This weekend I visited King’s Island with my little brother, Alex. In the above video you can listen to my thoughts on riding roller coasters at 32 or read the essay below.
There’s a slight disconnect between the essay and the video. I wrote the essay about our first ride of the day - the Vortex. The video is from the Beast and is more than a bit shaky. The Beast is the roughest roller coaster I’ve ever been on. As Alex put it, “The Beast is a 3-minute 40-second car crash.”
Over the Hill
The train ratchets up the hill and I have one question on my mind, “Am I too old for this?”
It doesn’t really matter. I can turn around and see where I was, how low I’ve been. But at this point there’s no going back.
There’s the sky and the trees and the going up, up, up.
There’s also Alex. Alex is my little brother with Big Brothers and Big Sisters. I try talking to him, but he’s focused, lost is a world of unrealized fear.
The potential fear grows by the second. Every foot we gain, we have more to lose.
I remember being here when I would be checked at the “You must be taller” sign. I remember how the adults – serious people in their 30s – would talk about how they could no longer ride. They hurt too much, or it made them sick.
When does that happen?
I’m thinking about being an adult, about being a dad, about mortality, responsibility, about growing up, and about not throwing up. I’m thinking about ups and downs – the kind of stuff that hums in our minds 24/7.
Over the hill, and I let go and lift my hands in the air. Alex does the same. Not a care in the world. No doubts. No responsibility, just the air running its fingers through our hair and our fingers running through the air.
Loops and corkscrews could be metaphors for something, I’m sure of it, but I don’t care. They’re there and Alex and I zip through them at 80 miles per hour.
We do the funny handshake Alex invented. We laugh. We holler at the riders in front of us, who holler back. We don’t know them. We didn’t talk to them before and we won’t talk to them after. But we are nameless friends for 40 seconds.
We smile for the camera after the last corkscrew. We look at each other our faces twisted by G-forces, every smile muscle firing. I’m thirteen again.
Getting older doesn’t have to mean growing up. Sure, be responsible, but let yourself go, find pure joy, put your butt down on the Vortex, the Beast, the Diamondback, put it somewhere it doesn’t belong and enjoy the ride.
Put your stomach in the hands of physics and defy gravity. Fly through some engineer’s calculations and do that thing you are too old to do.
Life is a roller coaster, but don’t let your life (or metaphors) ruin the ride.
“I’ve noticed that there is a…conversational feel [in your work], something that says each text was written by Kelsey Timmerman. Perhaps that is voice…What do you think voice means?” My buddy and fellow author/writer Chris Humphries asked this in an email the other day.
“When my editor sent my manuscript to the copyeditor, he sent instructions to “keep the voice.” There were several very specific instructions, but the one I remember the most was to keep the spelling of “fella.” Is that voice?
I’ve always adhered to the advice: “Write like you speak. If a word wouldn’t come of your mouth, don’t put it down on paper.” That being my goal, I take it as a compliment when someone hears me speak in person and tells me that I “sounded” just like I do on the page. That said, people also tell me I sound either like Joe Dirt of Matthew McConaughey. I don’t imagine either one of those fellas is a very good writer.
My favorite Esquire writer is Tom Chiarella. For a long time I never knew he was my favorite because I wasn’t reading the bylines. But eventually I discovered that all of my favorite pieces were written by him. I liked his voice.
When I think about voice vs. style vs. tone my head hurts. So that’s all I have to say. I try to think about writing as little as possible, especially when I’m doing it.”
No, not you class of 2011, you’re so sensitive, but screw all of the folks who write about the Great Recession producing the Lost Generation, and how you all are just going to move back home and play videogames and file e-resumes while mooching off of your parents’ 401K.
Do you know what the Great Depression produced? The Greatest Generation, that’s what.
Tough times make us better.
I was reading a piece in the Huffington Post about the Lost Generation and it made me pissed off for you Class of 2011.
“Millennials were raised the way Bill Cosby told parents to raise their kids — set rules, show encouragement, don’t use physical discipline, build up a child’s self-esteem,” explains Winograd. “If you tell someone from zero to 13 that they’re always doing a nice job and that they’re really special and wonderful, they’ll wind up believing they are.”
Self-confidence breeds optimism, according to Winograd and Hais, even when times are tough. “The millennials don’t have a sense that everything is wonderful, because obviously it isn’t, but they believe as a country that things will get better and their lives will also get better,” says Hais. “In part, it’s because they’re young and they actually have time to accomplish this. But it’s also because generations like the millennials feel they’ve accomplished good things in the past and that they will again in the future because their parents told them so.”
So the stereotype is that you, Class of 2011, are a bunch of everybody-is-a-winner, ego-fed kids who think you’ll succeed in life because your momma thinks you have a nice smile, so you are just going to sit around and wait for the world to bless you with a life as nice as your perfect dentistry your pappa paid for by working overtime at the factory.
Seriously? Are you pissed yet?
This isn’t racism or sexism this is a whole other –ism…generationalism.
Generationalism (noun) – hatred or intolerance of another generation of people.
Don’t give up like this girl profiled in the article:
Her dream for the future used to encompass a well-appointed and comfortable life — a farmhouse, two artist studios, a husband, and several children. “But it’s not worth dreaming so big anymore,” says Malik. “My plans now are far less extravagant. I guess I’m learning to dream on a much smaller scale.”
Screw the scale!
Do you know what the scale is? The scale is to graduate with debt –check you probably got that covered – get a job that you don’t particularly care for but has “nice benefits,” none of those benefits allowing you the time and resources and energy to pursue that thing – you know what I’m talking about – that you’ve always wanted to do.
Dream bigger
I was a “Boomerang kid. “ For a two-year span in my mid-twenties I lived with my parents. I was such a loser, or was I?
I graduated college with a degree in Anthropology, which the generationalists would say was impractical, and traveled the world gathering stories that I now get paid a living to re-tell in writing and in person. Of course, the naysayers at the time thought I was a loser. That I wasn’t making use of my college degree – regardless of how impractical it was. But the funny thing is that I went to college for more than just a piece of paper that occupied four years of my life and one line on my resume. I actually learned stuff. Stuff that helped shape the way I look at the world. Stuff that made me ask questions like “Where Am I Wearing? What is life really like for garment workers around the world?” Stuff that eventually launched my career as a writer and speaker.
I also worked as a dive instructor in the Florida Keys, which the generationalists would label a dead-end job. In the two years I worked as an instructor, I learned more about life and death and leadership and fish and myself than I would’ve ever learned at an entry-level job in some office or going to grad school.
I worked hard pursuing impractical things and between my days as a dive instructor and my career as author/speaker, I lived with my parents for 20-months. I worked a day job at the family business, but my eye was always on the prize: find a way to do what I love to do.
I was a man living with his parents. I knew what people were saying, “Kelsey, the vagabond, Kelsey, the beach bum, moved in with his parents? Surprise, surprise.”
Do you know what I had to say?
Screw ‘em!
They had no idea where I was going, and trust me I was going. I love my parents dearly, but past a certain age it is damn near psychologically impossible to live with your parents. Really, what better motivation is there to go somewhere, anywhere, than your mother asking you – twentysomething YOU! - when you’re going to clean your room.
So class of 2011, be reasonably impractical.
No job is a dead-end job, unless you allow it to be so. Got a degree in art history and a job as a sandwich artist? I know and you know that your career aspirations don’t involve asking “white or wheat?” or “would you like to make that a combo?” but there is nothing wrong making sandwiches on the path to that thing you want to do.
It’s reasonable to work a job, any job. It’s reasonable to move in with your parents for a bit. It’s impractical not to learn from both experiences. It’s impractical to not move beyond both. It’s impractical not to pursue your dream.
Work any job, live in your parent’s basement, and pursue your goals with a focus and passion that the generationalists in all of their 9-to-5 comforts have never known, and you’ll never be lost.
“I have a question for you all: where are you wearing?”
It’s a question that I would end up asking a thousand times over the next few years, but this was my first ever Where Am I Wearing? presentation.
I was at Books & Co. in Dayton, Ohio, and they were holding a contest. Who ever knew where the most items of clothing they were wearing were made won.
As everyone turned to check their tags, I gulped nervously on some water and reviewed my notes and then went into the crowd – maybe 15 people – to help check tags.
“Excuse me,” the woman in a black T-shirt said, as she turned and lifted up the back of her shirt. “Could you check the tag on my bra?”
Luckily, my mom (moms don’t miss their sons first ever reading) was nearby and stepped in to do the deed.
AWKWARD!
Anyhow, I have good intell that says the bra lady (also spoofed in this video) is a fan of John Scalzi and found out about my reading through his blog (my favorite blog around). Tonight my little brother and I are driving to Dayton to see John Scalzi talk about his new book, Fuzzy Nation (out today!!!!), and one question keeps popping into my head….
Either I have super hearing or one can hear a baby’s heartbeat by placing your ear on a pregnant woman’s belly. To be clear, that someone was my wife.
Thump-Thump-Thump
I listened intently to my little boy’s heart. My ear to Annie’s belly like a cowboy with his ear to the ground listening for coming troubles. Then he kicked me in the ear.
One of the reasons I try to avoid writing about religion is because it can often be divisive: If you don’t believe what I do, well then, you are wrong. So at first I was hesitant to agree to an interview at the spiritual book club, but then I read what they were about:
www.spiritualbookclub.com is an on-line global community of kindred spirits who explore spirituality through books, music, discussion, and ways to get involved in doing good things globally…Often in talking about religions, there can be disagreement about this philosophy or that. Spirituality covers a broader turf. Those who attempt to lead spiritual lives get a sense that it’s about trying to be faithful, trying to understand, and accepting that there are things that will never be answered in this lifetime.
It’s a quick and fun interview complete with my answer to “Name a place in the world where you feel spiritually ‘connected?’”
I’ve filled my lungs to the point of embolism and swam to 100’ feet beneath the ocean’s surface. I grabbed sand to prove I made it to the bottom and swam for the surface. Swimming to 100’ is the easy part. Swimming back is the hard and essential part. My legs grew heavy with lack of oxygen. My hand oozing with sand broke the surface first.
That felt like deep water.
I turned the water on and plugged the drain. I left to get diapers, diaper rash crème, pajamas, and my daughter Harper. By the time I returned the bath was half full. If she rolled over on her belly to blow bubbles, her head would be submerged.
The water was too deep.
I’ve fished offshore. Where the continental shelf slips beneath the Atlantic the water turns a primordial purple.
This is the deepest water.
I’ve been in deep water before, but never like this. I’m standing in front of my mailbox and water laps at my thighs. I bend over searching for the storm drain with one hand and craning my head out of the water. I remove a single chestnut and the sucking begins. A whirlpool more than 3’ deep slurps away like some underground monster trying to drain my entire street in one huge gulp.
Lightening flashes and reflects off of water standing where there was once driveways, streets, and front yards.
When the tornado sirens go off, I look to the sky in disbelief. If I were in a movie, I would raise my fists into the driving rain and shout, “is this all you got!” But I’m not in a movie. Even if I did have flood insurance, I wouldn’t thumb my nose at any higher power.
What we’ve got is quite enough, thank you very much.
I’m in deep.
Rising water, a sinking ship
My 2-year-old daughter Harper woke-up at 1AM. I was still in my office, putting the final touches on my four-day speaking itinerary in Missouri. I slid into her bed and stroked her hair until she was fast asleep. It was the last I would even consider shutting my eyes for the next 40 hours.
In your house water sounds should come from your bathroom and your kitchen, but never the hallway. I got to the bottom of the steps and saw Annie staring at water seeping under the front door onto our brand new wood laminate flooring and pouring down into the floor vent.
“Towels, T-shirts, anything that soaks up water!” I passed out the orders like a captain on a sinking ship. I opened the garage door to assess the situation. Shoes floated by. A wave of water swept across the floor.
I slammed the door shut and stuffed it with towels and garbage bags.
But the damn water was unstoppable – in it came.
-
“911 Emergency…”
“Yes,” I say, “my house is flooding.”
“Sir, we are busy. All of our units are out. Just try to stay comfortable.”
I hang up. Stay comfortable?!?! What part of my house is filling up with water don’t you understand? Isn’t there a checklist for something like this? Shutoff your power? Grab your pets? Use your seat cushion as a flotation device?
After clearing the drain, the water began to recede, but the rain came down even faster and the drain clogged once again. I unclog it and run into our backyard to check the creek. It’s on the rise too. If nothing changes, we’re going to have bigger concerns than our new flooring.
I run inside.
Annie always complains about my vast T-shirt collection. “Why does one person need so many T-shirts?” The collection is strewn about the floor. Every university I speak at gives me a T-shirt. Muskingum University is soaked, so is Elmhurst College. Wingate University is well on its way.
“Get Harper and go into the half-bath (our only interior room), the tornado sirens are going off. “
Annie comes down with a sleepy-eyed, stinky-breathed Harper in her Christmas pajamas even though it’s February.
I fight the water alone while Annie and Harper sit in the closet-sized bathroom. I put garbage bags over the vents to stop the water from flowing in. I run back out to the drain. Clogged again!
The rain continues. The creek rises. Water begins to come out of the vents in the living room. First the kitchen was lost, now the living room.
Back inside I make the call. “Where’s Oreo (the cat)? Get her. We’re taking you guys down to the neighbors.”
The captain orders an “abandon ship.”
We shuffle off into the soggy night. Annie hauls Oreo in her tiny tote. I’m holding Harper to my chest, shielding her from the rain with a jacket. Harper squeezes a clueless Monkey in the crook of her elbow, and chatters sweetly to him about water. We slog through front yards and landscaping like prowlers while our higher-ground neighbors sleep in their warm beds to the pitter-patter of the rain on their roofs.
Slosh by slosh we leave our home. It’s a hopeless feeling, abandoning the only place on earth we own to forces beyond our control.
Going down with the ship
With Annie, Harper, and Oreo on dry land, I wade back to monitor the drain and do what I can.
“La, La, La, La…La, La La, La…Elmo’s world.” The plush Elmo floats through the living room face down, singing as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. A bare-bottomed baby doll silently drifts in the current flowing around the entertainment center. I grab them both and toss them in the upstairs hallway, which looks onto the downstairs.
I slog through the living room past thousands of dollars of furniture, saving $5 toys that my daughter likes to hug.
I stop and look around. What now?
In the triage of my life’s clutter, I deem nothing else worth saving. Everything important is high and dry.
—-
A tour of our house post-flood
Good news. We don’t have flood insurance, but because the water backed up at an off-property storm drain insurance is covering us. We’ve been living between our home and an apartment now for about three weeks. Today, the first of the new flooring is being put down. We’re replacing all of our floors. I’m sitting in my office, surrounded by furniture from every room in the house, being serenaded by a chorus of banging hammers, painters jamming to classic rock, saws, and the sweet tinkle of tile.
A question for you
If you’re living room was flooding what would you grab first?
Once upon a time authors shared their work at independent book stores filled with folks who loved books. The big boxes killed the radio star…I mean the independent book stores. Writers were forced to arrange readings at the big box stores who begrudgingly stuck the writer in the corner and did nothing to promote the event.
Here’s my reenactment of the big box experience vs. a book club visit…
Today, the big boxes are dying too.
What now?
The writing community needs to pull together to shine the light on local writers. The Midwest Writers (who have a new website, and are accepting registrations for their awesome summer conference) are hosting a new reading series in Muncie: The Message in a Bottle Reading Series.
If you are in Muncie, you should come out. I’ll be sharing the story behind this picture…
Cathy Shouse will be reading from her book on the home of James Dean and Garfield, Fairmount, Indiana. And my favorite local reporter, Ivy Farguheson will also be reading some of her recent work.
The details
Time
Saturday, March 19 · 9:30am - 11:00am
Location
Blue Bottle Coffee Shop
206 S. Walnut
Muncie, IN
More Info
Come at 9:30 a.m. to mingle and get your caffeine fix. Readings start at 10 a.m. and will last until 11 a.m.
Featured writers
* Ivy Farguheson, Star Press reporter, shares her personal writings
* Cathy Shouse, author of Fairmount: Images of America,reflects on the community that spawned James Dean and Jim Davis
* Kelsey Timmerman, author of Where Am I Wearing?, tries to keep pace with world-class Kenyan runners
If you plan to come or you have questions, email MWW director Jama Bigger at midwestwriters@yahoo.com.
This is a free event sponsored by the Midwest Writers Workshop. Refreshments available for purchase.
Digg
Facebook
Flickr
LinkedIn
StumbleUpon
Twitter
