Out of Step, In Tune

June 18, 2025

I’ve never moved easily with the crowd. Even as a child, I sensed things others didn’t notice. I saw patterns. I felt tension where others felt calm. That difference set the course for much of my life. I later came to understand it as neurodivergence.

This way of thinking made me restless in the face of injustice. When politicians tried to divide people, I helped create Cultural Stomp. When Australia locked up refugees on remote islands, I helped send boats toward Nauru. These actions didn’t come from strategy. They came from something more basic: I couldn’t stay silent.

It also shaped how I look after my health. At 73, I walk every day, track my progress, and keep my habits sharp. My VO₂ Max sits around 41.5—on par with men much younger. I didn’t plan to achieve that. I just kept going, step by step.

Writing followed the same pattern. I never set out to write for an audience. I wrote to make sense of what I saw and felt. My work comes from moments that stood out—dreams, memories, odd encounters, sharp turns in the road. Most of it came quietly, over many years.

I’ve lived most of my life outside the usual path. I rarely feel part of things. But that distance gave me something else: the space to see clearly, and the will to act when it mattered.

The posts here on this blog comes from that place. No polish. No performance. Just what felt real, when it mattered most.

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A Letter to My Absent Guardian Angel

November 20, 2024

To My Ever-Absent Guardian Angel
66 Automatism Road,
Mammonville, 6666

Dear (Supposedly) Watchful One,

It’s been a while—decades, in fact. I thought I’d drop you a line, not because I miss you (I don’t), but because I need answers. Primarily: Where the hell have you been?

You left without so much as a celestial Post-it. For us mere mortals, words matter. Even a basic “BRB” would’ve sufficed. But no, you flapped your wings and ghosted—ironically, since you’re already sort of a ghost. I won’t harp on it (much), but if “guardian” is still part of your job description, it might be time to recheck the fine print.

Anyway, life update: I’ve applied for the position of Director of My Own Life. Admittedly, the pay isn’t great—it’s public service, after all—but the benefits include fewer existential breakdowns and a slightly better carbon footprint. Sure, it’s a one-man gig, and the office hours are ridiculous, but hey, somebody’s got to steer this shipwreck.

Now, a burning question: why did our last encounter happen in a pub? Of all places, I imagined you’d prefer to appear in a shaft of light through a stained-glass window or something appropriately divine. Instead, you nursed a lager while I lamented my woes over a pint. Do angels even drink? Is there a heavenly liquor license I should know about?

If this sounds like I’m whining, well, maybe I am. But cut me some slack. You’ve been AWOL while I’ve wandered the planet armed only with Google Maps and a vague sense of purpose. The truth is, my life’s compass—whether literal or metaphorical—seems perpetually broken. Magnetic north? Useless. Tarot cards? Cryptic. Apps? Battery-draining. You get the idea.

On a related note, your detachable angel wings are still at the dry cleaners. The guy said something about a stubborn stain on the last feather, the one shaped like a bow. Blood, he thinks. Care to explain? I paid the cleaning fee, by the way—you’re welcome.

Honestly, I’m starting to wonder: were you scraping the bottom of the celestial eligibility list when they assigned me? I mean, it’s not like I’m top-tier humanity, but c’mon. Did you lose a bet? Draw the short straw?

And don’t even think about rolling your eyes or straightening your halo as you read this. I can picture you now, muttering, “He’ll never get that Director job. No chance.” Well, here’s the deal: this time, I’m doing it without you. No divine interventions, no whispered nudges in the right direction. You’re officially off the hook.

If you’re just a figment of my imagination—my brain’s way of outsourcing responsibility—then fine. But if you’re real, consider this a resignation letter from our arrangement. Not out of bitterness (okay, maybe a little), but because I need to stand alone, facing the metaphorical wall. And who knows? Maybe that wall will turn out to be a door once I stop expecting you to open it for me.

If I land the job, I’ll rescind all the childish grumbles I ever sent your way. If I don’t…well, at least I’ll know I tried, unsupervised.

Yours (conditionally),
Stavros

P.S. I’m busy this week, but after Sunday, feel free to drop by—no expectations, no feathers, no complaints.

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