Adventures in Civic Sanitation

So there I was, lugging an overloaded trash bag roughly the mass of a collapsed neutron star, both hands desperately clasped around the plastic handles in an attempt to maintain the bag's structural integrity. Amanda, who foresaw my immediate predicament, was helpfully trying to open the side door of the dumpster, to no avail.

The door was stuck.

I'm grunting and groaning, having seen the inside of approximately zero gyms during my decades of mortal existence. After all, don't they make machines for this sort of thing?

(Mental note. I really need to get some kind of machine for this sort of thing.)

Anywho, this dude shows up out of nowhere, throws open the top of the dumpster, and with one hand effortlessly tosses the disposable pillar of creation up and over the rim. Didn't even so much as grunt, the bastard.

The moral of the story is, I'm kind of smart and funny sometimes.

An Ode to Ashland City: a loving tribute to a town that smells of diesel fumes, regrets, and whatever that is coming from the river

By virtue of providing the only river crossing within a multiple-county radius, plus its geographic location smack-dab between Clarksville and Nashville, Ashland City is, essentially, a crossroads town.

Few folks actually come here on purpose. For most travelers, it is a quaint collection of antique buildings to glance at while waiting in traffic between more interesting destinations.

Situated on the corner of the town’s main intersection is a small Mexican restaurant. The front wall is mostly glass, offering a panoramic view of the town square: populated by the courthouse and a colorful assortment of lawyer’s and round-the-clock bail bonds offices. It is the best spot in town for watching people pass by… or various species of birds as they shit majestically on the antebellum courthouse’s roof.

Holiday decorations class up what is essentially the world’s largest bird communal toilet.

The view is so romantic, in fact, that locals often spontaneously propose to their sweeties over by the quarter slime dispenser. The way the midday sun catches the car exhaust billowing from muffler-less camouflage monster trucks is the stuff that magic is made of. When those wondrous fumes combine with the rich fragrance of a plate of soggy enchiladas, it is said that an angel gets its wings. (Which you can purchase with either mild or spicy dipping sauce at the chicken shop next door.)

No, folks who pass through without taking note of the town’s hidden treasures will never know the delights of the nightly caterwauling of our karaoke bars, or the musical harmony of Cheatham County’s finest careening down the avenue, sirens-a-blazin’. It’s traditional to stop whatever you’re doing and salute as they pass. You never know if they’re hauling one of your relatives to the pokey, so you always want to stay in their good graces. (Sending Thanksgiving turkeys to the bail bonds offices is a relatively new holiday tradition.)

Nighttime at the Bail Bonds house is one of the town’s best-kept secrets. Every fifth bond comes with a t-shirt and free balloons for the kids.

Even the local McDonald’s celebrates the spirit of community by intentionally slowing the drive-through to near-catatonic levels. This encourages everyone in line to show their love and support with courtesy honks. (The louder you honk, the more town spirit you have!)

Some say the railroad industry took a nosedive when the townsfolk dug up the tracks to make room for a new walking trail, but I say those discarded timbers give the woods personality. “Hey, kids, can you spot the rotting, termite-infested remnants of a once-thriving economy? C’mon, Charlene, don’t hit your brother. We can’t afford to bail you out of juvie again this month! Oh, look, an acorn.”

I know, you’re probably thinking, “Toph, old bean, are you trying to seduce us with your town’s rich culture and history?” No, friends, I don’t need to slap any butter on this sales biscuit. Next time you’re passing through, stop by one of our illustrious gas stations or fine automotive parts establishments. Tell me if you’re not dazzled by our rich atmosphere of slight disappointment.

You’ll barely regret it.

Strollin’ Through the Multiverse

Most nights, if the weather allows, I will drive a few blocks from the apartment toward the river, where there exists a convenient walking track. It is illuminated at night and sparsely populated during winter months, so there I am able to not only get in a few extra steps for the day but also to think.

Tonight, I happened to glance up to look at the stars. I’ve always been fascinated with the greater Universe beyond our atmosphere, and I love wondering what is “out there.” (Which explains my enthusiasm for space telescopes!)

During this particular gaze, I just so happened to be passing under a lamppost, and in that moment something truly remarkable struck me: I was looking at two completely different eras of cosmic history simultaneously. 

There was the contemporary glow of the post, newborn photons fresh and free and enthusiastic, traveling side-by-side with a caravan of ancient, exhausted-but-still-determined photons, ejected from their respective stars while dinosaurs still walked upon the face of the Earth…all striking my retinas at the same time.

All of that—at least from my point of view—happened in a single moment.

Which made me start to think a lot about perception and reality. When, precisely, is now? What, daresay, is reality? We already know there is more to the Universe than we can perceive with our meager assemblage of human senses. Our very conception of time kind of falls apart when gazing at the light of distant objects.

And let’s not even start on such trivialities as quantum superposition. Schrödinger’s cat is both dead and alive? Countless potential realities all exist at once until directly observed, thus collapsing probability waves into one, cohesive quantum reality?

Sir, this is a Wendy’s. Outside speculative particle physics is not allowed.

Whoops. My bad.

Blame those pesky misbehaving photons, fooling around acting like particles and waves and generally messing with our entire understanding of the universe. All we wanted to do was see, guys. Did we really have to drag cats into this?

An illustration of the double-slit experiment, which explains that, indeed, photons be wack.

My love of square burgers and felines aside, I find this stuff endlessly fascinating. In another life, perhaps, I was a “Science Guy.” Maybe I still am, just a couple of entangled particles away? 

Huh. Distant times. Infinite Tophers. I may be biased, but I’m definitely the coolest one.

At least until I'm directly observed.

12 Years

When someone you love passes on, the day they pass leaves a permanent mark on your soul.

Each year becomes a collection of new memories with a conspicuous hole in them; a place where someone was supposed to be.

The day carries an odd juxtaposition of somber and “carrying on,” which can be jarring—as a society, we tend to pause when a president or an athlete dies, but most of us regular folks don't receive that kind of recognition.

The world, and indeed life, keeps right on with its proverbial—if you'll pardon me for saying—bullshit.

It seems almost cruel to laugh, joke about nonsense, or plan for the future; that is, of course, exactly what she would want. Grief, if it’s any comfort, is at least a one-sided affair. (Granted, there are a lot of us on this side.)

Today is a day of grief for my family, not to mention pretty much everyone who knew her, but our lives, too, must carry forward.

No, twelve years is not enough to dull the ache. We miss you, Steph. You may be a hole in our lives, but your life gives that emptiness meaning. Over a decade later, that void still hurts because of how you affected us all.

Because of how you still affect us.

Love often hurts, but after all, it is the most powerful force in the Universe. It is no coincidence that some religions claim that God is love. Whether you believe that or not, you can’t deny that love can be healing and destructive; a fountain of both joy and pain. But man, let me tell you, is it ever important.

Never forget that.

Today, like every other day, we remember love.

Book Review: Midnight Library

A couple of years ago, I wrote a short story that attempted, in as few words as possible, to convey nothing less than The Meaning of Life. Whether or not my endeavor was successful I suppose depends on the reader, but at the very least, I knew what I was trying to say.

Fortunately, what I was trying to say is said most successfully (and with many more beautiful words) in Matt Haig’s book, The Midnight Library. It currently sits on a New York Times bestseller list, and for good reason.

Here’s the premise: in the transitional space between life and death is a library. The shelves are filled with infinite books; each one containing a different variation of your life. By flipping through the pages, you can jump in and out of endless possibilities of yourself, exploring different quantum universes. In one life, you might be a rockstar; in another, happily married with kids.

Of course, there are bad lives, too, and all variations in between. Infinite possibilities, all spread throughout the multiverse's largest library.

Nora Seed, our protagonist, is in a bad place at the start of the story. It is here I have to caution the reader with a trigger warning regarding depression and suicide: Nora initially discovers the library after determining her life is nothing but endless mistakes and not worth living. (Small spoiler: things get better, provided both she and the reader decide to hang in there.)

Think of it as It's a Wonderful Life marries Quantum Leap, then gives birth to a bouncing baby Sliders, and you’ll start to get the idea.

I’ll admit I shed actual tears towards the end because this book hit me on many different personal levels. There were times when I felt it was written specifically for me.

Maybe it was written for you, too.

Five out of five of the shiniest golden stars.

The Single Biggest Thing to Ever Happen on December 25

Well, friends and family, tomorrow is The Day! The main event, the big cheese, the spicy enchilada, if you will.

I'm referring—as I'm sure you've guessed—to the worldwide celebration of the birthday of Sir Isaac Newton (if one refers to the Julian calendar, naturally).

Oh, but the excitement doesn't stop there! Scientific history is about to be made yet again with the launch of the James Webb Space Telescope; a scientific instrument literally decades in the making. I find it kind of awesome that it is launching on such a cardinal date in human history (and incidentally, a year to the month after Arecibo's collapse).

Looks like Santa isn't the only thing to be excited about in the skies this holiday! The gift in your stocking may be a better understanding of the Cosmos itself...

The mission will stream live on NASA TV at around the time parents everywhere will start to need earplugs and a stiff drink.

The True Meaning of Spooky Season

Samhain. All Souls' Day. Día de los Muertos. All Hallows Eve. Halloween. Whichever label you prefer, this is the time of year when the veil between the living and the dead is believed to be at its thinnest. 

Remember to take a few moments to send remembrance and love to those who have passed on. It is, after all, a journey we all will eventually undertake.

The knowledge of our own mortality is what gives our lives their greatest purpose: to Love. A force so powerful that even the veil has no hope of dimming it.

Also—if you can—take a moment to observe the trees. Every Autumn, they teach us a lesson: the importance of letting go. It's okay; nothing (or no one) is ever truly gone. 

Spring will come. Life will renew. The forest will become whole once again.

So. Can. We. Every leaf that sails on the wind is a promise that things are going to be okay.

Whatever day you celebrate, my wish for you is that your heart be as full as a bottomless cauldron filled with big-sized Snickers.