Feeling Dead Weight Drop

Screaming Face, by Otiart. See more at otiart.deviant.com.

Have you ever driven off with something on top of your car? If you’ve done this, and had the pleasure of hearing said item slide back and down off the roof at sixty miles-per-hour and counting, realizing too late what was happening, then you know the feeling that drops into your gut like dead weight. The feeling hits, and on its heels is the fear that the item is now, quite possibly, irrecoverable. Well, I was able to find my wife’s keychain. It was in the gravel and dry grass of the median on Saturn Parkway (so named for the former Saturn car factory, not the planet), where I nervously searched as vehicles blew past about ten feet away. Finding the keychain would’ve felt like a victory, except most everything previously attached to it was either missing or obliterated.

That was over a year ago. Yesterday, however, the feeling hit again, this time from a different thing feared irrecoverable: this very blog. Doing a little site maintenance, apparently I deleted a file I shouldn’t have. I knew I had no business tampering with those files, but I figured I’d learned enough that I wouldn’t make any fatal mistakes. Wrong! There’s a reason WordPress offers templates: because people like me have no business tinkering with code. Long story short: whatever it was I did to my website removed access to every single post I’d ever published at alandrue.com. I panicked. So much work lost, I thought. This was a minor tragedy. Since I’ve yet to publish with any outside entities, my blog is essentially my writer’s portfolio, and I’m quite happy with some of the posts. But I thought I’d blown it. I thought I was going to have to start over. Thanks to the friendly, understanding, and level-headed technician at GoDaddy (I wish I remembered his name), my site is running flawlessly now, like I never once got trigger-happy with my sacred files. And as I often do, I learned a lesson the hard way. But at least I learned it.

Alan D. Tucker
Content Writer, Essayist, & Novelist

 

**Clarification for those who’ve never owned a blog or website: GoDaddy is the service that provides both my web hosting and my domain security (put simply, they provide my virtual real estate); WordPress is the service through which I built and continue to maintain my blog. There are other approaches. This just happens to be the path I took.

Longboard Dad

People in Nashville don’t expect to see a grown man on a skateboard, at least not in the suburbs. That’s what I deduced on a recent outing with my boys. They had their bikes and I had my longboard (which is exactly what it sounds like, for those unfamiliar with skater lingo), and we pushed and pedaled around the parking lots and walking track of my oldest son’s school for a couple of hours. The clear, cool day brought out other people, too, so we had a little company: walking middle-aged couples (probably close to my age, actually); a teenage kid blasting hip-hop in his headphones and doing basketball moves with no ball; a man giving his daughter a driving lesson. The basketball kid paid us no mind, and the father giving driving lessons checked to make sure we’d be in a different part of the parking lot, but the walking couples stared. Rudely stared. Some said hi, but others had this bemused look, like they thought I was kidding about being a longboard dad, or that any moment I might break into a Rodney Mullen street routine. It got a little awkward.

I’m jealous of two kinds of people: really tall people, and people who don’t care what anyone thinks of them. As hard as I try, when someone outright stares at me, I can’t ignore it. I may not look at them, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel their eyes burning whichever side of me happens to be facing them.

The longboard stayed, of course, because thankfully I’m too stubborn to let a little awkwardness deter me. But it would be nice if the stigma of skateboarding being only a thing for kids would go away. I can’t see why it’s any less a legitimate activity than riding a bike.

Anyway, that experience has me thinking about the awkwardness and vulnerability artists undergo for the sake of their work. It’s risky to take something you created and place it in front of others. It’s risky because an artist’s work is built from the raw materials of his own life; to put it simply, it’s intimate. The best artists hold nothing back. It terrifies me to think of holding nothing back. Yet to be honest and to be good, artistically speaking, that stuff has to come out. Like a longboard.

Alan D. Tucker
Content Writer, Essayist, & Novelist

Temperature of Fear: Attack of the March Hares

The stuff of nightmares.

Before sunrise this morning, there was a briskness which I breathed deeply. It reminded me of fall. Late fall, to be exact. Maybe even post-Halloween, when temperatures surprise you with their lowness. The kinds of temps which, in Tennessee, one doesn’t expect until December. I worried my flannel-shirt-and-hoodie combo wouldn’t be enough, but I also knew the temperature was going to rise at least twenty degrees, and I was only going to be outside from the garage to the car.

When I rounded the back-left corner of my RAV4, moving to the side where no light from the house reaches, a pale sliver of white—incorporeal-seeming in the pre-dawn black—scurried off soundlessly down the grassy alley formed by ours and our neighbor’s fences. It was as if a fuzzy rectangle of moonlight had freed itself from the ground and broken into a full sprint. I decided it must be a rabbit. We know they’ve birthed at least two litters in the backyard, if nests found while mowing count as evidence. Once on a separate night, I walked out into the backyard and was startled, as something apparently alive shot off in a blur from the shadows behind my boys’ swingset. This, too, had to have been a rabbit.

The odd thing, however, is that despite all evidence these dark encounters were with rabbits, I still felt that little rush of a touch with the unknown, because I couldn’t see them well enough to make a positive identification. On both occasions, all I could sense were fast movements and pale blurs. Perhaps a primordial fear of the supernatural tried to overcome my good sense, but I resisted it by telling myself they were only rabbits. Or perhaps the unseasonably cold temperature had me in a spooky frame of mind, mentally somewhere in the vicinity of Halloween, which is a place I tend to hang out anyway.

Alan D. Tucker, MA
Content Writer, Essayist, & Novelist