy.

I remember back to the days as a child, with every new thing was exciting you. You could jump off a ledge hollering ‘catch me’ to your father without out fear that he would be there.  Long gone are those childhood days, long gone as my father. I miss him in times like this.

To just jump and know that I’ll be caught by the life that awaits, that would be nice.

© The autobiography of Mr. perfect, 2017, 2018

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Outside of Time

The Rodin Museum, Philadelphia

Talking to you on the phone, hearing tears in your voice, you tell me of your crappy day, it pulls at my heart and I wish the physics of the world would allow me to move through the airwaves to your side, and allow me to dry your tears with my cotton hanky, and kiss your quivering lips, smooth your hair back from your brow.  Look into your lovely eyes and tell you that all will be okay.

Knowing that you needed time, time to heal, time to recover, time that didn’t exist, I wished for a place out of time that we could slip sideways quietly, just for a blink of an eye, returning just as quickly, no one the wiser.

In that place out of time, that sideways world, we would be on the beach, where you would slip out of your clothes, to feel the sun on our skin as I calmed your heart and mind, allowed you to rage and cry then relax on my chest as you slept for a time in the gentle warm sunlight on that sideways world beach.

In our place out of time I would care for you gently, smoothing the wrinkles from your brow, kissing away the cares of the other place, snuggling next to me we would eat fruit and drink sweet water and fine spirits, as the sun went low, make beautiful love, that carried us both away from all the cares of that other world.

In our place out of time I would sleep next to you and we would wake refreshed and alive in the moment, relishing the morning dew and twinkle of sun on the calm ocean, eating breakfast we would talk about nothing of import, nothing of that other world, just our love of things we share.

In our place out of time we would gently say goodbye until we would see each other again and prepare ourselves gently for the other place in time and then with sweet kisses on each of your eyes, we would slip quietly back to the real world with newfound resolve and strength, and I would slip back to my phone to my body.

With a sigh, back in my own space, I listen as your tears slowly returned back to that place behind your eyes. You are less sad but still miss me as I miss you, we say I love you, and finally you are ready to let me go with the promise that we would soon see each other again, for real this time.

As I disconnect I think, if only…

©The autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2018.

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And finally….

Teotihuacan, Mexico – Sun Pyramid

It is a day just like all the rest, no different than any other.  I keep telling myself that, and mostly I believe it.  It seems to last longer than most, but not so much anymore, not like in the beginning when it was new.  Then it could last for weeks, the day that never ended, but now it is just longer.  But somehow I know that it will eventually hit me, the tears.

Tonight I went to dinner with co-workers, people who don’t know my back story, just work aquaintances, it is nice to not have to explain or to see that look in their faces as they think about it.  I hate that part.  But at the same time I feel alone, wanting to have someone know why I’m a little subdued, not joining in on the conversation, looking at my watch to see what time it is.

I got a text at the table from a friend, “Sending you ++++ energy. Xoxo” that was nice.  Later another friend texted “stopped by and had a drink with your son, and the family”.  I know she is within driving distance of the cemetery.  Looking up I hope no one notices that my eyes are watering.  Getting too painful, I get up and excuse myself to go to the restroom where I look at myself in the mirror and see an old sad guy.   When I get  back to the table I made and excuse and headed back to the Hotel.  

Oh, did I mention that I’m at the beach? I have not seen the beach, not in person at least, but I’m here.  That is another tactic that I use, schedule a meeting so that I’m not at home alone on this day.  There is only three days a year that I dwell on this topic, Birthday, death day and Christmas.  I don’t know why Christmas gets special treatment, but it does.  Today is death day. And I know that it will hit me when I’m alone.

finally, back in my room, and the phone rings, it is my middle Son, he is checking up on me. I know he doesn’t have to say anything, but we chat, delaying the moment.  After he gets off, I have a drink, just a small one, think about taking a shower, then hear the rain outside.  

Rain, like tears brings back the memory of that day, 12 years ago, when my world ended as I knew it.  The day I lost one of my sons.  And finally, the tears come… pouring down my face as I sob at the loss, until my ribs ache.  Then as if by magic it is done.  I can go to sleep and tomorrow will be another day, only 118 days until Christmas… Until then, it is just like any other day.

© The autobiography of Mr. perfect, 2017

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