postapocalyptic love song

you get back from the postapocalypsalon
and put that bright postapocalipstick on
you tone your thighs on a postapocelliptical machine
stop in at poststarbuckslypse for fix of caffeine
you end each sentence with a postapocellipsis...

I know I'm just a clone of a clone
but you shouldn't be postapacalone
I'll get down on my bionic knee
will you postapacelope with me?


You could make me the happiest man alive
I know that's not saying much
do our part to help the human race survive
in our cozy scrap metal hutch

we could be so happy together
safe from radioactive weather
safe from atomic radiation's swelter
in our cozy little fallout shelter

I wait for you with a scarred smile
as you walk down the broken aisle
I feel my mechanical respiratory system temporarily fail
when I see the sparkle in your symbiotic eye as I lift your veil
starting a new life of apocalyptic bliss
as we say "I do" and apocalyptikiss

Coughing up a Lung

I'm sick, so so so sick of being sick. I've been sick since Saturday night. It started off as just an itchy throat sort of cough. Throughout the night it turned into the chills. If you've never had the displeasure of a firsthand account of the chills, imagine your bones are sheathed in ice and the cold radiates through your body. no amount of external heat penetrates to your frozen core. I think the chills are the closest thing we have to absolute zero.

By sunday morning I had gotten around an hours worth of intermittent, restless dozing. I had a fever and a cough that shredded my throat while simultaneously pumping pressure into my skull. The chills were so bad I took a scalding hot bath and it felt lukewarm. I took 2 of those before 8:3oA at which time I called in to work. Nope. I was going to have to come in, I had gotten sick at work so being contagious wasn't an issue, since my boys are all cooped up together anyway, there were already 4 more boys on bed rest since the night before. I came in for a half hour while i waited for someone to take over for me. I came home and spent a few hours in a state of suspended consciousness, neither asleep or awake. I thought 'hey this might be a good opportunity to get some homework done" no way. I read the first sentence of the chapter about 23 times and couldn't coax any meaning from it. somewhere in this time it became monday and then that passed and now its tuesday night. I'm feeling a lot better now. But my lungs are ready to collapse. I have the sensation of bits of my lung being torn out with each cough. my congestion is so bad I am experiencing limited range of motion in my chest, I can't breathe in too much air or I feel my lungs crackling. I can't exert myself too much when I sit up or my ribs feel like they'll shatter.

In the past two days I've downed 2 gallons of Gatorade, 3 sleeves of saltines, 2 family sized cans of chicken noodle soup and enough dope to sedate a mormon family/small army.

I must be over hydrated now, because while I am trying to enjoy LOST, I have to pause it every 15 or 20 minutes to run downstairs to the bathroom. One good thing is that I haven't been vomiting or... you know... the other.

All this sickness has got me anticipating my full recovery and I've decided to set some goals that will help me to appreciate and improve my health. (I don't do well with goals, so don't laugh, these are attainable, not ideal.)

2 hours a week at the gym (weekends don't count, but I sometimes work out with my boys.)
start swimming.
start holding my breath (I'll do this while driving, which ups the stakes should I pass out before I reach my goal.)
and last but not least, morning and evening yoga. I have already picked it up again but I'm going to commit to consistency.

some non health-related goals I have been pondering...
Get my Passport already
Start budgeting for a big springtime purchase(plus helmet).
Be happy.



wish me luck.

oh, and I was just kidding about holding my breath while driving.

All the icy heights that contain all reason...

You know when you're walking around, maybe preoccupied with something like trying to make your shirt collar sit right on your neck. and then all of the sudden theres a moment of silence around you... no slamming doors, no laughter or speaking, no people really. And then you just sort go "whoa, how'd I get here?"

happens all the time.

I liked that feature on Myspace blogs that allowed you to pick a soundtrack for your mood/blog. Right now I'd pick Badfish.

I really like driving fast. I need to work on my car.

I'm hating the snow right now. I'm just in the mood for that sweltering, humid heat that pins you to the floor. of course it's too dry here for that.
I have to admit, the gypsy in me is really jonesing for that fix of adventure, or escapism. I'm going to log off of here and meditate for a half hour or so. But first I'm going to replay this Pixies song and grab the last root beer from the fridge.

goodnight.

Mind is Water

I learned this little saying from a co worker in Alaska last summer. It's a great concept, but kind of hard to practice. no, not kind of. It's REALLY hard to practice.

It goes something like this.

when water is not actively churned or agitated it settles into a calm and even state. the mind can be a serene place if you don't stir it up with worries. things that happen cannot be undone, don't slosh it around in your mind. Let it go. (ever practice yoga?) "Breathe in the tranquility around you, feel the peace spread through your body. Breathe out, feel the turmoil within escape. Contemplate on the areas of the mind that harbor bad air, with your next exhalation, purge these areas of pother and allow repose to take its place."

I think that's the general concept. I hope I'm not missing anything big.

One thing I've noticed is that I am able to do this on big matters, and I tend to hang on to the trivial things. I'm going to start working on that right now, tonight.

examples of big things that don't get me down. A few months ago I found my car being towed. I caught the tow-truck man and had him drop the car. he charged me $60 to drop it. Mind you , that's easily only half of what I would have had to pay if I had come out of the concert 5 minutes later, But still. In the past I've had a problem with dealing with these sort of situations, I have fantasized taking a tire iron to the head of a parking patrol officer as he removes the boot from my car... This time I was able to own the fact that I didn't see the tow warning sign, and that the guy was just doing his job. I was able to see my good fortune at not having to pay upwards of $200 in towing and storage fees had I come outside 5 minutes later. I paid the man and I wished him a good night. and I while I did tell a few friends about the incident, I was actually just bragging that I was able to control my self.


A few days ago I logged onto my online bank account, it said I had a hundred some odd dollars. 'that's fine,' I thought 'I'll deposit my paycheck before school sometime next week.'
I logged on last night to see that my account was overdrawn around 350 dollars. What I hadn't noticed a few days ago was that my balance was in parentheses, meaning my account had a negative balance of a hundred some-odd dollars. I had accrued an additional $200 in overdraft fees on small purchases like hot chocolate, taco bell, a netflix payment etc. Oh man, I was pretty shocked, irritated. I am paying for this semester of school out of my own pocket. The deadline isn' too far off in terms of pay periods. It's been on my mind that I need to make a hefty payment soon or I'll have a doubly drastic payment on the deadline. Needless to say this $300 deficit in my account set me back a bit. But instead of flipping out and beating myself up, cursing my bank and their $32 overdraft fees. I looked over my statement and found out just where I had erred. and when I figured it out, I accepted it and let it go. It feels really good to do that.


Some little things that affect me in a big way.

I was pretty poor growing up, almost unbelievably so. My dad was pretty thrifty, and we made do. I guess he had this theory of being self sufficient enough to be able to survive on an income that exempted us from taxes. We did this by raising poultry/eggs, growing our own vegetables (mostly squash) and eating a lot of cheap staples (probably why I'm allergic to beans now.) We ate tons of pasta, beans, squash, stew, lintels etc. My mom went to midwifery school in Texas for a few months and during that time my dad instilled in me an appreciation for food on the table. If we didn't care for the meals in front of us, we were welcome to go to bed without. It was not acceptable to pick out the parts we didn't care for (squash, hot dogs in macaroni). To this day, if I see someone picking the celery out of their stew, taking just potatoes and meat from a pot roast, or throwing away pizza crusts, it just plain affects me. This is something really small to most people, even to me, but I can't help but think of waste and expense when someone doesn't eat their crusts. I have decided to make a conscious effort to not bring it up again. This is the last time. right here and now. If I do bring it up, call me out on it... Okay I may ask for your crusts before you infect them with your filthy saliva, but I wont jump down your throat/into the trash can if you say 'no' and throw them out.

It really is good to let things go. releasing that stress is taking control of your mental health. It's really, really good. try it.

breath of fresh air.

It's good to be back.

School has been kicking my ass for the past couple of weeks. psychological torture. I've been so stressed with dealing with all the new experiences of going to school that I really let it get to my head. A month ago my boss was bragging about me in meetings, this week he asked me if I care about my job. That hurt. But at the same time, it's pretty evident that I haven't been present mentally, and even when I have been in the moment I've been so irritable... Anyway... Good to be back.

I was just sitting here, reflecting on a test that I've been anticipating with such anxiety that my mind became something like burnt, dried out oatmeal, and I decided that I'm pretty confident in my score. And even if I scored low, I'm going to be able to say I did my best on it. Now I know the drill and what I can expect next time around.

My mind wandered off ( I think the pain in my arm interrupted) and I started thinking about mortality. I think I do that quite a bit, it must be a habit or something. But I decided that at this point in my life I think I could hear and sit with the news that I don't have a whole lot of time left. If someone were to tell me I'm dying in a month I don't think I would go off the deep end. That's not to say I wouldn't get a lot more active. But I faced myself with the question of whether or not I would change who I am for that last month and the answer came back a pretty solid 'no'. Understand, It's who I am to try and collect my own life insurance before I'm dead. It's who I am to get revenge in the worst way, without having to watch my back. It's who I am to run from my obligations.

just kidding. Except about the money part. I guess I think of life or health insurance as kind of like car insurance. I just go to a doctor and get a quote for a really expensive treatment, and after the insurance company cuts the check I go find someone with wholesale prices and pocket the difference. I would totally do that. So, how would I spend it?

(this really is how my mind works) Well I guess first of all I would buy a nice video camera and go start making crappy movies, finance and produce them myself, and then shamelessly appeal to every theater around to grant a dying man his wish to show my art in their facilities.

I would probably work (maybe a few hours less) until I'm less mobile. Then I would spend all my time writing. expanding the little ideas that I've been jotting down as they come to me for the past.. .decade. I have that shoe box of unfinished works that I would love to spend a week on. maybe I could finish a couple in time to shamelessly send it out to a L.A. big wig or two, asking for a dying mans favor, to get it greenlighted.

And I think that's about it. I'm pretty content with life right now. I'd much rather do these things in my own time. But everyones got to go sometime, I won't hold up the line.

Patterns

This is the blog you can summarize as "the one that ((actually) compares life to a Rubik's Cube.


I'm not really going to dissect the thought, but I think it's worth noting. After all, I was able to solve the Rubik's cube for the first time last night... with help.

Anyway, my entire life I have thought of the rubik's cube as this incredibly difficult thing that is as much chance as anything, and the overwhelming task of solving it is mostly just sticking with it till you get it right.

That's really how I've looked at life, too. You just have to buckle down and apply yourself to the task, get incredibly overwhelmed, frustrated, depressed, become hopeful, disappointed, step back and ascertain, reattempt, fail... repeat if necessary.

The thing is, with a Rubik's Cube, there's a pattern. and while you may expierience some frustration and disappointment at times, know things will change, know you have the power to change it, that damned yellow and green that is totally out of place will end up situated where it belongs if you adhere to the pattern. Eventually your frustration will give way to confidence as you jumble the blocks repeatedly and become familiar with them.

There are patterns to life. Learning the pattern is the tough part. Not knowing the patterns make things immensely more difficult, you rely on yourself in all your ignorance to be able to happen upon solutions, you end up backtracking and losing focus, maybe eventually giving up.

There are people around you who know the patterns. Find someone with the solutions and just listen and observe and try it out yourself. you'll get stuck, just relax and seek advice.

A normal (3×3×3) Rubik's Cube can have (8! × 3⁸⁻¹) × (12! × 2¹²⁻¹)/2 = 43,252,003,274,489,856,000 different positions, or permutations. (this is a figure taken from the Wikipedia page for Rubik's Cube - Permutations.)

I don't recommend letting someone else execute the patterns, you'll NEVER learn that way.

Just Thoughts

I feel like talking about a few random things--inconsequential things that have been on my mind for one reason or another.

1. for the past month or so, I haven't been sleeping very well. I wake up constantly. This somehow has the effect of feeling like I'm sleeping for countless hours, because when I happen to check the time between stints of sleep I find only a few minutes have past, but I was certain that it had been a couple of hours... This gives me a rush of joy that translates into something along the lines of 'oh boy! it's still only 2AM, that means I have SEVERAL hours left to sleep!' The fact is that I feel worse in the morning because I didn't get any good rest, just a lot of sleeping.
Now, on to the next item, which is somewhat related to the first.

2. For the past couple of weeks I have awakened to the image of a caped hunchback wearing a tan hat ( the kind the high rollers in Vegas wear... a trilby?) Honestly it has scared the crap out of me a couple of times now. The is a hat hanging on the doorway of a closet, which I hung a curtain over( = black cape). It usually occurs to me that I should change the angle or the location of the hat, or fix the curtain so that it doesn't look crooked in an arm beneath it. But during my hours of consciousness it just seems so asinine to do, it's kind of like degrading myself. giving myself a tour of the room to look for monsters so that I can sleep better at night. I think I should just clean my room and "happen" to straighten those things up in the process. that's a bite-sized solution to sidestepping my pride so as to settle my nerves when I wake up in the dead of night.

3. I need to clean my room. I've been pretty good about keeping it clean up until.... oh about the same time I decided not to trim my beard anymore (note to self: investigate possible correlation between these two "coincidental" points of time.) Anyway, I need to clean my room, It's not really bad. it's just that I've decided that I need a dresser, and I've been meaning to go pick one up. I don't see a point in doing all of my laundry unless I have somewhere to put it, so I've been doing single loads every couple of days to get by until I get around to putting "RC Willey" on my (figurative) calender.

4. I have investigated the correlation between the fact that my face is as unkempt as my room. I feel that it may be subconscious pessimism. I don't really get out much, don't really have a desire to impress anyone. I could clean my room for myself, but I wouldn't change my mind about myself when I observed that "wow, he keeps his place picked up very well." because I would, in essence, become a visitor to my own little world. And we have all been in the shoes of the guest who is all too aware that the host went out of his way to make things look nice, operating on the idea that he's keeping up appearances by having a clean house.. but really he's not fooling anyone but himself. And since I like to consider myself a pretty sharp kid, I don't want to insult my intelligence by trying to pull a quick one on me. that explains the crap on my floor. as for the muskrat on my face... I think I've come to the conclusion that it's an outward manifestation of the fact that I'm taking some time to be myself. I've been operating on the mentality of considering the outcome of every behavior before I decide how I will proceed. I consider the effect on everyone around me and that affects my choices. I'm trying this new thing were I do what I think is best, and then observe the effects. no a priori judgments. The effects so far have been either pointless or negative, but I'm determined to get to a point where I make my choices based on the effect they have on me, and still have it be the right choice. This will probably lose me a couple of friends, at least in the short term, but in the end I hope to better myself (as a person who operates on true consideration, and not only the consideration of what is socially acceptable or not.) and thereby become the friend I really (truly) WANT to be, and not just a manifestation of my interpretation of what a friend SHOULD be. In growing out my beard, I may very well be saying "I don't care if you think it's awful, I wont shave it until I think it is."

5. Number 5: The Paradox. This is where I convey the introspective results of my current mentality on "being myself"... in case you are wondering, that last paragraph was me taking a deeper look at a result of my mentality. Now I'm going to take a deeper look at the mentality itself.

I'm selfish.

wow, that was easy. I have realized lately that I am the single most inconsiderate person I know, hence my goal to change. but even in my new approach I have a distinct ping of disregard for others, this is what the pros call a "catch 22". I used to think of myself as one of the most caring people in the world. I scared myself (and continue to do so, sometimes) with how much I care. So now as I recognize the inconsistency in my behavior-this extreme juxtaposition- I have to wonder if I'm not just the most selfish person who is in denial. or, maybe the other way around. What makes me look at this so hard is the fact that I'm willing to go the long way around on this, and that it seems like a good idea to me. If I were truly inclined to consider others, I don't think I would have the heart to put that trait on the shelf and plow through with a callus disregard for my friends.

I'm really confusing myself. Here I thought I was going to learn something about myself and share it with you but really I'm just chasing my tail. I give up.

I've been riding a wave of negativity

for the past couple of weeks, I've been feeling really negative about things. Mostly I've been stressing over things that are out of my hands, things that I can't control. It's been wearing me down.

my devout readers probably already know that I wear my stress in my back. If I get stressed my back tightens up and and my whole body sits differently. If I'm in a stressful situation the first thing I notice about myself (okay, maybe I breathe differently first) is that my neck starts hurting and my lower back burns. Then I get really irritable.

but this time it was that stress that gradually sets in, the residue of not taking time out, time off or just plain take my time. It's the pernicious little bugger that eventually gets me in a slump of depression. It's a pattern of which I am aware, but only too late when I'm in the back half of the cycle.
one thing. things are different this time around.

I have been expecting to slip into the slump for a couple of days and I have been pretty resolved that I would do the whole autopilot coping thing that I do, kinda like an astronaut sleep, stare at a computer, read, maybe work out.

what happened tonight (which was supposed to be TDC on the compression stroke) instead of a spark, ensuing combustion of my motivation, and sequential exhaust stroke, what I got was more along the lines of a two stroke engine.

All of the sudden I wasn't feeling down, I was actually hit with a pang of joy (strange sensation = strange wording) and I suddenly was able to let go of that stress without the bout of depression. I know things aren't great, but I can be okay with that because I have this faith that I have it pretty good in all.
I decided not to wallow in my misery and misfortune and look for something to be happy about. I know it's possible, it's just a matter of effort, which I am fully willing to invest.

thanks for reading. I know this isn't my most articulate or entertaining posts.. I'm shucking the tawdry approach for sincerity I really just feel good right now and I don't want to rack my brain trying to be verbose.

Have a Merry Christmas!

Disorder

As a child I wet the bed. Great, now the world knows.

I was just laying in bed with my cell phone some where between the sheets with me when I suddenly had a flashback of being strangled in my sleep. This isn't why I started wetting the bed, but rather a side effect of that. I never knew why I wet the bed, I guess I was just a really heavy sleeper. But I grew out of it...eventually.

I used to wake up every morning with a dreadful feeling... being stuck to my bed with wet sheets and blankets. I honestly went to bed every night resolved to awaken dry and triumphant. but somewhere in between dusk and dawn, I lost track of that.

My parents tried to beat it out of me. I got spanked every morning that I wet the bed. When I was about 6, My mom (being the JC penny catalog bargain-shopper that she was) bought a revolutionary contraption that would cure me of my narcohydrodisposition (enuresis), It was called The Buzzer.

The buzzer came in a kit with about 6 cotton sleeves and Velcro shoulder pads. The sleeves were sewn to the front side of my dainties(mostly consisting of Mickey Mouse, a previous attempt to weigh on my good conscience with the instructions "don't wet mickey!") and the moisture sensitive "switch" was tucked therein. this moisture sensor was at the end of an two foot long wire that was to be strung under my sleeper shirt and velcro'd on my shoulder just beneath my ear. when, during the night the sensor was tripped, my slumber was cut to a sudden halt by the unnerving sound of a cicada on my shoulder. If you have never had the displeasure of living in cicada-infested countryside, the sound is not unlike a Buzzer. So similar in fact, that I often got the two confused, especially with the groggy state I found myself in every time it happened . The theory is this, when my incontinence reared its ugly face, I would be awakened to "take care of business". I have never been convinced that this product was actually tested on the narco/hydro variety. Because it was always too late. If my dainties had become sufficiently moistened to activate The Buzzer, then the damage had already been done. New sheets, new blanket, new underwear were all in order.

My parents were convinced that I never arose to "take care of business" when my buzzer went off. The reason being that I was very light footed and never made a sound, I also mastered the art of closing the bathroom door silently, since it was adjacent to my parents bedroom. They too, were awakened by the buzzer, and must have listened to see if I went to the bathroom. But, for fear of their wrath, I was quiet as a mouse when I went. The art of closing the door silently is attained in this way. First, make sure your door doesn't scrape the jamb, this means that it is aligned with the frame all around, and the hinges are screwed in tight. (Obviously I didn't maintain the door, but benefited from it's being the only hollow core door in the house((this is before the kitchen was given a door and padlocked.)) although I did know how to open and close every door in the house silently, it just consisted of applying pressure to the doorknob in various ways and holding the glass pane still so it wouldn't rattle.. but lets get back to the bathroom door.) when opening, hold door knob firmly and press in slightly to take the pressure off of the strike plate, twist knob entirely and pull door open (keep toes clear). Step 2: Close Door - Face door, Holding doorknob in right hand, twist to retract the latch. Apply pressure to the middle part of the door with left hand. Now, with right hand, pull just a small amount harder than your left hand is pressing. the result is a smooth and slow swing of the door. once you have door in closed position slowly release doorknob to allow latch to catch, with practice on any given door, you will be able to do this with complete silence. Step 3 take care of business.

Now, for some reason my parents kept the bedding in a high shelf in the hallway. Sometimes my "accidents" were small enough, or rather I was small enough, that I was able to return to bed and go to sleep on the opposite end as the wetted area and finish "taking care of business" in the morning (after my spanking). But often my incidents were of a magnitude that it required me to brave climbing the shelves in the dark and retrieving fresh linens. I wont go into detail of all that was involved with changing wet sheets in the dark. Suffice it to say that the plastic sheet that enveloped my mattress kept the liquid out quite well.

My parents thought (due to my cat like stealth) that I never got out of bed, but merely pulled the sensor from its sleeve and continued in my dysfunctional sleep pattern (I have already explained that this wasn't the case). And their logic told them that at some point I changed my underwear to trick them that I had not wet the bed. (my logic persuaded me to change into new underwear to be able to sleep). They began keeping tabs on my underwear, literally. My dad took a sharpie marker and put numbers on the labels of my Mickey Mouse undies. They would check to see which pair I was wearing before I retired. "number 7, Okay, goodnight!" my dad would then brush his beard down so as not to poke my nose and give me a goodnight kiss. I would pump up my fists for the nightly "grip test" in which my dad would allow me to test my handshake grip against his. After that, it was off to bed!
And in the morning I would be wearing Undies #5 and my dad would tan my hide.

God, why didn't you just give me a speech impediment?

Anyway, as to the memory of nearly being strangled. that was due to the cord of The Buzzer. it would often come unfastened from it's velcro perch, and, since I toss around in my sleep, become wrapped around my throat and nestled beneath my body. This happened several times each month and the trick was to wake up, not panic and figure out the pattern of my tossing and turning and retrace these motions in order to get out of the tangle. I doubt they are on the market anymore, in fact I bet you could get yourself in big trouble if the right people found out your kid was using one... which would probably be in the aftermath of your child's death.

All I want for christmas

Until this year I have been on the fence about the commercialization of Christmas. I would rather not spend the money, but it's been worth it to me to make people happy. This year I am about as broke as I have ever been --okay not true, but I have a foggy new path I'm taking and money has been a huge stress factor for me lately. I have been looking for quality in things that don't cost money. And it really hit me that people overlook those things this time of year more than any other, when they should really matter.

I have been thinking, watching people. I wonder if commercialism isn't just an effect of a bigger problem. Our society's answer to not being comfortable with "family time". It's a lame attempt to show love. Even our relationships can be maintained with money. People neglect each other year round and expect to make up for it at the end by buying the next hot item from Apple or Dell, or Playskool, Mattel (BTW, please don't buy your kids anything from Mattel.) I really wish I could say that I'm not one of those who neglects the people in my life, But I'll admit it. I'm not as comfortable with being emotional as I am with dumping a paycheck into "Santa's Magical Bag". I kind of want to escape Christmas this year, Not just to avoid the expense, but to appreciate the people in my life.

I can't help it. I really want to run away. I can admit that I am not a good friend, I get sick of people really fast. I get sick of places really fast. It's not healthy or high functioning. I've ruined a lot of great opportunities by running. But the urge comes more than I've ever told anyone. It's strongest in the spring. but it comes strong every time the seasons change. and it's always present in my mind. This year I have subdued the urge to blow a paycheck on camping gear and another on gas and just head out for good. The urge is stronger now than it has been all year. even after all the measures I've taken to stay. I've made it really stupid for me to go but it still sounds good to me.

This is what happens.
I'll hear a song, any song about leaving, walking away, drinking or bad weather. (this time, Elton John - Rocket Man) and it depresses me almost like a switch.
From there I can't help myself. I think about it constantly until I do something drastic. Or until my nature to fulfill commitments outweighs my need for a change in scenery, and it blows over. This is usually what happens, but it's a constant cycle.

All I want for Christmas is to be content. Sorry, I don't want to please anyone else this year. Not right now, anyway.

22 Year Wind.

The sky was cloudy on August 27th, twenty-two years ago. On the 29th a storm was brewing. By the 31st it had become what Texans call a twister.

He didn't know any better. It was his first time in this world. He stayed inside for the next few weeks and slept.

18 months later he was learning to walk. It was a whole new experience to have to balance himself. He had to lean into the strong wind. Sometimes it would knock him on his ass. A cloth diaper and plastic pants to dampen the impact. Sometimes it would knock him on his face from behind, his tears would wash the dirt from his face. He began to develop reflexes to the slight change in wind to keep on his feet.

Age 5 he found himself in Oklahoma running around like a banshee, despite the wind. His muscles now seemed unaware of the resistance. He knew nothing different than the first day of his life. He couldn't say it was harsh and unrelenting. It was strong and consistent.

age 12 He began to realize that the wind was following him. People around him had no idea what he was talking about when he spoke. They couldn't hear him over the howl of the wind, yet they didn't seem affected by it. He couldn't understand them for the roar in his ears. He found music to be a distraction, and he could crank it up to drown out the wind.

Age 15 the wind picked up. He now noticed it was harder and harder to get up out of bed. Harder still to get around. He would fall down for the count multiple times a day. Tears washed face again. Now, when people spoke he had to read lips. Despite the constant practice he couldn't get the hang of it.

Age 17. The wind was blowing with the weight of the world against his shoulders. He decided to let it blow him elsewhere. He pulled up stakes and caught a gust that took him a ways from home. It felt good to move and let the wind take him. The landing was a different story. He had sea legs. Getting his balance again took almost 3 months, and on top of being disoriented, the wind was now blowing harder than ever before. Head down he braced himself against it and carried on. The new hard wind dried up the wells of his tears. It was too loud now to consider the outside world. He spent a lot of time in his head. He was unaware of the major exercise he was getting with this new load of resistance. Not to say he bore it well. His back began to arch from leaning into the wind.

Age 18. He again decided to uproot. He landed in Utah for a short reprieve. But before he even tried his footing there he was swept up and blown south. He landed on the Mississippi. The wind had switched directions and soon thereafter it had doubled in strength. He hardly left his house, much less his bed. After 8 months, he was all but beat, but he decided to give it another go around. He packed up and headed back to Utah. This routine of settling and uprooting was becoming easier and easier. He was certain he had a knack for it and contemplated a way to capitalize on it. He was coming to terms with the possibility that he was going to live this way the rest of his life.

He raised his head up, and looked around... just to be sure. Here he was, 21 years old. He was no better off now than when he first took flight. It was dawning on him that he might have taken the wrong approach. He tried running from the wind one more time. The wind blows harder in Alaska.

Now after 22 years of being blown around and held down he has made it his goal to use his 22 years of conditioning in a more effective manner. He's finding that he is exceptional at reading faces and lips now. He has also made progress in deciphering the muddled tones of those around him. Instead of carrying his life possessions on his back, He decided to set up camp and dig in for the long haul. He is taking on tasks one at a time. Shedding the weight of all his worries has given him the extra energy to get where he want to be. He's moving in leaps and bounds. Using the wind to his advantage. He is facing it head on, noticing that he can stand more upright when he doesn't cower from it. The force of it is now straightening his backbone. He is learning to rest from time to time, and he's found a good way to do that is on his knees.

All isn't resolved. If anything he's gotten a late start and is just now making motions to catch up.
All isn't sunshine and song. He still falls in his ass. He still gets knocked on his face. He still wonders if the wind will ever subside.

I'm sure it wont. And I think that is a good thing. If, after 22 years of leaning into the wind , it were to sudden cease. He would be starting all over again. Learning to stand up without having to lean-Sea legs all over again. Plugging his ears against the prickle of unmuffled words. I wouldn't wish it on him. He would spend years on his face, trying to figure out where his strength will come from, spending what strength he has left to lift himself up. Only to eat shit again, and again.

Moonlight tramp

I can see the faint moonlight through the overcast sky. It shines blue on the rusty steel of my cage, my refuge.
A dampness in the air penetrates my blanket and numbs my skin. My nose has caught the worst of it and it spreads to my cheeks
My ears burn beneath my cap. I look out through a small hole by my head. The night is still and the moon seems stronger in it's
reflection on the water. I become aware of the rhythmic sway of the rail car where I'm perched. The corresponding, steely percussion.
The tracks are right along a river now, The water is silently keeping pace with me and I am certain I can see it behaving faintly
as if it were a woman dancing in a blue gown. My breath mixes with the night air and condenses on my beard. little icicles forming
and holding my whiskers in place. I pull my feet in beneath me and try to imagine a face for the nymph in the river.
blinding silver streaks of moonlight become jewels about her neck, a pin in her hair. a glimmer in her eye.
It warms me to see a smile. Notably the first in many months. I swallow the lump that rises in my throat as
I think of the last time I smiled... A naive girl, No more than 8. She handed me a flower from her hair as I sat
beneath my jacket in the rain. She fought the gentle tug from her mothers gloved hands, and stretched her arm
to mine. She dropped it at my feet and for a moment I thought she would never forgive herself.
I scooped it up and held it tenderly, pressing the white blossom lightly to my face. I smiled. She turned and embraced her
mothers arms as they walked away. I have yearned for a like experience in the months since. It's like watching ghosts
I sit in silence and observe as people walk through each other, oblivious. their eyes are hollow. When they drop change in my palm I see a glint
but they catch themselves and the spark is snuffed out. they compensate with tightened lips and a nod as they move on in the throng of passerby.
Keep your change. Just lend me a smile.
The tears on my face are freezing but I dare not shift to dry my face. In a few moments it will crumble off.

The train is curving around to cross over the river. The car rocks hard against the wind. I take one last look into the water as it passes beneath me. I let my head down and sleep begins to set in.

What are you thinking?

What a great question.
It's empowering. Among leaders, this question is one of the most helpful tools possible. It's offers a reprieve from the constant stress of trouble shooting and organizing, gives power to someone else and offers them an opportunity to shine. Leaders are not the only ones who think, they are just the final say. When someone is given the opportunity to give their own input, they are being given a chance to change something, hopefully for the better. They will feel more involved, mostly because they ARE more involved. and the chance to influence things becomes a driving force, a chain reaction of critical thinking and troubleshooting throughout the "ranks" is started. I think it's great. Ask someone what they think, and they will think more. When they think more, it eases your burden. If your job is to fix a structurally compromised skyscraper and you ask someone what they think, make sure it's not someone who will reply "COTTON CANDY!" (although that may be a great idea in other circumstances, it's just not as relevant in the proposed situation). And of course, it's on you (as a leader) to evaluate their thoughts and suggestions. you don't have to trust someone with their life to ask their views on the situation. (Especially not if its a toddler or sweet-toothed construction worker).

What are you thinking?

It means so many things. First of all it means that you care what someone has to say. (ok, actually, technically "first of all" it shows that you deem the person capable of thinking.) It shows that you want to hear it. It means that you're not going to dominate, it means you want to be on the same page, and the same level. It means you are open to constructive feedback. It means that whatever this person has to say, you asked for it, and you wont fault them for thinking it.

This question is possibly the most important question we can be asked. Because of the level of trust behind it. We are given the chance to divulge our inner selves, and we cannot betray that. Because what we are thinking is who we are.

It's not just a question, it's a charge for honesty, which bears a lot of weight. Sometimes this question catches us off guard. Maybe we are thinking the unthinkable. Maybe we're thinking that we have nothing to say. Maybe what we're thinking is too much to say. Maybe sometimes we aren't thinking at all. If we cannot answer, it's a sign to ourselves that we have room to grow, trust to earn, or more to be mindful of. Because your answer matters, one way or the other. silence is not a good answer for the person posing the question. In fact, I would say it's another question posed to yourself. It's a chance to analyze yourself, an opportunity to evaluate the status of your relationship to the person who wants to know what you think.

I propose that it's sometimes healthier to answer even when it doesn't feel good. If you are thinking critically of someone and they ask to hear it, would you feed them a white lie? Seems harmless, right? But think about it... lies beget lies. There are situations where bending the truth to spare someone a senseless criticism is perfectly fine (in my book). But practicing selective honesty is a good way to build a false pretense in your relationships with people, It's an easy habit to get into, and a pretty tough one to get out of. I think honesty should take priority over acceptance or approval. Don't tell someone you love them to spare them the pain of rejection. I used to tell people I was fine, just to keep from connecting on an emotional level with someone. I've seen countless times where someone will think one thing, but say another to validate someone who could have used the honesty.

If the primal desire of every person is to be understood, why do we cower? I think it has something to do with conditioning. We aren't exactly accustomed to people caring. Personally, it's disorienting to hear someone ask me what I think, or how I feel. I, probably along with most everyone else, require a certain level of trust before I am open to sharing my thoughts and emotions, to be sure they aren't discounted, discredited or dismissed. I think thats fine. I hope I am able to communicate assertively when I feel uncomfortable with sharing my thoughts.

Cacoethes Scribendi

Boredom is not my most inspiring muse, but she is the only one visiting me. I'm halfway through the last 3rd of my workweek.

I'm just going to write about my aspirations, to give you (dear reader) some idea of who the hell I am, what the **** I want to be and how I plan to do it. If you have read my Mobile Blog then you may read this as a detailed breakdown. meh, maybe not so detailed.... nor a breakdown.

So if you find the mundane and trivial to be interesting, Bon Appétit!

First of all, I'll paint a picture of where I see myself 1 year down the road.
I will be walking into a sunset, my silhouette sharp against a desert sky, a long desolate highway at my feet. a horny toad will cross the road in front of me and I will pick my polished black boot a little higher to avoid crushing it.... they cry blood tears, you know. I will probably pay attention to the minutest bit of dirt on my sequined mariachi tuxedo, dusting it with my monogrammed handkerchief.

I will probably have a little cash in my right hand-pesos-and a 20Q game in the other. My spurs will clank and spin every time I step, and my polished black boots will most definitely be run-flats, guaranteed to last another 100 miles after being shot out by the Federali.


This will probably not last long at all.... I will get picked up by some big-hearted vacationer, who will drop me at the next border town where I will explain to the border patrol how I ended up on the south-side of the border (A mis-hap while setting a new land speed record in Utah's salt flats), how I had to hitch rides on farm trucks, play mariachi versions of Nirvana and Greenday on the street corners with a cracked and faded classical guitar with no G-string. And how I hustled the locals with my little orange friend, the 20Q ball, by telling them it was a "compacto crystal ballo" that "El tells yo what tu art thinking of-o".

They will welcome me back with open arms and a unfurled flag, maybe even play reveille or taps or something. load me up in a camouflage Jeep and expedite me to California, U.S.A where I'll take an apprenticeship as a tailor, in a wee shop in a back alley paved in cobblestone by the name of "Herbert Lee Draper Clothiers & Cobblers". I'll work for a meager pay and food and lodging. After a short 3 years I'll take my earnings and say my goodbyes. And embark on an adventure that will change me forever.


7 years later

I have become a sea-faring man, accustomed to the swagger and sway of the "R3doubtabl3", A ship known for it's fearsome posture on the vast waters of the pacific, casting a shadow on the glistening blue blacker than the heartless void in each of the greedy and bloodthirsty men aboard. The ship prowls the seas with the silence of a hunting puma. It creeps under the new moon like a shark in shallows at midnight. the sails whisper a chant of doom and many have prayed they had never heard it. The creaking crimson-stained timbers of the bow sounding more like the tortured souls of those who died begging the mercy of the cold-blooded crew. The mast ornamented with the skulls of many a weak or unwary captain who met prows with the R3doubtabl3. Stern ladders crafted of lengths of sweat-stained lanyard and rungs of shin bones of fallen sailors, densified by long years a'sea. Swabbing the deck is forbidden, lest, in your efforts, you immortalize the souls of those whose blood has stained the planks, the salty drink gives new vigor to their souls and restlessness ensues.

The Redoubtable was once named the Irreproachable, the newest part of the naval force, run by men with snooty words and trained in tec'nicality. Their uniforms so stiff and proper that the soldiers were afraid to perform their duties, lest they should muss their knickers. This made them an easy prey to that band of buccaneers who took over the ship, two hours time there was not one man dressed in a primly starched uniform as was not caked in crimson and serving as foothold to the new crew. The new crew took about immediately transferring their arsenal and quarry from their former abode. After bunks and booty had been claimed, the men began relashing the knots and tackle. The navy's pulchritudinous, hindersome entanglements were traded for shrewd-and-efficient-if-quite-slipshod-and-inordinate hitches that required less effort and a smaller crew to operate.

The captain raided his newly-gained quarters. Where he indulged in contents the spirits kept there under lock. when he was sufficiently inebriated he took the last bottle, probably the most impotent, and made his way to the upper deck and took his place at the helm, he turned to his eager men and stated "Men! we now we prowl as the crew of the REDOUBTABLE!" He dashed the bottle over the bow as the men raised a chant of Ra's and Ho's and men scurried up the netting and tackle to lay claim to their new post. The trusted first mate became captain of the old ship, now dubbed the R3missabl3. A few of the best hands stayed with the old ship. To them it was home, and they would stay with it till a time when god saw fit to send them to hell. Unspoken were the hopes and desires of becoming the new first mate.

That was the birth of the R3doubtabl3, twice my lifetime ago. Now, not one man from the original crew is living. The captain was caught by the navy 3 years later, in a drunken stupor, in a tavern on the pier, here in Frisco. He was given as fair a trial as his captors deemed him worthy of. He was gullied.

Now we a carry on the tradition. We level our muskets at a lone and ambitious trade ship. to appealing for its own good. and far too few men aboard to wage a decent defense against our greed. we draw closer still. Our prey is a fish, the sea is our barrel.

All good things must....

All... good things must come to an end.

At the risk of sounding simple minded, I feel this quote is probably one of the most profound(maybe even profoundly forlorn) truths I've ever come across. Nothing lasts. It's not the way the world works. If
there were exceptions, things that had the potential to regenerate indefinitely, the nature of the world would be to find a way to destroy it.

In my personal life. Good things are infinite, but too often they are short lived. I get a new pair of shoes, I have money for the rent, I am caught in a moment of inspiration. all these things tend to wear out quickly, and be replaced by other trivial and abundant Good Things. If I want to evaluate my quality of life, I sound (at least to myself) like a 5 year old.

I'm grateful for my books
For my bottleneck slide,
for new socks, for my music,
head, shoulders, knees and toes,
Eyes, ears, mouth and nose.

Then there are the big things. Right now those things are pretty shallow, but I'm grateful for them because I've either never had them, or I had them but they were not "good" for me before. They consist of things like my job, money to spend, a car, a place to lay my head. These things are a huge part of my quality of life. And I know my car will crater sometime down the road (please, not too soon). I'll move out. I'll outgrow my job. Before long money will become one of those things that I theoretically earn, but before I see it, it will gone again, paying my tuition, then a mortgage, remodeling, baby diapers, clothes and binkys, a tricycle, and then all too soon, tuition again. I'm okay with reality, really. I'll admit that sometimes I tend to forget the inherent nature of the world, and maybe sometimes I think it must be revolving around me, and aligning itself against me.

And then there are the things that are so much of my life that I hate to think of them as things... because that mortalizes them. Friendships.

I'm not saying that I have hundreds of friends and that my life would be meaningless without them. not quite. I have very very few friends that I feel are part of my life but those few that do have a profound influence in who I am, affecting how I live and how I see the world around me. I won't try to explain how I don't value the views of strangers(when I say strangers I mean causal friends as well), and yet put so much concern into the views of my close friends. It scares me to think that I am simply a complex combination of all the people who are in my inner circle, past and present. Some of those friendships have come to an end, and I was devastated with the loss of some, and I initiated the ending of others. But in the grand scheme they were all "good". And I have those relationships to thank for what I esteem in myself.

I have noticed that I am only given as much as I can handle when it comes to good things. I don't feel short-changed. I'm just noticing the balance to it all. I will lose one thing and gain another and maybe I wanted one more than another, or all, but I needed what I got. I had a meeting with my boss. I am in the process of moving up at work, making more money, gaining more authority, learning to become high functioning and an effective leader. But hours later, an ending. something I would have given up A LOT to keep. But it's not the nature of the world to make things easy. No way to cheat and see what's coming up, when to poise yourself, when to pounce. for all the planning in the world, sometimes you just have to watch and take what you get. The trick to learn is knowing which.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.

Lovely Contemptable

She met me for a drink and left me parched. My lips tremble as I think of it now. She was beautiful, she knew it, and yet she indulged me. Playing off of my fantasy that I wasn't a means to an end. I knew she was playing me but I couldn't resist, regardless the premise. I can't pile the blame on her. After all, I knew going into it that I would be taking a plunge. She warned me, but with an air of reassurance that it would be worth it. That's what I heard. She wanted revenge. someone had to pay for the death of her lover. I made promises and went about delivering on them. The body count is four now. Three of them had nothing to do with this sordid ordeal, they were reasons not to do what I knew to be imminent, I was buying time with innocent lives... If any one is ever really "innocent". I used my last bullet on her. I knew all along that I would have to. But up till that moment I couldn't do it. She was so warm against me. She held me with a persuasive, silken touch. She had something in her eyes, in her voice, that angelized her. But I knew. She's gone now, there will be one more when I'm done.

Now here I am, moments from death and she has stolen the serene bliss I should be slipping into, The coma calm.

Here's my confession before I go. She took me for a fool and I became one. She wouldn't have taken me otherwise. She told me what to think, already knowing how I felt, certain it would guide my reasoning. I knew I was kidding myself the whole time through. Just a way to stay close.

I'll take the fall for her now. Why not? I'm going down anyway.... She was grieving the murder of her lover when she came to me in desperation, and I felt responsible for the situation that her grief was born out of.

Yes, I shot him. In the back I might add. But I had no idea the chain reaction that my finger triggered. He fell headlong, He groaned, blood escaping from his chest. He turned and looked at me with those hollow eyes.... I've seen them before, No question pose in them, no plea, no remorse, no judgment... Just watching. But then, in the instant between his last two heart beats, I saw relief sweep over him. He was shed of a burden, escaping a demon.

At first, confusion. then doubt and disgust. I spent a moment on my knees wondering what his plight had been. I've shot down men who had nothing to lose, I've executed men with everything they desired. they never faltered from their calm as death enshrouded them. Why this man? I left the scene in a trance. His eyes had been fixed on mine. I was certain I had been involved in that mythical, ethereal experience of a spirit ascending.

I know now that it was purely relief, I only hope that that comes over me when I hit the end of the line. She had swallowed him up, He was slave to her will. She had turned him into a fiend. he would do anything for her. She had eaten his soul. I had freed it.

I never did tell her it was my bullet.


Since I tend to spend hours-even days-writing blogs, I decided to try something out. I went to the library, where I am limited to 90 minutes of computer use, and just started writing. It's an excercise... it's supposed to help me stop setting such a high standard on my writing, or else prove that I really do need 3+ hours to write something good.

Afraid/Not Afraid

There have been times in my life, times that I remember from a long time ago, when I was at total peace with the idea of dying. Not a death wish, not suicide, just a total calm with the idea that someday, or even that day I would or could die.
Other times, like now, I think of death and I am overwhelmed with a wave of uncertainty and fear. I'm afraid that I'll miss out on something good. My mind reels, desperately trying to think of anything I have done that will leave my legacy behind. I fear that too much of who I am will be a mystery, even to my closest friends. It's something I have always done, I've been reactive to others rather than outward with my own feelings and thoughts. I want to speak freely but something in me shuts down when I try to verbalize my emotions. something in me downplays my passion when I talk about my interests. I end up waving my hands franticly picking at thin air for the words... or maybe I'm just trying to show my feelings-illustrate them. I choose instead to write things down, maybe put them in a funny wordplay that distracts from the purpose of the words themselves. Or I will project my thoughts into someone fictional (bear with me, I'm not schizophrenic) that has what it takes to say how he feels. I play with these people in my head (really, I'm not crazy) and give them their lines and actions until I feel they are a fair representation of my own thoughts. then I give them A world to live in. and sometimes a larger than life goal to accomplish... then I write script summaries so if I ever decide to write them I can dig into my mental vaults with a fairly efficient filing method.

If I died today-even instantly-I would die with a lot of regret, a lot of words that I'd never be able to say. I would probably die in agony, but it would be a pain that I've come to deal with in recent years. It's the pain of being so scared of rejection, that I give no grounds for it. I am only as much myself as I deem others to accept me for. this changes from person to person, and varies from total introvert to loud, obnoxious or even offensive. my silence is directly proportionate to my esteem of those around me, divided by my fear of disappointing. I don't feel like I act like someone I'm not. I feel like I act like I'm not someone, or I am only as much as you can handle. Like I said, I only do this around someone I'm afraid to be candid with, lest I should scare them away If I don't esteem those around me, I don't censor myself.

I want to know before I die so I can plan for it... maybe that's the only ultimatum that would have me tell my truths, deathbed confessions of love, hate, shame and pride.

Some things about me that I'm tired of hiding.

I really do think I have an uncanny sense of perception. I know when people are lying, I know what people are about to say. I just put things together... my track record even has a few predicted deaths. but includes everything from new coworkers that aren't going to cut it, to knowing the day he was born, that I wouldn't have a good relationship with my youngest brother, (at the time I thought he would die, but it turns out I just left home before he was 2.) It's about 80% or higher that I'm dead on.


I feel like I very well might be the most caring person in the world, but I squelch that because it's creepy. all my life, when I've seen single mothers I have thought... you know, I wish I could take care of them. If I were able I would marry them out of... I dunno charity I guess.

thats all for now. I'm not bearing everything.

Story without a plot.... don't ask.

A hundred quiet conversations, laughter, crickets, warm music, all here in this garden. There is mood setting in with the setting sun, a spread of contentment. The lights in the mansion are low and they glow out through large-paned windows and onto the lawn. Inside, there are silhouettes of suits and gowns standing in small groups, an occasional gesture, or glass is lifted. Tuxedoed servers seem to glide in and out of these circles carrying trays of refreshments on white-gloved hands. Big band music is floating out from the darkened recesses of the open upstairs windows; a light but steady breeze holds the curtains out over the sills.

Candles flicker in the center of the tables around the garden, illuminating already beaming faces, and creating a myriad of dancing shadows across the garden floor. I’m sitting back in a patio chair and gazing at the reflections in the fountain beside me. I lightly stroke the rim of my glass. The hum makes a call to an evening bird somewhere beyond the hedged boarder of the lawn, and it responds after a pause of suspicion. My acquaintances from this evening are admiring the architecture of the fine home, and the landscaping that meanders down the hillside and onto the beach. They relish the champagne and hors d'oeuvres. Good food, good mood and an opening toast makes any man a gracious host. I watch as guests continue to arrive, most in stylish cars that the valets are obliged just to get behind the wheel of. at the bottom of the hill I see a steady cavalcade of headlights making their way up the scenic driveway.

The stars have begun to emerge. Likewise, an array of fireflies have resumed their plight. Couples begin to rise and slightly sway to the music, holding each other close, moving in harmony. The music softens more still, and beckons all within its reach to join the starlight promenade. This is my cue to get up and do some wandering, to satisfy some restlessness and curiosity.

I decide not to fight the traffic of the back door and opt to start my tour in the cellar. The entrance is on the right side of the house, smartly hidden by a meticulously trimmed hedge. I scale down a few stone steps and make a left-hand turn. All becomes pitch black as I reach the small landing. The heavy door is almost invisible, I trip the latch and a musty, damp draft greets me. It’s a pleasant stench, almost nostalgic. I enter eagerly and close the door behind me. There are excess kitchen utensils in one of the Dutch ovens on the shelf to my right, along with rows of cans and jars. The walkway is lined by wooden crates and cardboard boxes. A broken chair in a pile of kindling and firewood sits by the staircase that leads up to the kitchen. There are probably some potatoes on the shelves that reach beyond the feeble light of the bare bulb in the center of the room.

I take a moment to appreciate my solitude, I listen to the mixture of sound. Coming from outside there is still a faint hum of conversation, and the trill of a saxophone complimented by the sonance of laughter. From above me, in the kitchen comes the muffled din of productivity, plates and bowls clattering against each other, the thud of a cleaver, the hiss of hot water. And from here in the basement, there is only the sound of my breathing and the buzz of electricity in the light socket above me. For all of the clutter here there is a notable lack of cobwebs, but as I inspect the stone doorway to the left of the stairs, out of the way so as not to attract attention or absorb undue light, I find plenty of dust and cobwebs to go around. In this room there are 5 Isles of narrow lathed racks which comprise a modest wine cellar. The aroma is so rich that it almost trickles down my throat. There are a few dozen empty bottles in wicker panniers on the floor. I breathe in deeply one last time before ascending the stairs.

The light stings my eyes as I reach the top of the stairs, my sudden emergence attracts the stares of the workers in the kitchen, for a moment everyone pauses. Then, almost as if compensating, they jump back to their tasks with renewed vigor, their heads hung a little lower, their hands working more quietly. The pudgy Hispanic woman at the sink washing fruits looks at me with a glimmer in her eye that says to me "silly man, what are you doing here?" She seems amused, maybe a bit impressed. I nod to her as I head for the door.

In the hallway there are two of the servants against the wall. The man is leaning in close to the girl, resting his hand beside her shoulder, not in an intimate way so much as intimidating. They are having a conversation in low tones. I hear the young woman speaking of some irreparable issue between them. Her eyes are moistening, she is cowering directly under the light and the tears glisten like small diamonds as she looks up at him. The young man is notably affected but none the less intransigent. His mannerisms are telling of someone who doesn't take 'no' for an answer. I don't care to know their quarrel, nor to interrupt them. I duck my head and offer a benign wave as I pass them, feeling a little guilty for imposing on thier privacy. Aside from a slight pause to glance, they take no notice of me. I take the first door to my left.

Into an swanky lounge, vacant for the moment. The large polished black oak table is bare. the seats around it are extravagantly upholstered in red and gold. There's a full bar in the corner, crystal shined and waiting. The billiards table already racked and ready. This was a speakeasy at one point, now and exclusive joint that will no doubt be filled with cigar smoke well into the early hours of tomorrow by Our Gracious Host and his closest cohorts.

Why I Moved to Utah (and how).

I guess, in all my ignorance I thought "Aha! Utah! Salt Flats! Mountains! Sundance Film Festival! Indie Film Scene! PERFECT!"


And then I thought, "Well, er... my brother is living out there doing the whole married scene... and... er, I want to move somwhere I have, uh.. family and I hate Memphis. oh yeah, and I don't to be stuck in Oklahoma anymore." See, I had moved out, I was living like 3 1/2 hours away in Norman, where my older sister was going to college and my older brother was working. In the 2 years I was there my parents separated (that was happening when I moved out in the first place, but it became official a year or so later). My mom was living in Memphis and my dad stayed in our mansion in Oklahoma, all alone. (we call it mansion because before we built it we lived in a 2 bedroom barn. 7 of us. Plus it really is a mansion compared to most houses there (trailer houses.))

My sister broke up with her beau and started hating men. My mom was a new convert to the hating men scene at that time as well, so my sis went to keep her company in memphis. Two little monkeys jumping on the bed.

My brother was living across town from me in Norman and he'd met this girl while working as an EFY coucelor over the summer. they talk alot and are in like with eachother (also, Austin never liked girls ((seriously... worse than me)) and I think this girl was his first interest.) They were reading scriptures together everynight (over the phone). I guess he thought "well, er... I got this job, but I'm also paying this rent... and uh, my dad is pretty alone in that mansion..I'm uh.... I'm thinkin' I just might move back home and save up to relocate to Utah and marry this girl." And thats just what he did. One little monkey jumpin' on the bed.

It's to late to say "...long story short..." but I'll try. I was living alone in Norman. And anyone who really knows me knows that every year I get this itch to drop everything and have a big adventure. Usually this means moving to a new location and starting everything over again. I was pretty well overdue for that change and conditions were perfect.... there was nothing on TV, My mom was going to a family reunion in California and my brother was now living in Utah and counting down the days before the big date. I put all my stuff in storage and packed pretty light, I asked my mom to drop me off in Utah. She obliged and I lived with my brother for a few weeks, the day after he got married I decided that things weren't going so hot for me in Utah and hitched a ride back home with my dad. then I moved to memphis to live rent free while I saved up to move to California ( I was thinking "Big City! Beaches! Hollywood! Movies! PERFECT!") and went to an adult education class to get my G.E.D.

I ended up getting stuck there for 10 months, consequently getting incredibly depressed. I stopped working and just hung out with my new best friend, Jared. now without alot of money I had blown my chances of going to California. So I decided to join the carnival. I worked in the carnival for a month and some change and it ended up being the best paying job I've ever had. I made enough money to dig myself out of banks of the muddy mississippi. My brother offered his spare room to me in Utah and my dad offered to drive me and all my belongings out here. I took 'em up on it.

My expierience with Homelessness

I had this guy come up to me on three different occasions with 3 different stories when I was living in Norman, Okla. First he was an NBA player who locked his keys in his car. The second time he was "just passing through" with his wife and she left him at a gas station and took the kids. The third time he must have seen my living room light on at 2 in the morning and came and knocked on my door asking for Jim, who "used to live here." then proceeded to tell me how he was out of gas... he never recognized me.

I once let a homeless kid live with me for about 3 weeks while he got a job and a place. he went to church with me. I even drove him to Cracker Barrel for a job interview. He got the job, rented a little place and I never saw him again.

There was a guy who worked the light right by my job (in Norman, at Jiffy Lube). He told everyone that he was out of gas, at the end of the day he would drive off in his fairly new honda civic.... never saw him put a drop in it. He came in to my work once to ask me for gas money. I told my boss I was going to take my lunch break, proceeded to grab a gas can and told him I would go across the street and get him 2 gallons of gas. He said he didn't want to "trouble me for that" about 3 times... I called his bluff, but if I were him I would have taken it anyway.

I thought I had grown desensitized to beggars when I was living in Alaska. There was about a 1/1 ratio of homeless people in my neighborhood. In fact, I'm pretty sure I met more homeless people than otherwise. They were all headlong in a downward spiral of begging for money just to get a fix, whether it was weed, alcohol, or just cigarettes. I came upon a stabbing once, at the corner where they seemed to congregate (it was also a bus stop). They were always either drunk or high, or terribly put out. My roommate began using a preemptive strategy to fend off their petitions by asking THEM if they had any money.

I feel bad for people who are down on their luck. I've been there myself (please see International Roadtrip blog below). I do feel good when I help homeless people, but I don't give them money. (Okay, there was that one guy in Las Vegas, he was very persuasive. Besides, he reminded me a lot of Dave Chappelle's character "Tyrone", and I think we would all pay to meet him.) Usually I will buy them meals if they are hungry, or give them things they can use.

About 3 weeks ago I was walking home from work and decided to ride the bus (I worked long nights, so it was worth 2.50 to ride that day.) I got off at my stop and about half a block later there was a homeless man eating breakfast on the lawn of the courthouse, He smiled and waved. I approached him and gave him my transfer ticket ( I always get them, for that reason.) He said "God bless you." and it made my day.

There's a crazy guy who lives on the library steps (I dunno where he goes at night but he's there all day) and he has stopped me a couple of times and talked my ear off. He never asks for money. In fact, he claims to own the library (or whatever building he happens to be parked in front of, as my friends have spoken to him elsewhere) and he says he's a millionaire. He used to own Puma shoes but sold the company to ("what the **** was her name.....") Liz Claiborne. He invented a soda can that saved pepsi millions in production by simply aerating the aluminum with micro-bubbles to cut down on material. the guy is a pathological liar, very smart because he can talk about anything and sound like he knows it in and out.

I'm planning on making a documentary of him sometime soon. I will buy him a nice meal (red lobster or something) buy him a new suit and get him a haircut and sit him down for an interview with the camera. In fact, it's been a while since I spoke to him, maybe I'll go catch up with him today.