What's in a life?

 A part of my day job includes preparing obits to run in the following week's paper.

I always try to take a moment to reflect on the names sitting on my screen. These were real people with hopes and dreams and families and worries and fears and successes and loves and full, complete stories of their own―each one far more compelling than any piece of fiction ever scribbled.

However, tonight marks the first time I'm editing one for someone I actually knew. Suddenly, every bit of punctuation, each letter, even the spacing of lines are treated with meticulous, loving precision.

To be fair, that's what I'm supposed to do. It's literally a recurring item on my weekly "to do" list. But the task lands differently when it's someone I know.

An entire life, someone's entire existence... relegated to a few lines in ink.

It never seems enough, does it? Not when we are libraries all our own, with countless stories to tell.

When Superheroes Grieve

 “But what is grief, if not love persevering?” -The Vision, uttering the best line of the entire MCU.

Let's take a moment to appreciate how great Marvel is at having its heroes deal with emotional trauma. WandaVision may have started as a decades-spanning sitcom starring two Avengers, but at its core, it has always been a show about grief. How we move on—or in some cases, don't—from the loss of a loved one. How we would do anything to see that person again, and what happens if we actually are in the position to do something (You know, like magically reincarnating the deceased, then enslaving an entire town to turn into our very own sitcom universe. That 'ole chestnut.)

Perhaps that's why Marvel Studios produces better stories on the whole than its Distinguished Competition; the characters are written as people before they're written as superheroes. The whiz-bang is secondary to their humanity. Tony Stark spent multiple films dealing with crippling anxiety. Steve Rogers became an international fugitive because of his love for a friend. Vision, even as his body was being torn apart, pleaded with Hayward to save the citizens of Westview. (Mjölnir chose his worthiness well.)

When Natasha Romanoff sacrificed her life for the Soul Stone, we felt Clint's grief as he beheld his shining prize. We can almost hear the distant echo of Gamora's “what did it cost?” as it weighs on this moment. We know. We know the cost.

Wanda has lost everything. Her parents, her brother, and then the one person who was able to connect to her through her grief. If that wasn’t enough, she's also haunted by a mistake that cost innocent lives. Unlike Tony Stark, who received a hero’s sendoff, there was no memorial for Vision. The last she saw, his body was lying broken on the ground. Wanda wants to bury him; he deserves that much. Instead of closure, she is shown his ruined parts strewn about on cold tables, being poked and prodded by technicians. She is denied the right to even lay him to rest.

“Do you think maybe this is what you deserve?” Agatha asks from off-camera, seemingly feeding off Wanda’s torment. “You’re not supposed to talk,” Wanda replies, as though trying desperately to keep the pain hidden away. (Speaking from personal experience, I can vouch that this never works.)

Steph wasn’t shot by a murderous killbot; cancer worked its horror over the course of years. When Wanda ripped one of Ultron’s mechanical hearts straight out of its chest to demonstrate the pain of her brother’s loss, anyone who has ever lost someone felt it immediately.

If I possessed chaos magic, there’s a nonzero chance I might have tried to have at least one more conversation; one last chance to say the things I never did. Wanda emphatically states “this is our home” when the recreated Vision asked what is outside of Westview. She doesn't want to leave the bubble of fantasy. (Any credible artist will confess the best art comes from pain.)

Yes, these characters are fictional, springing to life through a writer’s mind, a director’s instruction, and incredible acting talent...plus several minutes’ worth of credits. Yet they are relatable despite the fantastic circumstances that surround them.

When superheroes grieve...so do we.

How awesome is that?

On the morning of July 30th, 2020, a 191-foot tall Atlas V-541 rocket raced the sun into the sky from Launch Complex 41 at Cape Canaveral Air Force Station in Florida. Its destination: our rusty-hued celestial neighbor, Mars.

While already a breathtaking feat of engineering, the rocket’s payload included a curious, almost trivial thing; something never before encountered in the Cosmos.

It carried my name. Yours too, perhaps, if you signed up for it.

For seven months, that vehicle has traversed the roughly 293 million miles that currently stretch between our two worlds without a single bathroom break. On the plus side, traffic was light. There were only two other vehicles on the road during the entire trip.

Soon that wondrous assemblage of scientific instruments will descend through the thin Martian atmosphere, perform a precisely calculated set of maneuvers, and touch down on an alien world (fingers crossed). Millions will watch the event from all across this amazing blue marble.

Our names are landing on another world! Long after the rover’s mission parameters have been fulfilled and its energies depleted, it will remain on Mars as a monument to human achievement. How awesome is that?

As someone who has been interested in space exploration since I was a kid watching Star Trek reruns, events like this are cause for great excitement. Mars has been our constant next-door neighbor since before humans took their first glimpses skyward, yet we’ve barely begun to unlock its mysteries. Even less so the myriad worlds that lie beyond our local galactic cul-de-sac.

We have been poetically described as a way for the Universe to observe itself—matter spewed forth from the crucible of exploding stars assembled into a conveniently sentient humanoid form, capable of pondering its place in the Cosmos. Endless debates echo throughout halls of learning, houses of religion, and the lawn chairs of late-night stargazers. We all strive to understand not just the meaning of ourselves, but our place amongst the greater scheme of things. Why are we here? Are we alone in the Universe? If a rock tumbles on Mars, and no rover is there to record the anomaly with its onboard sensors, does it make a sound?

Exploration is the first step towards answering some of those questions.

My own, one for which I can already guess the answer, is: How awesome is that?

Topher's Obligatory New Year's Address

Friends, here we meet once again, on this particular side of the star Sol, ready to observe the Cosmic Odometer as it spins around another numeral.

I've heard it said that if all of cosmological time were compressed into a single year, modern humans only appeared on Earth within the last eight minutes (give or take). That means—cosmologically speaking—we're brand-new. We're a baby species; still learning to toddle about in this strange and mysterious universe.

But that's kind of exciting, isn't it? It means we have so much potential, so much left to learn and achieve—once we've matured a bit. Once we've proverbially “gotten over ourselves.”

We've been experiencing some excruciating growing pains, but I believe we are on the verge of great human evolution...provided we survive the experience. That bright future is not guaranteed. Indeed, if we continue along our current trajectory, we might be embracing our destruction.

But it does not have to come to that. A moment may seem utterly insignificant to the Cosmos, but it carries more weight than we realize. Moments where empathy and a desire for understanding are chosen over conflict, charity chosen over greed, encouragement chosen over belittlement, inspiration chosen over insult. We cannot afford to remain so divided; so torn. If we build each other up, if we charge our spiritual batteries with positive energy, we will unleash potential the likes of which we have only ever dreamt.

We've spent too much time arguing over our differences. We have forgotten that such diversity is what gives us strength. We must understand and support each other if we are to survive.

I've seen what we can do when we're at our best. We possess the potential to achieve greatness in this Universe...and beyond.

I believe in you. Let's meet here again one year hence, with brighter memories to share.

Filling the Missing Pieces

It suddenly (and quite jarringly) occurred to me today that this will be our tenth holiday without Steph.

That's an entire decade's worth of memories. Three-thousand, six-hundred and fifty days (give or take) of laughter, tears, triumphs, defeats, and new Star Wars projects; each worthy of prolonged discussion over a phone call—one I will never make again.

As most of you know, I started writing as a way to heal. Working through my grief using the written word turned out to be very therapeutic, and it received such a positive response that it soon became "my thing." Since my previous thing was throwing up before marching band contests ("the chunkier the spew, the better we'll do!"), I wasn't inclined to argue.

Holidays can be hard for most of us, even during the best of times. And this year, there's an extra squishy booger stuck on the fruitcake: the pandemic. My mom, who lives about three miles away in a nursing home, hasn't been able to see anyone since March. This afternoon I got a call notifying me that residents are confined to their rooms due to a positive case. I can only imagine how lonely it feels staring out at the world for months on end without being able to hug your loved ones. (God bless the developers of the modern smartphone.)

For all of this, I am blessed. I have an abundance of love in my life—more so, perhaps, than I deserve. I appreciate it more than words can adequately convey.

Right now, a cat is purring on my lap. Amanda is in the kitchen baking cookies, offering occasional smiles and winks. The nightclub next door is silent, perhaps adhering to that old chestnut about the traditional volume level of holy nights. Truly, this is a Christmas miracle.

Best of all, I am but a few button clicks away from all of my friends and family. I love each and every one of you; you've been there for me in ways you probably don't realize. I hope I am here for you as well. If not, I'll endeavor to try harder.

Whatever your reason for the season, I wish it a blessed one for you and yours. (Personally, I'm thinking of giving Saturnalia a whirl this year. Does it come with pie?)

What Dreams May Come

I had that dream again. You know the one. I've experienced it sporadically over the last twenty years.

For me, the setting is the good 'ole days of marching band, although I'd wager some version of it will be familiar to anyone that has ever worked diligently to memorize any sort of arrangement.

The dream goes like this: I find myself about to hit the field—something I've done in real life more times than I can count—only this time, I can't remember what show I'm about to perform. I can't recall the music, the steps, or even the current year. It is like I've suddenly been transported back in time, but I'm still the "me" of the present.

Not an ideal scenario, as you might imagine. Can't we do the one where I win the lottery again? I like that one.

I don't have a uniform or an instrument. I have to mime holding a saxophone as I waddle aimlessly around the field in my street clothes. (At least this isn't the "naked dream." That's an altogether different adventure.) I don't understand why I still have to march, considering the fact I'm obviously a time-traveling 42-year-old experiencing what any rational observer would logically conclude is some sort of complete mental breakdown.

I've never understood this dream, but I've had it many times over the years. It is a startlingly realistic simulation. I wake up in a sweat, taking several seconds to reorient myself as to where and WHEN I am. 

It was only a dream. I'm okay. No one calls me "Chris" anymore. It was only a dream...

I wonder if Steph ever had this dream. I know she often dreamt of moving back into the house we lived in growing up, which is another single hot off my REM-induced greatest hits.

Weird, huh? What does any of it mean… if anything?

As someone who doesn't usually recall my dreams, these always hit me right in the gut. It is like I was really there. (I guess I was once, wasn't I? It was awkward then, too, for entirely different reasons.)

Oh, well. Here, in the waking world, I now have a very real problem...

…I can't get back to sleep.

The Star Wars Holiday "Special"

Every holiday has a legend.

Long before there was a LEGO Star Wars Holiday Special, there was... another.

A thing so remarkable, so legendary, so inexplicably special, that its legacy lives on — a tale whispered in secluded corners of disreputable taverns, or a spellbinding limerick melodiously sung by traveling minstrels who are hard up for booze.

This is an experience whose joy can only be surpassed by the likes of a flock of dentists simultaneously performing a hundred root canals, or a bloody nose lovingly gifted by your older brother.

Friends, it is in the spirit of this wondrous season, and the magic that is 2020, that I present to you:

The ORIGINAL Star Wars Holiday Special. With a generous side-order of 1970's funkadelic goodness.

***Best consumed with copious amounts of reality-altering narcotics.***

https://youtu.be/6hH8rxarVG8

P.S. This was where audiences first were introduced to Boba Fett!