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14,965 Days

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Me on my tenth birthday. Thirty-one years ago.  14,965 Days             That’s how many days I’ve been alive, so far. I was born 41 years ago; it doesn’t feel like it. It never feels like I’m the age I’m “supposed” to be. That doesn’t mean that I haven’t matured or learned things along the way. It just means that I’m not “acting my age,” so to speak. That means I’m not doing the stereotypical things a person my age would do. I’m not sure what a 41-year-old is supposed to do. Look at investment portfolios, have champagne with supermodels off the bonnet of a Mercedes? Is that what I’m supposed to be doing? Double points if the model is named Mercedes and has rack and pinion steering. Fuel injection is a given.             You are as old as you are made to believe you are. I’ve talked about this numerous times that being 40-something doesn’t mean you’re “over the hill.” I thank God, Cthulhu, numerous deities, and anyone with good taste that I wasn’t given black lollipops on my 40 th
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The Long Walk--Thoughts on Lockdown

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The Long Walk  The Lockdown for Covid-19 hasn’t been a time of side-hustles, Netflix binges, and acquiring new skills for all of us. If you’re an “essential worker” like myself then you still have to work. They say if you’re self-isolating you should perform daily routines. I don’t have that luxury, so my routine hasn’t changed too much. No, it’s not been a grown-up summer camp for me. Instead, it’s long hours of people frustrated that I can’t solve their problems in ten seconds or less. God forbid that during a crisis people would give a damn about the things that really matter. And certainly, God should forbid that anyone would have to wait on a phone line for more than three minutes.              We are both short-staffed where I work, and overwhelmed. But, surprisingly, most of the calls we receive aren’t about the economic impact of the virus itself—layoffs, loan deferments, etc. Instead, most of the calls are about petty squabbles over fees, wait times, and old score
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House of Jane Part III: Meeting Mr. Knight(ly)

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Meeting Mr. Knight The House of Jane Part Three             Jane didn’t call it, “Chawton Great House” for nothing. It is great.             I stood at the end of the long path that lead to Chawton House. It seemed so distant, and yet so close. I snapped a photo, and then walked up that long runway of tan-coloured earth. Once I arrived at the front door I paused and made note of the Knight family crest. It’s etched in stone, with the motto, “In the steps of St. Peter,” inscribed across a banner at its base. It felt odd to enter without knocking first, but I stepped inside anyway.             I arrived at the ticket office, only to discover that the last tour had concluded five minutes ago. A lady who worked there asked, “Would you still like to look around the house?”             “Yes,” I said.             “I’ll show him round.” Said the man to my left.             “Are you sure?” The Lady asked .             “Yes,” the man replied. “I’ll take h
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Hallowed Dead

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I apologize for the long delay in blog entries. It’s been a hectic time; work, school, writing things that aren’t my blog, and also trying to stay coherent through it all. Needless to say, I’ve felt trapped between that state that is neither waking nor sleeping. I believe it’s called, “Being undead.” Neither blood nor rum compels me to rise. It’s a mix of tea and stubbornness. I’m taking time out from the novel that will not end, so that I can make a Halloween post. I wasn’t sure what to write this year. I told a ghost story last year; one that my mother shared. This year, I have no ghosts to share. Sort of… Like most people interested in the macabre my exposure started at a young age. Like anyone else I don’t focus on it twenty-four-seven. I have a variety of interests, and yet I will often find myself gravitating toward the Gothic, the ghoulish, and ghostly. Partly it’s because so much of history is wrapped up in such things. But also, because it’s part of my
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Cassandra, Cassandra, and Sir Richard

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House of Jane--Part Two:  Cassandra, Cassandra, and Sir Richard             After I finished at Jane’s house I walked down the road to Chawton Great House—once occupied by Jane’s brother, Edward Austen-Knight. It was opened to the public by the Knight family in 1987. More about that later. The walk to Chawton House is about eight minutes and includes some gentle rolling hills if one looks to the left. The path to the house is one that Jane herself would have walked on a regular, almost daily basis. But before I could visit that magnificent country house I had to pay my respects to some of its former guests.             Both Mrs. Austen and Cassandra Austen are buried in the churchyard of St. Nicholas (also known as Chawton Church). This is not to be confused with the church in Steventon where Rev. Austen was rector. This St. Nicholas was once a chapel for the Knight family. It is now a small-town church with parishioners from Chawton and surrounding areas. The churchy
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