Did I ever mention I have a podcast?

 Hello, bloglings! (Ugh, off to a terrible start...)

I apologize for not posting much content here as of late. I've been focusing much of my creative energy on writing, producing, and editing a podcast, called Jimmy Spins a Yarn.

The podcast is hosted by my dad, Jimmy. The show features him telling stories from throughout his life, along with scattered comedic (and emotional) bits, along with sound effects and music. 

Also, I occasionally make a cameo, if that sounds enticing.

Jimmy Spins a Yarn can be found on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, and most of the other major places where podcasts frolic.

(Our most recent holiday episode can also be found here if you want a link that's quick and convenient.)

Happy listening and happy holidays! (if you're into that sort of thing.)

She Waits

On Halloween night, while you were trick-or-treating and merrymaking with friends and family, She watched you in silence.

You kept a lookout for Her in every darkened corner, but She was already ten steps ahead.

You heard whispers that She has a billion eyes under every bed and in every closet; Her maw is filled with jagged rows of razor-sharp teeth.

Her howl is a primal curse bellowed from the deepest pits of eternity.

When the clock struck midnight on All Hallows’ Eve, you sighed in relief as you removed the talismans of protection you bought from that cloaked stranger in a smoke-filled tavern.

But the stranger neglected to warn you: Her power doesn’t diminish beyond the borders of Halloween.

No. Her multi-tentacled silhouette is at its most dangerous during the darkest months and in the coldest shadows.

All of Her previous victims have been long devoured. Yours is the final soul inscribed upon Her ancient tongues.

Be wary, and keep your loved ones close. 

Because now, all She wants for Christmas...

...is you.

Birthday Gratitudes

On Tuesday, July 4, 1978, my exceedingly pregnant mother was attending a festive family cookout by the lake.

In a case of hilariously bad timing, just as she was getting settled into the lake’s warm and comfortable water—hers broke.

Apparently, in what would be the first of many terrible decisions I’ve made throughout my life, I decided to make my grand debut a week ahead of schedule.

I’ve always had a suspicion that at this moment Dad looked forlornly down at his freshly assembled plate of potato salad and bellowed a curse that would make a hardened pirate politely suggest he “tone it down,” but this is mere speculation on my part.

It was a full moon, so the hospital was full of women in labor. Only one doctor was on duty due to it being a holiday, so he gave Mom something to make her delay the painful inconvenience of my impending premier, and thus I missed sharing a birthday with the Declaration of Independence by a mere 33 minutes.

On Wednesday, July 5th, 2023, a slightly older me reflects on how blessed, amazing, and surprising life has been so far. Although I’m still trying to figure out exactly what I’m supposed to “be” in this life, I am beginning to suspect maybe that isn’t really the point of the journey. If we’re lucky, we get to “be” many different things to many different people along the way. We get to “be” many different versions of ourselves.

I like to think am a better version of myself today because of the souls I’ve encountered throughout the years. I’ve learned more from each of you than you know; I am eternally grateful for the chance to continue to evolve and grow.

Empathy, turns out, teaches the greatest lessons of all.

It is an honor to take this journey with all of you.

Incidentally, I think I still owe Dad a potato salad.

Ambient Horror: A Short Story

Despite centuries of genetic encoding telling me I should be afraid of the dark—or rather, of that which dwells in shadowy spaces—I am nevertheless drawn to it.

I have always been wired a little backward. I prefer chilled days over warm; clouded skies over sunny.

I have no explanation for this. I’m just weird.

A favorite form of exercise is going for night walks at the local park. Bathed in the glow of stuttering street lamps and an ever-vigilant Luna, my pace quickens as I listen to the spookiest playlists Spotify can muster.

This is the spell that brings the darkness to life.

Peripheral signposts morph into humanoid shapes. Shadows stare with lidless eyes.

Wooden branches grasp in the darkness; in protection, or in warning? They seem to send two conflicting messages, neither reassuring: “𝐶𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑢𝑠” and “𝑌𝑜𝑢’𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒.”

The gooseflesh rises along with my heartbeat.

I am not alone in this place.

I am never alone.

I can hear them whispering.

The Unknown becomes a tangible thing. It waits for me—it waits for you—in spaces eyes cannot see.

The music plays on, weaving its ancient magic upon my soul. I hasten my steps.

I hear them getting closer.

I feel breath on the back of my neck—the prelude to an eternal embrace, but not one from a lover.

Colder.

Darker.

Filled with teeth.

“This is all in my head,” I explain to the night. Remember, I came here for this feeling. My pounding heart reminds me that I am alive.

A quick glance behind confirms what I already know. See? Merely shadows and wind, up to their usual tricks.

“I am perfectly safe.” I laugh to myself as I change the playlist to more upbeat offerings.

I pass beneath a shadow.

The Unknowable smiles.

Another Awesome Thing About Fan Cons

I posted the following to my Facebook page at the conclusion of my first day at Nashville's Comicon. 

Here’s something I love about fan cons: everyone smiles at you. I’m not just talking about vendors who are trying to sell you stuff, either. I mean EVERYONE. People seem genuinely happy that you’re sharing this space, this culture, this moment with them.  (For example, there was a panel dedicated entirely to cosplay positivity and how to encourage your peers.)

It may seem like a distant memory now, but the celebration of modern geek culture is relatively new. Back in the ages of yore, when I was a wee whippersnapper, “being a geek” was equated with being neither “popular” nor “cool.” If you were a guy who was into Dungeons & Dragons instead of, say, sports (or anything else requiring lots of violence and grunting), you were often verbally harassed...or worse.

But the times, baby, they have been a-changin’! Thanks largely to social media and the open and free exchange of ideas, acceptance of our inner geek flags has been widely embraced—even celebrated.

Most of us are introverts. We suffer from imposter syndrome and low self-esteem. We've been bullied. We've been told we were somehow less than others because we dared to love a fictional universe and the characters within.

But now, most of us have grown into empathetic adults who celebrate and encourage one another, because we have that shared experience in common.

It is a culture that transcends race and gender and religion and sexual identify. You're a geek? Cool! I dig your tshirt!

So we smile at each other. Most of us have never met, and will likely never cross paths again, but in this shared moment, we are family.

#nashvillecomicon

The Mop, Flopped

 I’ve gotta be honest with you: I hate the fairy tale cliché of “and they lived happily ever after.”

Really? Did they, though?

Sure, the dragon was slain and the destined king or queen anointed, but you’re telling me the royal couple never had a single fight over the kingdom’s finances? Never once got mad at their partner for forcing them to attend the prince’s royal PTA meetings? Never got sick, worried about retirement, or lost a close friend?

Okay, bad example. Most of us aren’t royalty. (At least, that we know of. I’m still optimistic.)

This is one reason I love Stephen King’s novels. When I was younger and more naive, I used to say he was a great spinner of yarns, but terrible at ending his tales. As I’ve gotten older, I understand that no, you don’t always defeat the monster. Not every mystery is explained. Sometimes, all you can do is survive—the story ends, the reader moves on to another selection, but your scars endure.

Trauma continues beyond the story’s end.

Now, if you'll indulge me, I’d like to talk briefly about Star Trek. (Minor spoilers for this season of Picard in the following paragraph.) Although we spent several years in the 90s watching Seven of Nine regain her humanity on Voyager, this week we learned that—despite Janeway putting her own career on the line on behalf of her friend—Seven was never accepted into Starfleet. She has been dealing with distrust and discrimination over her history with the Borg ever since her return. Voyager found its way home, everyone cheered, the credits rolled, and…

…it was not happily ever after after all. 

Some Trek purists have been angry at the show, complaining (among other things) that the characters aren’t the ones they remember. 

Remember the outcry over Luke Skywalker? He helped his father defeat the Emperor; he was a hero, for Force’s sake! True, but then he endured failure after failure: rejection by his first student, his own nephew turning to the dark side, a loss of faith in the Jedi teachings themselves.

He was never any less a hero for all of that, but he was still an imperfect person doing his best. His story went on, and it wasn’t always smooth sailing. 

While we’re talking about bothersome story tropes, another is “character overcomes extreme adversity to achieve Particular Thing, then magically never has any difficulty with Particular Thing ever again for the rest of their days.” (I can’t tell you how many tests I studied hard for back in the day that I couldn’t pass now to save my life, but I digress.)

Yes, characters are fictional, to be done with as the writer pleases. Sure, we can say that everything was perfectly hunky-dory from that moment on and call it a day. All was happiness and rainbows and adorable unicorn-kitten hybrids, forever. Aww.

But if fairy tales are lessons to reflect life, it isn’t fair to the audience—whether it’s children or adults—to lie to them.

Life is neither good nor bad; it is how one perceives one’s own existence that offers the ultimate—admittedly biased—judgment on the matter. You and I will struggle and will continue to struggle our entire lives. We’ll make plenty of mistakes; don’t worry about that. (It is best to own up to them, forgive yourself and/or others, and move on.)

When I was growing up, mom had a saying: “That’s how the mop flops.” At the time, I had no idea how much wisdom a mop (or the gravitational pull of Earth upon said cleaning accessory) had to teach me.

Life: It’s harsh and glorious and painful and rewarding and will always be as long as there is a story to tell.

Ah, but what a story!

We will always be retrieving flopped mops. Them’s the facts. The best we can hope for, really, is that at least our mops will be interesting.

Wishing My Sister a Happy Birthday

Here it is, right on time, two weeks after mom’s: Happy heavenly birthday Steph.

It has been an emotionally exhausting couple of weeks, so please forgive my lack of poetics for the occasion. The proverbial tank, as they say, is empty. Don’t let the recent social media jokes fool you—I am operating on mental and spiritual fumes. My gratitude goes out to everyone keeping me operational of late. (Just ignore all of those warning lights on the main panel. They’ll go away eventually. After all, emotional suppression is the American way! USA! USA!)

Eh...fuck it.

There’s a hollowness in the pit of my stomach that gets hollower sometimes, and today is such an occasion. It’s like stepping off that last step, only to discover the floor is several feet from where you expect it to be.

If you’re lucky, you’ll merely stumble, and you can play it off all cool like you meant to do it.

Then...there’s the other times. The full-on, flat on your back, glasses in the mud, breath-knocked-out-of-you whoopsie daisy.

It takes several minutes before you can breathe again and everything hurts like hell.

You know a life was well and truly lived when it is missed so many years later. I know many of you feel that loss, too. (If I manage to live up to even a fraction of that love, I know I’ll have lived an amazing life.)

But I selfishly wish hers wasn’t missed at all. I’d rather she be a text or call away. Better yet, an afternoon visit. I can’t help but feel like this is the “dark” version of reality. The other world is a brighter place. A joyful land. Song and merriment flow forth like a—

Sorry. We live here instead. That little jolt is grief’s raw essence. It is a reminder of the world you can’t have. Songs here carry weight; they lament pain and loss, but also celebrate triumph and hope and love. (Music must be handled carefully, as it is one of the most potent forms of magic.)

Life. Has. Meaning. That’s it; that’s the lesson. It goes above political infighting or corporate greed or petty differences. We should embrace every living moment—and each other—every chance we get, without exception.

Because your next breath? It isn’t guaranteed.

I never imagined life without a sister. I took that for granted, even while she was fighting cancer. I assumed it would turn out to be a notable-yet-triumphant chapter in the ’ole Graves Family Autobiography.

Aren’t the heroes supposed to win? Oh, if only that were so.

Fortunately, we were raised with an abundance of love. The regrets are few, and I know she forgives me. Her presence is always around even when it’s not her birthday.

It isn’t the same, of course. But love is such an amazing power that it can’t be dimmed by something as trivial as mortality.

That, friends, is reason enough to celebrate.