Reading to Write

Every so often, I'll read something so amazing, the words so perfectly crafted, I'm momentarily tempted to surrender all of my writing instruments and never compose another word.

After all, how could I measure up with the likes of [legendary composition/composer]?

But then I'm reminded what any notable Writer will say when asked how one should start writing.

Read. Then, once you've done that, read some more. For dessert, keep right on reading. Embrace a lifelong commitment to the printed word, because it will eternally be your most intimate companion.

I am privileged to exist in a time with unprecedented access to literature; to be able to learn at the feet of masters. (They, you'll be pleased to know, are consummate readers themselves.)

I can't say whether or not I'll be a "successful" Writer. Several of you seem to enjoy my scribblings, so in many ways, it has already been worth the parts of me that have been embedded into ink and pixels.

It is, after all is said and done, what my soul calls me to do...if for no other reason than to experience that electric feeling of creating magic.

The Hero of the Story

During a conversation with friends earlier this evening, I was once again reminded that I'm technically old enough to be a grandfather.

This feels especially odd, given that I don't have kids (critters notwithstanding).

It's also somewhat panic-inducing. 

A part of my day job involves editing and publishing obituaries. I see life after life summarized in two or three glowing paragraphs, detailing lists of amazing accomplishments, and family members left behind.

Because I have depression and think about death a lot, I sometimes try to write my own obituary. And that's where the panic usually sets in—because I have nothing to say. Do I even have a legacy, besides a mastery of sarcasm and an impressive collection of memorized movie quotes? I feel like I peaked twenty years ago, and the time since then has just been one long screw-up-a-palooza.

"He suffered from prolonged bouts of anxiety and depression, so he mostly stayed home, dangling things in front of his cats for entertainment. They ate his body when he died, which cut down on funerary costs and the need to buy more cat food." -My obituary, probably.

<<Side note: Whenever I die, somebody better damn well take care of my critters. I don't care *if* they ate me, you scoop my corpse out of that litter box and you love those FURRY LITTLE ANGELS. End side note.>>

I've come to realize it is human nature to see the worst versions of ourselves. How many times have I written something just to think "this is rubbish" (I think it in a British accent because of Harry Potter), before chucking it in the recycle bin? I've written many pieces I thought were crap, but it made someone cry. Not because of the poor writing quality, but because it moved something in their soul. (Art truly is the best magic.)

I envy people who know who they are, and are themselves with confidence. Most days, I don't even know which t-shirt to wear. I usually default to Star Wars, because those are my cleanest and have the fewest holes. (What about dress shirts, you ask? Who am I, the Pope? Calm down, moneybags.)

My point is, in my more lucid moments, I realize that this is just what being a human is all about. None of us are truly happy; not always, at least. Social media posts aren't the real story, kids. We make what we can with what we've got, and we don't always do the best job at it. I have several friends that I greatly admire that have confided in me that they feel much as I often do: worthless. Like they're failing at this whole "being human" thing. Yet—at least to my point of view—they are a hero, and an inspiration to me. They'd laugh if they knew this, but it's true. It's partly why I'm writing this.

Amanda thinks I'm the bees knees (my words not hers), and that keeps me trucking along most days. Many of you have said truly kind things to me over the years that I didn't deserve, yet greatly appreciated. Don't think I've ever forgotten that kindness, partly because I'm rather obsessive about it, but also because this world could do with a bit more love. As a wise man once sang, it's all you need. If it could pay rent, I'd be GOLDEN.

I know someone, right now, has their own personal demon whispering sweet "you-are-nothings" in their ear. You don't feel like you're doing it right. You feel like you messed up. Trust me, I feel you. Been there, got the t-shirt, and it has holes in it.

However, whether you believe it or not, you're a hero. Or maybe a villain, if you're into that sort of thing. I'm not here to judge; just cheer you on as you pass me wheezing on the side of the road. (Don't mind me.)

Remember this: none of us gets out of this alive, and some of us might get eaten by cats. Maybe we shouldn't take this whole thing quite so seriously?

The Ten Year Void

Imagine you are on a spaceship, far from the protection of a planetary atmosphere. Without warning, the hatch breaches, and all of the breathable atmosphere is blown out into space.

You immediately become aware of two sensations: First, the total absence of sound. Your world has now become a desolate void of permanent silence.

The second sensation is one of suffocation. No matter how hard you try, you are unable to draw breath. Part of you—an essential, important part—has been ripped out of you, leaving behind a painful emptiness that can never be filled.

Such are the sensations when someone you love passes away. A part of your world is gone, and you can no longer hear nor draw breath. The damage, I’m sorry to say, is permanent. (Time does not, in fact, heal all wounds. It scabs over somewhat, but it rips open at the slightest touch, raw as the moment it was first inflicted.)

Ten years ago today, my sister's voice fell permanently silent.

She was more than a mere sibling to me: she was a trusted advisor, a fashion consultant, a mentor, an inspiration, and a friend. I was her little shadow, trailing several steps behind. Her wing always protected me, even if she would have rather I had been born a girl. (She reminded me of that fact often.)

I'm older now than she ever was in life, yet I still feel like a bumbling, baby brother. No matter how long I live, she'll always be older and wiser...and I'll always need her guidance. I regret that she never knew how much I looked up to her while she was alive. But, she knew she was loved, so that brings a small measure of peace to my troubled heart.

It seems impossible to survive ten years in a vacuum, but time has relentlessly marched on. I think of all the things she has missed. I reflect on how things would be different if she were still with us. The world would certainly be a brighter place.

But such things are not ours to comprehend.

We just have to do what we can to honor one life by living ours, even if an essential part is missing.

A Christmas Legacy

As we enter the wee hours of Christmas Eve, my mind can’t help but conjure images of Christmases long past. I mean, they certainly don’t feel so long ago, but alas, calendars don’t lie.

We used to have a family tradition of going to a movie on Christmas Eve. The theater would typically be empty, so it was like getting our own V.I.P. showing of “Home Alone” or “Ernest Saves Something.” We would then go visit my grandmother, who gave my sister and I each one present to open. I can still picture the little Christmas tree with all of its bright colors that sat on a table next to the couch.

Eventually, it was time to go home, and get ready for that famous “You-Know-Who.”

“Oh no, it’s storming! Will Santa and the reindeer be okay?” I remember being worried that particular year, but I also had faith, because nothing in the ‘verse could possibly diminish Santa’s vast stores of magic. Plus, you know, there’s literally an entire song about Rudolph in precisely that very predicament, and it turned out okay, so I wasn’t too worried.

Even thinking about sleep on Christmas Eve was laughable in those days. I recall my sister and I trying to force ourselves to unconsciousness, yet unable to achieve a single wink due to the ever-mounting excitement of the morning to come. (Sugar plum visions never even got the chance to dance in the Graves house. Just like Goodpasture’s prom, come to think of it.) I can see, using the undiminished eyes of my memory, the glow of our outdoor Christmas decorations reflected off the television screen in Steph’s room. I would stare at it for hours upon hours, wondering how much longer I had to wait.

After an agonizing night of eternal torment and so...much...waiting..., the “first wave” of presents finally appeared. SANTA CAME! Good ‘ole reliable, that guy. Let’s go wake up mom and dad! I mean, it’s only 4:30 in the morning; LET’S GET THIS PARTY STARTED, YO! Ugh, why are they so slow to get up?!

Finally, dad—blinking bleary, sleep-deprived eyes—would get the camcorder set up on a tripod and a trusty point and shoot, and he was ready to capture some memories At the mark, get set, GO!, we would eagerly tear in to the seemingly mountains of wrapping paper beneath the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. After the morning tornado settled down somewhat, our parents would suppress a few yawns, bid us a “Merry Christmas,” then zombie shuffle back to their bedroom, whilst we played with the latest acquisitions to our ever-growing “stuff collection.” (Incidentally, present-day me wonders where I ever got so much energy on so little sleep.)

Later in the day, we would all pile in to the car and drive over to my other grandparents’ house, where an entirely new slew of gifts would await my eager little paws. I can still smell the delicious fragrance wafting out of the kitchen, and hear the crackle of the fire in the fireplace. After all of these years, I can hear my grandmother humming in her reclining chair; a constant, trustworthy soundtrack to so many of my earliest childhood memories.

I miss being a kid. I miss feeling that level of excitement about, well...anything. I miss many of my old family members, who despite being quite alive in my memories, have long since passed on. In the case of my sister and my cousin especially, they went well before their time. But, such things are not ours to decide, much as I often wish otherwise.

What I wouldn’t give to wait up all night with my sister just one more time, or talk with my cousin for hours over the phone about the latest video game. I’d pay a handsome admission just to hear that humming again, even if in those days, I might have paid her to stop.

Again, such things are not ours to decide. The only thing we can do is to cherish the moments laid before us. And while my personal story has lost a few characters over the years, I’ve gained quite a few as well. I now have an entire flock of young nieces and nephews. I get to witness that old magic shining in their eyes every Christmas, and that brings me a measure of joy—even if it doesn’t bring me a Xbox.

Maybe, someday, they’ll look back and have fond memories of me. That, I think, would make quite an endearing legacy.

The Force Was Always With Us

Back in 1999, when I was an enviable twenty years old, the first new Star Wars movie in sixteen years arrived in theaters, called “The Phantom Menace.” In those days, movie tickets weren’t sold in advance, so my mom dropped me and my then-girlfriend off at the Indian Lake Cinema just before noon, to wait over TWELVE HOURS (ugh) in the hopes of nabbing tickets to the midnight premier.

Mind you, this was twelve straight hours of sitting on a concrete sidewalk. We didn’t have the foresight to bring any board games, books, or literally anything to occupy us during that miserable wait. (We were still several years away from the dawn of the smartphone era and ubiquitous WiFi.) We were literally on our own with nothing but our imaginations, and our excitement over what was to come.

(Side note: Later that evening, I do recall that my dad and sister joined us in line, which by then was wrapped all the way around the cinema.)

The time finally arrived for our long-awaited anticipation to be sated. We got our tickets! We had our seats! WE MADE IT, YOU GUYS; WE’RE HERE! Look, those dorks are swinging their lightsabers around at the front of the movie theater, tee hee! (*This was a few years before I would own my own lightsaber, thus joining the ranks of those noble dorks.)

The lights went down. Unwanted previews played, to quite a few “boos.” At long last, the familiar 20th Century Fox fanfare began to blast out of those Dolby surround speakers.

And that crowd...went...insane. Lucasfilm logo? You’d think your team just won the championship. “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away” fades in, and a few dudes in the front row spontaneously creamed in their pants, then fainted from too much stimulation.

The Star Wars theme blasted our eardrums, and the famous logo careened off into uncharted space, presumably to rendezvous with other famous film logos. People shot to their feet, hootin’ and hollerin’ like Oprah just showed up to give everyone free mansions for life.

The turmoil finally settled down a bit as the crawl began rolling. The roar faded to a few scattered claps, then one last dude shouted a half hearted “woo,” then silence finally descended over the theater.

The remaining run time of the film was spent in similar silence. Even at the closing credits, a somber crowd ambled out of the theater, blinking their bleary eyes in the bright, neon lights of the lobby.

Maybe it was waiting so many hours on the cold, hard cement. Maybe it was due to having to go to work in a few hours. Or, maybe, it was because the film didn’t quite live up to our expectations at the time. (But hey, intergalactic politics, amiright? We all had fun...while learning!)

I’ve never done anything quite so extreme since. Even with the final "Skywalker Saga" movie arriving in cinemas later this week, I won’t be waiting in line for hours. I already have two tickets (for me and my now-girlfriend) for a 2:30 am showing at the local IMAX. I even have my seats already assigned. I’m in the fourth row from the back, in case you’re curious.

I’m excited to see the movie. I’m excited to not have to wait outside on the sidewalk for several hours. I’m excited to have a smartphone now for the few minutes I do have to wait, because I’m older now, and these cat videos on YouTube won’t watch themselves.

The Force is definitely with us...this time.

What's in a Decade?

It is natural while standing on the precipice of a new decade to gaze back upon the past one—whether we wish to or not.

This decade began with the death of my sister. Like any major life event, the gravitational waves from that incident completely altered my trajectory in ways that continue to affect my orbit today.

In the past ten years, I have met an entirely new cast of characters in my personal story. I have re-acquainted myself with my childhood love of the written word. I have moved more times than I can remember; in fact, I spent the holidays in a tent just a few winters ago because I couldn’t afford anywhere else to live. (Pro Tip: Heavy plastic sheeting helps keep tents warm during cold nights.) While I haven’t become a success by any “traditional” metric, I am quite wealthy by virtue of my collection of experiences, family, and friends. (That means you. Awww.)

The theme of this past decade was not “stability.” It was “transition.” I’ve failed, I’ve succeeded, I’ve learned, I’ve failed again, I've made a complete ass of myself on multiple documented occasions…and after decades of relationship mishaps, I found love. (Technically, it found me.) All the while, I was constantly endeavoring to figure out just who I am and my ultimate life purpose. After many long, arduous years of research, I can officially report: I still have no freakin’ idea. Maybe I'll adopt another cat.

In any event, expect more wacky Topher tomfoolery in the coming decade, and definitely more fedora pictures.

The 2010 Topher model looked very sleek and snazzy.

The modern Topher has completed the facial hair accessory, but the fedora remains spot-on.

la Década de los Muertos

I took this picture back in 2011: my first Día de los Muertos celebration. Then, I was just starting my journey of getting to know myself, symbolized by my transition from "Chris" to "Topher." My sister died a year prior, and my cousin passed a year before that. (My aunt passed around this time as well.) My sister's death in particular directly inspired my current writing trajectory, so in a strange way, I'm grateful for that gift—I just regret the cost.

As I look back on my personal journey over the last few years, it is amazing how much the dead have influenced how I've lived. That is why I cherish this time of year in particular. Those of you who read "Three Short Ghost Stories" discovered they were written with love in mind...not fear. (Well, the hotel might have been one minor exception, but it can be argued that those ghosts were simply being eternally hospitable, right?)

In fact, I try to do everything now with love in mind, first and foremost. In the end, it is all that will matter. 

Happy Day of the Dead, for all of you, no matter which side of the veil you inhabit.