Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about potential. The other day a friend asked why I’m shaking things up here in the Feral Fringe — why I keep trialing different design styles and formats. He wondered if I’m dissatisfied, or if I’m perhaps just looking for a distraction, or if I simply change directions because I want to. I responded by ranking the possible reasons he provided:
Distraction
Dissatisfied
Want to
I certainly have bigger fish to fry than putting out this newsletter every few weeks, but I find that it helps me process whatever’s going on in my life. I’m embarrassed to admit that the design aspect takes longer than it should, as I noodle on various concepts then attempt to execute something using my basic Adobe skills. Could I watch hours of YouTube tutorials to learn how to create more complex designs more easily? Of course I could. Part of the masochism is knowing that there’s a better way and still fumbling around in the dark using the tools and methods I think should work.
I know that this newsletter and my work in general has the potential to be so much more, which is why I keep iterating and forcing myself to bump into obstacles and new challenges. As a person, I know I have the potential to be so much more, but I am afraid of the responsibility that comes with such a pursuit. Fear of success weighs far heavier on me than fear of failure does. So I distract myself with making banner images blending William Morris wallpaper patterns, pixel art, and modern brutalist typefaces, as I have done with this issue of Dispatches from the Feral Fringe. I hope you like.
If you do, or even if you don’t but still want to support someone who’s going through it, then please consider an upgrade to paid. For the cost of a caramel macchiato, you’ll get a couple of these newsletters each month and occasional other musings. I plan on posting more memories as part of my Random Access Memory project on a more regular basis. I think you’ll enjoy what’s in store. I would, if I were you.
Finally, I turned 43 last Sunday. Here’s a birthday deal, good only from now until the end of September:
I was an avid gardener for several years — eight seasons spent harvesting the fruits of my labor, tending my very own 4’x8’ patch of former parking lot, and learning a few lessons along the way. After a couple of years as an overachieving “grewbie” with the Peterson Garden Project, I became a block captain, which meant wrangling volunteers on workdays and serving as a resident expert should anyone need help or advice. I found myself sharing tips for warding off pests, recommendations on where to get the best seedlings, condolences for getting one of the plots next to the monstrous blackberry bramble, and secrets for growing prize tomatoes like my own. I felt community in a way I’d never experienced before.
We took care of each other’s plots during out-of-town trips and chatted about life and growth and death and bunny infestations. Little experiments cropped up here and there — a medicinal tea garden in an inconspicuous tangle of weeds and tiny rock fortresses built to protect orphan seedlings who would’ve otherwise perished. We grew and donated hundreds of pounds of produce each season to our local food bank.
Dying on the vine is “to fail at an early stage or never come to fruition, typically due to neglect, infeasibility, or lack of resources.”
The summer before the pandemic, I quit gardening. I was beyond stressed at work and my relationship was falling apart. I went to FORM and had the first of several nervous breakdowns. I was visiting Toronto every few months. I traveled as far as Portugal to find the joy I had forsaken. I joined a trauma therapy group. My bosses sent me to San Antonio on business, forcing me to miss trauma therapy. My aunt died. I went home for Christmas and saw my other aunt for the last time. My mental health was already suffering when 2020 came and blew the roof off of everything else.
All the things I’d worked so hard to achieve over the course of a decade began to disappear. My livelihood hung in the balance. The life I had known was suddenly beyond my reach. I keep coming back to this particular moment, because it’s where I remain stuck. A lot of my hopes and dreams have withered, as the grief process unfolds even still. I sound like a “squeaky wheel,” as my old boss Jim used to say, usually when asking for the thousandth time about the status of some inane thing he was particularly hot for. It’s been three-and-a-half years since I was left to die on the vine. Time marches on, and I have to let go. At the end of the day, only I am accountable for my choices and how I respond to whatever life throws my way. I’ve long since dropped to the ground, the seasons breaking my matter down and turning it into something different than before: the compost that feeds new life and new growth ahead.
A smile and polite nod. A please and thank you. A look in the eye that says I see you, I hear you, I feel you. Actually holding someone else’s humanity in your heart and mind is a powerful experience that people often overlook, avoid, or miss out on altogether. We don’t always have to agree on things, but mutual respect no matter how deep the divide or wide the chasm between life experience, upbringing, or ideology is one of the keys to building better relationships and leading happier, healthier lives. They say “kindness is free,” and without common courtesy, there’s very little that distinguishes us from our more primitive forbears. The very fabric of society relies upon basic decency and open dialogue to keep from drifting off into anomie. Here are a couple of ways I like to acknowledge the inherent worth of people.
You know and may slightly loathe the little courtesy jog we have to do as a thanks for not running us over as we cross lanes of traffic moving in both directions. How fast or slow to go, how sporty to be, how flailing and awkward — it’s up to you. There’s also the question of whether or not to even do one when you’re wearing your Birkenstocks, which go flying off during some of the more half-assed courtesy jogs. Personally, I give a wave and a nod, mouthing thank you as I cheat injury and/or death.
The courtesy flush, for me, has evolved over time, especially in the wake of massive GI troubles since the start of the pandemic. My first flush comes at the very beginning to mask the rapid-fire toots that accompany a sometimes distressed microbiome. Often I’ll get a courtesy flush from my downstairs neighbor, as this is happening. It’s his way of letting me know he’s down there, and for better or worse, a part of the experience. The traditional courtesy flush is always welcome, helping lessen the blow of having exorcised last night’s enchilada combination platter.
A courtesy anything affirms your fellows’ dignity and value, promoting a sense of belonging, general kindness, and compassion across every interaction. So get to it, and see just how fucking polite you can really be.
