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7. Look at any images as needed (if appropriate, don’t
get angry; laugh at them instead).
8. If the instructions say skip ahead, follow the
instructions.
9. Skip ahead to the next step.
10. If you skipped the previous step, you actually didn’t
(just checking in to see if you are still following).
14. Always be sure to distinguish between mandatory
and optional instructions. Kind of like fact versus fiction,
but without the screaming.
19. If you accidentally miss a step in the instructions,
forgive yourself, and if you have to restart, really forgive
yourself. Don’t be afraid to forgive yourself. Really.
46. If others are offering unsolicited advice, share the
instructions with them, then talk with them. Just about
the instructions. Concentrate on the instructions.
a. If you need help with the instructions, don’t be afraid
to seek help. Best if before. Acceptable after. Stubborn if
never.
iii. If instructions lead to meandering, make sure you’re
following the appropriate instructions appropriately. If
you keep meandering, give into it. It’s where your heart is,
anyway.
15. If instructions become unwieldy or tenuous, don’t
break anything, then proceed. Jump to the proceed part.
You’ll be glad you did. So will those around you.
Part E. Become one with the instructions, even if they
seem evil. Leave those discussions to philosophers and
theologians.
Almost there. If the instructions do not turn out as
expected, remind yourself you’re really just where you were
to begin with, and things weren’t so bad then.
More almost. Remember this: Instructions do not wield
power over you. You do.
Morer almost. Also remember this: if it does not turn
out as expected, remind yourself that this is not a per
fect world, and thus, we have to live with imperfections.
(Exceptions: building a rocket and anything else that might
put someone in danger. Other than that, you’re pretty
much in the clear.) This said, keep striving, not why-me-ing.
Somewhere near the end. Once you have completed all
the instructions, regardless of how it turns out in the end,
go be good to yourself and somebody else.
THE MAGIC OF RABBIT
BOX
By Connie Crawley
Once upon a time in the not so far away Kingdom of
Athens, GA, there was Rabbit Box. Only a few chosen peo
ple knew what Rabbit Box was. Some people thought it was
a place where Easter rabbits were raised, but those who
really knew understood it was a magical event where people
addicted to their screens miraculously put their devices
down for two hours and listened to real people telling real
adult stories, not fairy tales, about their lives.
Rabbit Box took its name from a song by a famous
Athens minstrel named Vic Chesnutt who sang about true
emotions and life-changing events, so it was natural for
this special gathering to be called by this noble name.
For nearly eight years, many brave knights and ladies
from the Kingdom of Athens and other surrounding king
doms have pitched their stories to be selected for Rabbit
Box on the Rabbit Box website, rabbitbox.org. Then, if they
felt unsure of their skills, a mighty wise woman named Pat
Priest would help them to make their stories more pow
erful so they could slay their fears and inspire, amuse and
enchant the people who gathered together at The Foundry,
a stronghold of entertainment and culture in downtown
Athens. All these stories had to be told in eight minutes
or less without notes or other props to distract the rapt
listeners.
The stories must represent a theme selected for each
gathering by Kingdom leaders, like “Summer Love” or
“Pride and Prejudice.” For a while, the gathering met
monthly, but recently, it switched to meeting quarterly, as
the Kingdom leaders searched diligently for a new executive
director. Hopefully, with the ascent of the new director to
the throne in the near future, Rabbit Box will return to
monthly shows.
In fact, the next gathering of Rabbit Box will take
place at 7 p.m. on Jan. 8 at The Foundry with the theme
“Hindsight is 20/20.” A small fee of $7 is all that is required
for entrance. All citizens of the Kingdom of Athens and the
surrounding area are invited to attend this joyous gathering
to start the New Year right with renewed knowledge and
fellowship. In particular, more stalwart storytellers are
sought to beguile the audience with their tales of learning
from mistakes and overcoming challenges.
If you cannot make this first celebratory event of 2020,
another gathering will be Apr. 8, when the theme will be
“Nesting,” extolling the wonders of home and family.
THANK YOU, ATHENS
WRITERS ASSOCIATION
By Jill Hartmann-Roberts
I moved to Athens in December 2011 with my husband,
who had recently achieved his dream of becoming a ten
ure-track professor. I’d never lived outside of California
before. A year and a half later, I was still struggling to find
my own life in a part of the country where I’d never visited,
much less lived.
Still, I had to find my own way in Athens. As optimistic
as I was when I arrived, and as hard as I tried to fit in, I kept
falling on my face—and that was hard. Many times, I felt
like giving up, but I kept reaching out to new people. I’d
made a commitment to my husband and myself to make it
work. This was the life I had chosen. There had to be a place
for me.
For I’d also come to Athens with high hopes of realizing
my own lifelong dream of becoming a published writer.
The author's first AWA meeting.
My first attempt at joining a writing critique group in
2012 was a disaster. I was the poster child for blowing a
first impression. During the meeting, I proceeded to bluntly
tell them that they were discouraging other writers with
their focus on negative commentary in lieu of praise. Talk
about putting my foot in my mouth.
I’ve since learned how to catch flies with honey instead
of vinegar here in the South, and in general, but needless
to say, I burned that bridge with that writing group. To
my credit, I went back to two more meetings, and to their
credit, they were polite, albeit not particularly welcoming.
Who could blame them after this stranger from the West
Coast had lectured them on night one?
After that, I decided writing groups were not for me...
until I found the Athens Writers Association.
Little did I know when I walked into the Coffee Shop of
Athens that night in July 2013 how my life was about to
change.
I’d missed their kickoff in March, but the Athens Writers
Association, fondly known as the AWA, did not fully take
off until their August meeting. I met many writers, and we
decided to launch our own critique group. I’m proud to say
we have been working together for more than six years.
Sometimes in life, it takes someone, or something, to
turn the tide of the storm. For me, the Athens Writers
Association was that something. My life in Athens has since
changed for the better. I’ve created a life of my own that has
not only led to my becoming a published writer, but also to
my own new career at UGA.
A friend once told me that people come into your life
for a reason. Sometimes, it is just for a season. Sometimes,
it is for a lifetime. When they come into your life, they are
meant to be there at that time. Sometimes, the reason is
not always clear until years later, long after they have left
your life.
My fellow AWA writers came into my life at just the
right time. It is because of them that I have blossomed, and
I know as I move forward, the petals on this beautiful, glo
rious flower I have grown into will never wilt. The AWA will
always be with me in spirit, and I will always be writing.
And, although my life in Athens started out rocky and
frightening and lonely and uncertain, I have grown to truly
love this college town with all my heart.
Athens, I love you.
THREE STORIES
By Matt Beall
Signs
The other day, I was driving down Prince Avenue while lis
tening to John Prine’s “Lonesome Friends of Science.” The
song implies that a world shaped purely from a measurable,
scientific perspective would lack a spiritual dimension,
and that such a world would be a lonely place. Naturally,
this brought to mind the sign over the fish restaurant
that opened in Normaltown last year. This sign looks as if
the guys who painted it first spent a couple hours in one
of the adjacent bars, doodling on napkins and drinking. I
don’t know how long these places—those bars and the fish
restaurant—will be able to survive. The zombie-like rede
velopment of Athens suggests that it’s gonna go some day,
this strip on Prince, and be replaced by a chain restaurant
and boutiques that sell designer handbags and stuffed bull
dogs with semi-precious stones for eyes. The Chamber of
Commerce types will say they’re building a better tomorrow
or other such rhetorical bamboozlement. I say they will be
neutering the neighborhood. By the time they have fin
ished monetizing Normaltown’s character, they will have
succeeded in making Normaltown normal, with the bland
architecture essential for rendering any location undetect
able from countless others. It goes without saying that the
signs will be perfect, every one of them, shining emblems
of all that Athens is to become.
Debate Event at the Normal Bar
Last summer, I attended a Democratic debate party at
Normal Bar. I have noticed that many people who frequent
or live in Normaltown are NOT NORMAL, so the name is
definitely ironic. There was a turnout of around 50 people
for the debate. It was mostly a bifocal, closed-captioned,
Subaru crowd, people who’ve had insomnia since 2016, not
heroic drinkers, but often enamored of policy minutiae,
likely to be familiar with and approving of the Birkenstock
ethos. I thought Elizabeth Warren came off well in the
opening rounds. But I could tell which way the wind was
blowing, and not wishing to be overwhelmed by an orator
ical roller derby, I left. On Normal Bar’s outdoor patio were
100 or so mostly young folk, getting absolutely hammered.
I envied them.
Motorpsycho
Guy’s sitting next to me at a bar here in Athens. Three in
the afternoon, he’s headed for oblivion via the Irish whis
key method. We get to talking about Triumph motorcycles,
since we both rode them in the 1970s. One of the signal
characteristics of drunks is that they can convince them
selves of anything and believe it heart and soul, until they
about forget it. This guy is dead sure he’s gonna buy a new
motorcycle, soon, and ride it to Valhalla, because “every
thing is meaningless.” The nihilism I can understand, albeit
with reservations, but the motorcycle purchase is difficult
to square with his admission of catastrophic financial
affairs. This isn’t the first free-association motorpsycho
rant I’ve listened to, and I suspect the emotional weather is
about to undergo a serious pressure drop. Which it does. In
24 FLAGPOLE.COM | DECEMBER 25, 2019 & JANUARY 1, 2020
