Fred Aiken Writing

Tag: dailyprompt

June 24, 2024

The Broken Radio Oracle

Daily writing prompt
How important is spirituality in your life?
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It started with the radios. At least, that’s how I like to remember it, because beginnings are important, even in a world where causality is just a quaint suggestion. It was a Tuesday, or maybe a Thursday—it was definitely raining—and the static crackle of old AM radios began whispering secrets to me. You could call it a spiritual awakening, or just another misfire in the symphony of neural dissonance. I choose to call it Tuesday, as I imagine most people would, and I would consider myself very much to be, well, like most people.

The first message came from an antique Philco 90 I found in a thrift store. It was buried under a pile of dusty National Geographics, all smelling of mildew and forgotten plans to travel the world. I plugged it in out of sheer boredom, tuning it to a frequency that shouldn’t have existed. The voice was faint but insistent, a ghostly echo in the cacophony of my cluttered apartment.

“Do you seek enlightenment or escape?” it asked. The voice was neither male nor female, human nor machine. It was an existential hum, vibrating through the very bones of the universe.

“Both,” I replied, because who doesn’t? The Philco crackled approvingly, and I felt a shift in the air, like the world had nudged a little closer to an unseen truth.

From that day on, I became the reluctant disciple of broken radios. Each day, I scoured flea markets, garage sales, and abandoned buildings for my next oracle. I never knew where the messages would come from—a Zenith Trans-Oceanic, a Sony ICF, a Sangean PR-D5—but they always came, whispering fragments of wisdom, riddles wrapped in static.

“Spirituality is the art of losing yourself to find yourself,” one said. This came from a 1960s transistor radio, its once-bright plastic now faded and cracked.

“Faith is believing in the absence of reason,” intoned another, a voice that buzzed from a battered Grundig Satellit 2100.

People started to notice. My apartment, once a haven of organized chaos, became a shrine to these enigmatic devices. Friends, or what passed for them, would come by out of morbid curiosity. They’d ask if I’d gone mad, if I’d finally succumbed to the pressures of a reality that never quite fit. I’d just smile, knowing that they couldn’t hear the music in the static, the poetry in the noise.

“How important is spirituality in your life?” the radios would ask me. And each time, my answer changed.

“Today, it’s a whisper in the dark,” I’d say to a Motorola Golden Voice, its speakers rattling with ancient wisdom.

“Tomorrow, it’s the silence between thoughts,” I’d muse to a Panasonic RF-2200, the dials spinning like a roulette wheel of fate.

The voices never demanded worship, never promised salvation. They were guides, not gods, leading me through the labyrinth of my own mind. And in the process, I began to understand that spirituality wasn’t about rituals or dogmas. It was about connection—the kind that bridges the gap between the known and the unknown, the tangible and the ethereal.

One day, while rummaging through an old warehouse, I found an RCA Victor Special Model 50X. It was pristine, as if time had forgotten it. I took it home, heart pounding with the anticipation of a gambler placing his final bet. Plugging it in, I tuned to that impossible frequency, waiting for the familiar crackle.

“Are you ready?” it asked, and I knew this was no ordinary message.

“Ready for what?” I whispered, afraid of the answer.

“For the next step,” the radio replied, its voice softer, almost tender. “You’ve walked the path of the seeker. Now, it’s time to become the source.”

The static faded, leaving a profound silence in its wake. I looked around my apartment, at the rows of radios that had been my teachers, my companions. I understood, then, that the journey wasn’t about finding answers, but about becoming a question, an endless exploration of the self and the universe.

I unplugged the RCA Victor, and as I did, the other radios fell silent, one by one. They had taught me all they could. The rest was up to me.

Now, I wander the streets with a new purpose. I speak to strangers, not in the cryptic tones of the radios, but in simple, human words. I share the fragments of wisdom I’ve gathered, not as a prophet, but as a fellow traveler. And in their eyes, I see the same spark of curiosity, the same hunger for connection.

Spirituality, I’ve learned, is the dance between the signal and the noise, the interplay of presence and absence. It’s the art of tuning in, of listening to the spaces between the static. And as I walk this path, I carry the voices of a thousand broken radios within me, each one a note in the symphony playing out. Yet still on the verge of being unplugged.

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June 23, 2024

take care to be careless

Daily writing prompt
How do you practice self-care?
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Self-care has become one of those buzzwords that everyone seems to throw around these days. Usually, conjuring up images of spa days, yoga retreats, and other activities that involve, well, other people. But for those of us who prefer the company of our own thoughts to the exhausting presence of others, self-care takes on a different form.

I’m not one for grand gestures or elaborate routines. My approach to self-care is minimalistic, efficient, and, most importantly, solitary. Here’s how I maintain my sanity in a world that insists on being loud and intrusive.

I also avoid noise like the plague. I like to be in environments where there is little to no noise. Whether it’s the constant drone of conversation, the blaring of car horns, or the intrusive buzz of a phone notification, noise is a thief that steals my peace. My first rule of self-care? Embrace the silence. Noise-canceling headphones are my best friend. Pop those babies on, and suddenly the world fades away, leaving me with the sweet sound of nothing. Bliss.

Do nothing. I wholly believe in the philosophy of doing jack-shit. There’s this pervasive idea that you must always be doing something to be worthwhile. I reject that notion. One of my favorite forms of self-care is doing absolutely nothing. No agendas, no plans, just me and my favorite chair. Staring at the ceiling can be surprisingly therapeutic. It’s in these moments of nothingness that I find a strange sort of peace.

As you might be able to tell, I’m pretty introverted. Interacting with people is draining. Small talk is a pointless exercise, and social gatherings are endurance tests masquerading as fun. My self-care routine includes a strict avoidance of unnecessary, and sometimes necessary, human interaction. Groceries? Ordered online. Meetings? Emails suffice. Social events? Politely declined. The less time spent with people, the better.

But when I’m not interacting with people or doing nothing, then I read. Books are the ultimate escape and form of self-care to me. They don’t judge, they don’t talk back, and they certainly don’t demand anything from you. But at the same time, the transport me to countless worlds and realities of incalculable imaginations. My bookshelf is my sanctuary. The library is my home away from home. When the world becomes too much, I dive into a book and lose myself in another world. Fiction, non-fiction, it doesn’t matter—as long as it’s engaging and far removed from my reality.

I have also found that the internet has become a cesspool of noise and nonsense. Constant connectivity is overrated. Unplugging is one of the most effective forms of self-care for myself. Turn off the phone, shut down the computer, and disconnect from the endless stream of information and interaction. The world won’t end if you miss a few memes or status updates. It helps that I don’t really have social media. I mean, I had a Linkedin, but I haven’t checked it since the last time I changed jobs some four years ago.

While spontaneity might be thrilling for some, I find comfort in routine. Knowing exactly what to expect each day is a form of self-care that keeps anxiety at bay. My days are structured, predictable, and wonderfully monotonous. Wake up, coffee, work, read, sleep. Rinse and repeat. It’s the predictability that provides a sense of control in an otherwise chaotic world.

Self-care, for me, isn’t about indulgence or pampering. It’s about preserving my sanity in a world that seems intent on eroding it. It’s about finding pockets of peace and moments of quiet in a noisy, demanding existence. So, while I may not be the poster child for self-care, I’ve found a way to make it work for me. And that, in its own quiet way, is enough.

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June 22, 2024

A Day and Age of Waste

Daily writing prompt
How do you waste the most time every day?
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I play a lot of chess. Like a ridiculous amount of chess. Almost exclusively internet chess. It’s almost embarrassing how much time I spend on those 64 squares. My mornings start with a game, my lunch breaks are punctuated by a few blitz and bullet games, and my evenings are often spent in tense matches against strangers from around the world. If there’s a moment to spare, you can bet I’m thinking about how to maneuver my knights and bishops.

Sometimes, when people are talking to me, I will drift off and daydream about, you guessed it, chess.

It all started innocently enough. I was introduced to chess as a kid back before the internet blew up like it did. It happened that I was kinda good. Not ridiculously Bobby Fischer prodigy type of good, but I competed in a handful of competitions as a kid, and I even one a few of them. Then, for whatever reason, I stopped playing when I got into high school and college. I blame girls and my stupid hormones.

But then I got married, got a steady job that pays a fairly decent salary, and I acquired a home, you know, all the things required to be a productive member of society, for the most part. Then I got to thinking, it’s been a while since I had played chess, and I used to really enjoy it. So, I asked around to see if any of my friends and family would want to play chess. And I was met with a resounding, ‘No, that doesn’t sound fun.’ Which is a ridiculous statement, since chess is perhaps one of the most adrenaline-inducing, fun activities that I can think of. But whatever.

I figured, well, the internet has certainly advanced quite a bit. Now there’s multiple languages that have been developed to make the interface and user experience much better than what it was some twenty, or even ten, years ago. So, I type in chess to Google, and up pops chess.com, which I sign-up for and BAM! It’s Pandora’s Box. I can’t stop myself from playing at least ten to twenty games per day.

What draws me in, day after day, is the mental challenge. Each game is a new battle, requiring fresh strategies and a keen eye for patterns. There’s a thrill in outsmarting an opponent, in laying a trap and watching them fall into it. It’s a high that keeps me coming back, move after move, game after game.

But here’s the kicker: for all its intellectual stimulation, chess is also my greatest time-waster. Hours can slip by unnoticed when I’m engrossed in a particularly challenging match. I’ve missed meals, deadlines, sleep, and more social gatherings than I care to admit because I was “just finishing this one game.”

It’s a peculiar form of procrastination. Chess feels productive because it engages the brain, unlike mindlessly scrolling through social media. Yet, it’s still a way to avoid more pressing tasks. Need to write a report? I’ll just play one more game first. Should be heading to the gym? Maybe after this next match. The game becomes an all-encompassing escape, a way to justify putting off the less appealing responsibilities of everyday life.

I’ve tried to moderate my habit. Setting limits, scheduling playtime, even uninstalling the app—all have been attempts to reclaim my time. Yet, like a magnet, I’m always drawn back. There’s something deeply satisfying about the game that other hobbies just don’t match. It’s a mental workout, a way to sharpen the mind, and a source of constant learning. Plus, the online community is vast and diverse, offering an endless stream of opponents, each with their own unique style and tactics.

Ironically, what’s supposed to be a pastime becomes a consuming part of my day. I’ve learned openings like the Sicilian Defense and the Ruy López, studied grandmaster games, and play an excessive amount of bullet games, where each move is made under the pressure of a ticking clock of a minute or less. These pursuits are fascinating, yet they also represent countless hours that could have been spent on more tangible accomplishments.

So, how do I waste the most time every day? By playing chess, diving into the endless depths of strategy and tactics, and losing myself in the dance of pieces on the board. It’s a love-hate relationship, one that challenges and entertains, but also devours precious hours with relentless efficiency.

As I sit here, reflecting on my time spent, a new match beckons. Even now, as I finish this thought and sentence, I’m thinking about rewarding myself with another quick game. We’ll see.

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