Seeing the Future is Depressing

When you are older, say, late 40s, you will become tired of life, and this is why: you know what will happen.  Not at the end, which you do know, but that's not why you're tired.  You're tired of life because you know that getting out of bed means your socks, your slippers, your robe, the bathroom, stretch, cat litter, cat feeding, breakfast, and so on throughout your day.  You're tired because if you go out, you know what will happen.  You know what it's like.  You know your reaction.  You know when you'll be tired.  You know when you'll be sore, when you'll be angry, when you'll be filled with regret.  You also know what others will do and how they will react.

You are tired of life because you see the days stretching forward and you see the lines of repetition, even the supposedly special events.  Your naive excitement flakes away with repeated experience.  You know there is no secret cave or an amazing person or hidden knowledge or adventure around the corner.  They have all disappointed in the past.  Even the exciting events are predictable.  The forest isn't endless.  There is no cache of money.

Your experience has made you see the future and seeing the future is disappointment because the future is the past is the present is the repetition of it all.  It is why some people in "mid-life crises" will try to change their lives drastically: buy a flashy car, find a new spouse, experience a psychotic fugue.  As anyone will tell you, it won't work.  You know the car needs to be washed and the price of gas is going up.  The new spouse is the same as the old spouse.  The psychotic fugue will end and there will be paperwork.

Dementia could fix this.

Tiling is Easy!

We need to tile a 3' by 5' exterior landing and a 7' by 9' interior mudroom.

"Tiling is easy," they said.  "Even beginners can do it."

Uh huh.  Just grab some grout and slap those tiles in?  No.  Let me tell what you really need to do:

Secure your sub-floor.  This means knowing where your joists are and nailing the 3/4" plywood down with decking nails (galvanized because they're exterior) every four to eight inches.  We chose six.  Hit each nail ten times because they're looong.  Hit them carefully because they are "twisty" nails and you don't want to bend them because they were expensive.  Strain your arm putting in seventy-plus nails.

Now what about the end of the plywood that has been out in the rain and looks bent and that isn't long enough?  Take it out, replace it, then realize the masonry at the end causes to it stick up and be angled the wrong way (bad in the rain!)  Realize now that nailing into masonry isn't possible with a regular hammer and nail.  Now that it's half nailed in, you don't want to take it out and ruin it.  Figure out how to chip away masonry.  Figure out how to level masonry.  Be sure the sides of your exterior entry have their gaps closed, so nail in boards from underneath and try your hand at filling with thinset cement.

Figure out how to nail through 3/4" plywood and into masonry.  You can use a nail gun that uses blank .22 bullets.  Yeah, you'll have that on-hand, won't you?  Good luck trying to find a place to rent you this weapon.  Try not to shoot a nail through your foot.

Congratulations, you are nowhere near to tiling yet.  You still have to put on the other layers: unmodified thinset, cement board using special screws that also use a special bit, tape, thinset for the tape and screws, liquid waterproofing membrane (priming layer), waterproofing tape on the sides (fiberglass fabric of which there are many, many varieties), more waterproofing membrane (thicker, but not too thick).  One more waterproofing layer.  Let dry thoroughly in between.  One more thing: be sure you didn't screw down that cement board into any joists because you're just asking for your tiles to crack.

STILL not ready!  Install the exterior door.  How?  Youtube.  Dunno.  Probably shims and screws.

Now you're ready, but not for grout.  You're ready for modified thinset.  Unlike the unmodified, this stuff has latex additive and is more flexible.  Yeah, you need the parts under the tile to be able to shift in weather.  Do you need expansion gaps?  What does that even mean?  It means you'll need exterior-rated silicone caulk that matches the color of your grout.  Leave expansion gaps around the perimeter.  Don't worry, it's not really clear how you're supposed to do that.  If your tiling area is very large (over 12'), make an expansion gap or two...somewhere.  I stopped paying attention since our area wasn't that large.

Are we ready yet?  Well, set those tiles using the modified thinset!  Make sure you don't have weird cuts to do leaving weirdly cut tiles in places where you can see them and be irritated forever.  Be sure you install the tiles in straight lines or else be irritated forever.  Did you already consider what orientation you'll be setting your tile?  Straight, diamond, off-centered?  Yeah, you should have tested that long before this point.  You should also have made double sure you have enough tiles by laying them out on the plywood before you did any of this.  Too late now.

Speaking of tiles, I hope they're not ceramic if you're using them outside.  You're just asking for your tiles to fail.  Do you have the kind of tiles that need to be sealed first?  Dunno.  Too much to think about.  Gotta tile this floor before it rains.

Be sure you know how to put that modified thinset on in a way that doesn't leave gaps.  Use the notched trowel that you have chosen with the correct size notches.  What size is that?  1/4" is the most mentioned.  Trowel on the cement board and smear it around, but be sure you use the notches in the trowel to give a final swipe in one direction.  Do not swirl!  Why?  Because you don't want to leave gaps, do you?  "Butter" the back of your tile, too.  It's what the pros do.  Set in your tile.  Wiggle it.  Not too much!  Be sure you've gotten 90% coverage on the back.  How?  Uh... I dunno.  Cross your eyes and make a wish.

Can we grout yet?  Well, did you get the right kind of grout?  You can have premixed, cement, or epoxy.  Premixed is fantastic...unless you look at the reviews of the many people who vehemently hate it.  It doesn't need to be sealed, but you have three seconds to wipe it off the face of the tile before it sets forever.  Cement is the most used, but you need to seal it (and reseal it periodically) with yet another product and you can't touch the product to the tile or you will discolor it forever.  Cement is also water-permeable.  Epoxy is waterproof and it doesn't need to be sealed ever.  It is also fast-setting, you have to mix it in exact proportions, and it discolors when exposed to sunlight.  Oh yeah, you must also choose the color of your grout in the poor light of your local hardware airplane hanger.  What are the chances we can use the same grout for the tiles outside (green) and the tiles inside (creamish)?  Slim to none.

Did I also mention you need a "float" (there will be at least five choices.  Take the cheapest), a chamois (recommended over a sponge), a giant mixing tool that goes on your drill, buckets, spacers (you must know how wide you want your grout), and a rubber mallet?  Oh, yeah, you need all those, too.

Hold on...did you think about what you do at the end, just above the exterior steps?  Drip edge and a bullnose?  Or did you need "stairnose"?  Nobody's heard of stairnose at the local hardware stores.  Order it and get it in a week or three.  How else will you keep the end from crumbling off?  

Yes, you can grout now.  As long as you followed all the directions on everything and waited the correct length of time for whatever and whatever to set for however.  Grout your heart out.  But read the directions!  It's good to have a partner to help you wipe or else you'll be very, very sad.  Make small grout batches.  Work in small sections.  Get the grout in good.  Get it in evenly.  If you needed to mix the grout, did you mix it the same every time?  If not, your grout color will come out patchy and weird.  Did I mention you want a grout rated for "no efflorescence" if tiling outside?  I didn't?  What does it mean?  Who knows.  Make another wish.

Congratulations: you have tiled.  Wasn't that easy?

Definitions

How difficult it is to keep caring about life.  Is that ennui or apathy?  Whatever.

Learning the Limits

As a child I learned the limits of my personality.  The limits I had for expression.  The limits I had for patience.  The limits others had for me.  I learned quickly that I should be quiet and think before I spoke.  It took me much longer to actually be quiet, but at least I knew I should.  I expressed instantly and passionately and had my foot in my mouth more often than not.  I learned socializing meant agonizing about it later, so I began to avoid socializing.  I thought I had enormous patience, except with myself, but it turned out I have zero patience with people who are false or who try for attention or who aren't living to the tops of their intelligence.  Others couldn't seem to tolerate me very well.  I learned my personality was too big, too loose, too unpredictable, too weird.

Highlight reels of my social transgressions play at night.  No matter how distant the experience becomes, it replays to torture me.  I try not to add to the reels, but, even as an adult interacting with other adults, it still happens.  Only now, I know instantly when a moment will become A Moment.  Shame, guilt, embarrassment, regret, self-loathing churn in the gyre of my mind.

Promises, Promises

What if tomorrow you promised to start one of the things you've been saying you want to do, like practice music or finish a house project or stretch or go for a bike ride or eat vegetables?

Now what if you changed "tomorrow" to "today" and instead of "promised" you "did"?

And what if you did that every day?

1985

She time traveled every evening, looking back along the years, decades, to a past where he was young.  She could see his face as it is in what it was.  When she came back, she could see his face as it was in what it is.  His neck, shoulders, arms.  She heard his young voice from the past and simultaneously recognized it and heard it in a way she never had before she traveled.  He was slimmer and smoother.  Fresher and less formed.  In the present, he was more solid.  In the past he vibrated.

Is You?

The answer to, "Is you a good boy?" is always yes.  Yes, you are a good boy.  "Who is my little buddy?" also has a standard answer: you is.  You is my little buddy.  Fluffy head, wittle paws, damp wittle chinny chin-chin are all possessed by the same good little buddy.

Great.

When is it too late to still be great?  Child genius means younger than twelve, thirteen at the most.  Music stars shine in their teens.  Olympic athletes peak in their twenties.  Models are done by thirty.  "40 Under 40" lists are self-explanatory.  Stories about people getting rich and retiring young are featuring younger and younger retirees.  Eventually you can become great again, but you have to be pretty old.  The eighty-something who finally got their college degree.  The ninety-year-old who kicks butt as an online gamer.  The 104-year-old power lifter.  What about 40s, 50s, 60s, 70s?  Can I still be great?  Do I still have time?

She's Better Off

In the time it took for Miranda to go grocery shopping and come back, her husband had packed and left.  She noted without conscious acknowledgement that his truck was gone though the idea that he had left on a fire call skimmed across her brain.  Miranda brought in the groceries in two trips.  She unloaded food and goods purchased with her husband in mind.  While unloading the second set of bags, her subconscious mind mentioned she couldn't hear his fire and police scanner, which was always on.  It wasn't until she saw the dust-free rectangle on the side table in the living room that she allowed herself to realize he was gone.  Feet feeling heavier with every step, she trudged upstairs and made herself look at his closet and ill-closed dresser.  She made herself look in the bathroom and saw her own toothbrush missing.  Miranda found it later in the toilet.

"I Lived through a Stupid Coup"

At the start of the fall of their government, no one believed it was the start of anything.  It was stupid.  It was dumb people with big mouths being loud.  A curse of the intelligent is to believe that nobody could be that stupid.  By the time the election rolled around again, it seemed that no one could ignore the depths of stupidity to which so many would sink.

A tank rolled by Hannah's house, tearing up the already ruined street.  She was briefly outraged, then remembered the remaining gas in their SUV had dried out.

Douglas G.

Douglas died in 1995.  Twenty-six years later, a former elementary school classmate tried searching his name again on the internet.  If you had told Douglas at any point while he was alive that someone in the future would be using a computer to search worldwide records for his name and picture, he may not have believed you.  He would have been fairly certain, however, that his obituary would be written by then.  By then, he was dead for three years longer than he had been alive.

Jessica thought it likely that he wouldn't have even remembered her.  After all, the last time they had seen each other was 5th grade.

The Extinction of Man

To Seth, it was an inexplicable feeling.  So alien that he couldn't even express that it was a feeling.  He thought perhaps it was his dinner, unsettled.  Seth's mind only brushed across the idea that the feeling had been there for much longer than this particular evening.  Perhaps it had burned since he was in his early twenties, when he peaked, but didn't know it.  He bought antacids and ate them.  He drank antacid liquid.  He swallowed antacid pills.  The feeling not only lingered, but grew stronger.  No general physician could have helped Seth.  While a psychologist may have been able, they, too, would not have been able to help in this case because Seth would and, indeed, never could articulate the source of this feeling.

If Seth had the emotional intelligence, the desire for inward analysis, or even the language, he might have said this: I am afraid of becoming extinct.

Lost: Telling vs. Showing

He was lost in the music.

Head bowed and swinging side to side, the drumsticks were extensions of his arms, beating out a rhythm that drove the undulations of the crowd.

She felt lost.

Even though she sat still past the point of being uncomfortable, her mind ran into wall after wall, thoughts bouncing off and stumbling into the next barrier until, in a blind panic, they screamed inside her head.

All seemed lost.

Huddled as they were in the building's basement storage, the sounds from the streets was finally too distant to hear.  One of the women, the only one still clutching a child who seemed to be younger than ten, started to cry.  Nobody hushed her.

Pop, Pop, Pop

Many times Maggie thought she heard gunshots when they were only fireworks, lit in the streets, far too long before and after the Fourth of July.  Did anyone lighting those dumb things even feel remotely patriotic, she wondered, or just playing at war or arson.  Real gunshots didn't go on for as long.  Real gunshots didn't seem to echo as much.  Pop, pop, pop.  Triplets.  One, two, three.  One broke the glass.  Two cracked a mirror.  Three killed a baby.

Heart-Shaped Locket

When the patient in room 225 died, Hera was the one who found her.  As a nurse's aide, she knew the head nurse would page for "Dr. Blue", who wasn't a doctor at all, but rather code for death.  Hera had seen death before, of course.  She didn't think anyone in the world hadn't seen death by now.  But this one stopped her.

The woman looked peaceful.  Her face was smoother than it had been and she seemed to finally sleep.  It was probably because the pain was gone.  No more furrowed brow or pinched lips.  No more tensed muscles or fretful movements, trying desperately to find a position that was comfortable.  The sheets were draped and smooth, as if the woman knew she was about to die and straightened them herself.

Hera stepped closer.  The woman's hair had been brushed--how had that happened?  Did she brush her own hair, too?  The hospital gown was clean.  Perhaps the night shift had changed and cleaned her.  The woman's hands were folded, one atop the other, calmly, neatly.  Hera couldn't stop staring.  Most in the hospital died in agony.  Most were covered in the filth of the end, their hands clawing at their own faces, at the air, at the inevitable.

She never touched the dead, but Hera found herself reaching.  She lay her hand atop the woman's.  They were cool and smooth.  Hera held the woman's hand.  As she finally pulled her hand away, she felt the necklace chain.  How could she forget?  The woman always wore a heart-shaped locket.  She had screamed herself raw when a nurse tried to remove it.  Since the woman was at the stage where she could no longer speak, they could only speculate.  Children?  Parents?  Spouse?

The locket slid easily from the woman's hands.  Hera opened it.