Trust

I had this strange idea the other day. I don't exactly think it's an answer to the question, so much as a possible contributing factor.

The question is this: Why does love seem to expire?

I, for one, am a major skeptic of many of the social paradigms surrounding love. I hate that Love has become this materialistic term. Something defined by the amount of money spent to prove the depths of ones affection.

I would go so far as to say I've lost faith in the institution of marriage (as regulated by faith), as it seems so much more to play off of the religious obligations of two individuals to the ideologies of their religion of choice.

I hate the fact that couples get divorced.

What I hate more is that they live together in misery because of the influence of faith in their lives. Especially when this means that they have been fooling themselves for two decades, only to end up with a broken home, Children who are born under false pretenses of love, but under the sanctimonious guise of consecrated marriage.

The problem is not that people feel obligated to follow the teachings of their ministers and other church leaders. I think that's great. What I see as a problem is when people allow this faith to dictate over their own judgment, their own judgments.

The problem is not that people put too strong of emphasis in the religious aspect of their marriage. I think (arguably) that people could do with more adherence to religion in their lives. The problem is that they put MORE faith in this aspect of their lives than they build in their relationships otherwise.

This is where the title of this blog finally comes into the text. People have replaced the need for communication with a trust that they can survive in a relationship without it. I say "the" need instead of "their" need because I'm not sure if people realize that they need communication. We have developed a paradigm in which we don't speak about difficult subjects. Instead, we sweep them under the rug to fester and mutate into the truly devastating diseases that seem to render so many relationships terminal.

Strange concept. Trust can be the most detrimental thing to a relationship? can be. I don't think it was meant to be a tool to skirt the issues between two people.

I think it has gradually become a social misconception that being in love means you are so perfectly matched with someone that there are no problems between you. Bullshit.
others believe that love is that flighty feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you see that special someone, hear their voice, or even think about them in the middle of everyday life. I think there's something to that.

I think that feeling that most of us experienced as 12 and 13 year olds when we were "infatuated" with someone is the feeling we are meant to feel when we are in love. I'm not saying we were all in love at 12 and 13, I'm saying that we never should have lost that feeling. we should have been able to retain it, hone it till it responded to the qualities in someone else that we individually esteem. It never should have been buried under thick callouses around our hearts.

Those callouses are the effect of being burned to many times. learned pessimism toward relationships. we are burned when we are the victims of lies or shaded truths, unresolved differences... unmentioned issues. The heart eventually learns that the truth must be derived from codes of communication. True feelings are never plainly evident, they are manifested in passive-aggressive comments, hints, misplaced anger (anger or frustration with one issue that is manifested over another issue I.e. the wife being pissed that the trash wasn't taken out, but really the frustration is centered around the wife feeling as if her husband doesn't listen to, or value her input or opinions).

The same is true for feelings of love and affection. We live in a society where women are the soft hearted, romantic types. the ones allowed to cry or swoon. men are expected to contain their emotions in a totally stoic and badass manner. If they are in love, they should not make this apparent by being affectionate or saying so. they should do something to incite emotion or praise from their female counterpart--buy her flowers, and when she fall on you with kisses, give a grunt of approval and carry her off to the bedroom. I don't think so. Why is it so unacceptable for men to be open about their feelings? It seems to be a social stigma on men being soft and open outside of the bedroom.

Again, I think that women are equally guilty of using round about methods of communication. Women have this innate ability to map out a conversation and manipulate where it will lead before it even starts by making just the right comments and asking just the right questions before they lead into the discussion they really want to have. "does this dress make me look fat?" is a notorious one liner to dig for compliments. the underlying discussion being that she doesn't feel appreciated by her husband or boyfriend because he never tells her outright that he thinks she looks wonderful. but then again, she never tells him outright that she needs that validation.
I don't respond well when I feel insincerity coming from someone. I am loathe of people playing a part, going through the motions, saying the words, with no emotion. I don't know who to blame for this. But I think this is blamed for the commonly-accepted definition of love that exists today.
Love should be a open channel of emotion and communication. Not something moderated by taboos and fauxpas, inhibitions dictated by social acceptance. lies, shaded truths, insincerities and so forth.
People are willing to settle for the appearance of love in order to get the benefits a relationship. I see so many people in relationships who are settling for someone who will validate them enough to justify their being together, but there is no real love between them... unless you are one of those that consider the definition of love to be two people who have a chemical attraction to each other, and if by "chemical" you mean Oxytocin or other neurotransmitters. Even then, after a prolonged period of the brain releasing these "love" chemicals, our receptors adapt to it and its effects are less stimulating after time.



I blame not communicating as the culprit of failed relationships. we go from being in love
to being out of love and even resolving never to love again. How do we manage to trick ourselves back into it? how do we have a such a love/hate relationship with love? We want love, but we don't want to work for it, we don't want to change. For guys, we don't want to want love, we just want someone to love us. for girls, it seems they love and want to be loved but get burned out on being the only one who is openly loving.

Seems like people think of romance as a set of rules to get you married, and love as the knot of marriage that may prove to be tough enough, or may prove too weak to keep divorce out of a relationship. I think love is essentially selflessness and an eagerness to understand each other, an ongoing task that doesn't sit still. What was it that woody Allan said? "Love is like a shark, it has to be constantly moving or it sinks." Too often I see people who think love is like instant jell-o; just add water, heat up till it boils, let it sit til it cools, enjoy it while it lasts!

What a Day!

I woke up today, before my alarm went off. I thought 'you know, I could try and sleep until my alarm goes off, or I could get a jump start on my day.' I opted for the latter.

Upon opening my laptop to print off the paper I stayed up till 4:00AM staring at, I saw the clock in the bottom right-hand corner. 11:19AM. "Hmm.. that can't be right... *check phone* ....****!" I grabbed the most readily available clothing which happened to be the shirt I worked out in 3 days ago and a pair of jeans that are just now getting broken in (they look brand new, so I've worn them about 4 times without washing them). I dashed out the door to catch the bus. I ran to the stop for the 811 but the 830 was going to have to do, the 811 is quicker, but it didn't come for another 40 minutes. The 830 came creeping along about 8 long minutes later. And, wouldn't you know it? the driver was dedicated to his job. He waited at each stop until the exact second that RideUTA.com quotes people when they look up routes. Did I mention that my Psychology final ended 4 minutes AFTER I woke up? yeah, it did.

I decided that no amount of toe tapping would get me there in time to catch my professor and ooze some lame excuse, and plea for mercy. I got to the school no later than 7 seconds after 12:00PM according to the clock on the buses nav system. I bee lined it to my psych classroom on the off chance that my instructor was still there. That was a big fat negative. I then scurried to my history class fully expecting a tongue lashing from my professor.

It wasn't so bad. He just criticized me for being late and "missing it!" (photos of his grandchildren, no... I'm serious.) but he was pretty much just jeering me.
It was about this time that I realized that I smelled like crusty socks and shampoo (I took a shower last night, but my dirt clothes masked the scent of Irish Spring Aloe). I don't think we went over anything in class that we hadn't covered Tuesday. but I must admit, the fact that my psychology grade just went from a B+ to a C- (or worse) was kinda distracting me. As soon as class got out I went to the computer lab and emailed my Psych professor (resisting the temptation to cook up an excuse for my missing class) I told him that I missed it due to "extenuating circumstances" and left it at that. I now had time to verify the suspected cause of my overstay in dreamland. Yep, out of all the days I could have set my alarm for 9PM instead of AM this semester, I decided to do it on the last day of classes.

I got some pointers from my English professor on my final paper (he gave me an extension on Tuesday for a week, since my trail version of Office Word had expired and locked my drafts of my final paper). I went and checked out the pool set from CC and went to kill some time, waiting for my Psych professor to get my email. On the way to the pool table I saw the Yellow blouse and dark brown hair of one of my English 1010 classmates, so I decided to invite her to kill some time with me. She was at a checkout stand and I waited for her to finish up. Normally, I wouldn't be so forward, but she had gone out of her way to talk to me in the hall the past couple of weeks and we chatted a little in class, so I thought it was okay to ask. It is, after all, the last day of class and a simple "no" isn't going to break my feelings. As she turned around I started to say something like "you have somewhere to be?" but I stopped short when I realized that I had the wrong person. DAMNIT. same hair same blouse, same black bra strap. WTF? My day is going like a bad movie at this point. So, I resolve to play pool alone for the next hour.

I had barely played one game against myself when I hear an Latino-accented voice. "Do you have a partner?" I looked up to see two flamboyant South American guys walking toward the pool table. The thought that his phraseology was intentional crossed my mind. I responded with a shrug. They introduced themselves as "Jacques" and "William" from Brazil and Mexico, respectively. They played on the same team and I played on my own.... no pun intended. I think they cheated on purpose under the guise of ignorant foreigners. they played ball in hand when I scratched and every sloppy sink they counted and continued. When they scratched I had to play from the top, I finally decided to play slops as well. After a few games I decided to leave but before I said anything they handed me the pool cues and left. I played two more games against myself and returned them to the Campus Connection.

No reply from Mr. S yet. I decided to head home and keep working on my English paper.
On the way out the door I saw the bus pull up to the depot, about 300 yards away. "just my luck...." I resolved to miss it. but when I was about halfway there i noticed that it was still parked. So I laid rubber and ran for it. The Santa Clause midget bus driver almost slammed the door on me but I got on. He mashed on the gas which, naturally, sent me tumbling behind the white line. "That's okay", I was thinking to myself "Finally! I catch a break." The guy sitting accross from me looked like he had just stepped out of 1985, London. Probably hung over from a Billy Idol concert. He had bleached-white hair and had sewn patches all over some black corduroy pants. He had also hemmed them to fit tight... or rather, not fit at all. His denim vest/jacket had a bunch of band logos on it and he had brown high top Dr. Martin's on. Seriously? where do these people come from?

I got off a couple of blocks before my place and decided to just relax and not stress. Just as i was thinking "don't let it phase you, Evan..." I felt a wetness on my arm.

Bird crap.

First/Worst

I guess you could say I've just had my curricular rite of passage, My first ever spring break. I didn't really have big plans for this spring break, I was going to spend a week on the road in California with a couple of roommates and a friend or two. But when it came down to it, I decided that I was not keenly interested in spending a lot of time in a cramped vehicle driving through Nevada, and up and down the 101. It wasn't that I wouldn't enjoy the company, or rehashing the arguments that go hand in hand with road trips (who drives, where/when we stop, radio stations, speed limits, elbow room, "that's my pillow", "I hate [genre] music" tangents, Moral Philosophical Debate: Copilot privileges and responsibilities, and who could forget the "Are-we-there-yet" jokes.... Not that I wasn't rife with ticklish anticipation of these things, I guess I just didn't trust in my mental capacity to handle all of those elements immediately after working 52 hours out of the 86 that made up my Friday through Monday, and my subsequent Allnighter that got the best of me around 6 AM on Tuesday, the scheduled Time of Departure for the road trip.

I had to weigh the value of sleep against the thrills of the road and opted for the former. Besides, I had also made it apparent to a friend from work that I would really like to tag along with her to Vegas if she had an open seat. I had really been feeling more like a Vegas spring break ever since the first planning of spring break, and the prospect of going to Vegas for a few days outweighed my expectations of a week in California. My roommates continued on to California as planned, and I slept in my bed. I forced myself into consciousness at about 9:30 on Tuesday. I had a project due at 12:40, so I missed class to finish the damned packet in time. (UVSC didn't start spring break until Wednesday). I gave up one of my days of spring break by not leaving town. Something in me is obligated to do what I am able despite my previous decision to skip classes to get a head start toward California. After dropping off my homework (and getting a good rebuking from my history prof. ) I decided 'what the hell' and went to my English class as well, even though I had told him I would not be there.

Things improved when a couple of friends dropped by to visit, one of them being a buddy from Memphis who I hadn't seen in over 2 years, the other my old roommate (also from Memphis) who got married a couple months ago, I had seen very little of him since. When they dropped by, I was trying to revisit the days that I cooked for myself, I had a few pots and pans doing simmering-type things on the stove and a spatula and dinner fork. It was more like a fire prevention refresher course.. although some stir-fry came of it eventually. I went over and played some Nertz! with my estranged friends and then returned home for some shuteye around 1:30AM, hoping to hear from my friend at work about an open slot on the Vegabus.

Wednesday morning, no word on the Vegas situation. I was feeling a little guilty for having invited myself along anyway. I still considered dropping a reminder, but in the end I decided it would happen if I was welcome. I opted instead to go shooting with my brother and I invited my visiting buddy along as well. I think I spent most of the afternoon daydreaming about what possessions I could hoc to finance my next planned purchase, A Taurus Millennium Pro (that's a gun) for concealed carry. after shooting, my brother and I gathered the brass from around us and took it home to prep for reloading. I went over to my married buddy's house to play cards to kill time till about 7:30. I went to a little birthday party to make good on what works out to be a cycle of bi-monthly encounters with someone by now all but estranged to me. It was pleasant-ish, with a slight smack of obligation on my hostesses part. I took my leave a little later than comfortable and spent the rest of the night with the melodic tones of Jeff Buckley and Leonard Cohen's deliberations on relationships-gone-awry, and misguided affections playing in my ear.

Thursday I spent much of my time in bed. I had told my buddy the night before that intended to sleep until someone or something woke me up. It proved to be my resolve to get over myself and find something worth doing that brought me out of my semi-conscious reclusion. I killed some time looking for a good read on half.com and browsing an enthusiast forum before I took a shower and headed over to my brothers place to deprimer some casings from Wednesday's shooting excursion. My brother can always say something witty or altogether offensive enough to distract me from my self pity. My two Memphian buds were supposed to come over and help me film some footage to mess around with, but in the spirit of the past 3 years of my movie making career, it was all talk and no action. They opted for a hot meal instead-- but I was still invited.

I found out later that night that the guy I had gotten to cover my Friday shift had flaked out, and it was only in my message reminding him to show that I found out he had "made other plans." I spent about 3 hours trying to find someone to take the shift so I wouldn't have to come in (this was to be my first weekend off in over 8 months, and I was kinda looking forward to it, even if I was stuck in town with nothing to do.) However, after a single well-meaning offer and about 30 'negative's, I gave up. I decided to confirm my Sunday coverage just to be sure, to which the text reply read "I can't, sorry."

This marks the first time in about 3 years that I got really, really, by-the-book, pissed(not counting Alaska, because I wasn't really alive then). I threw my phone at the wall and clenched my fist for a minute. then I grabbed my phone to let my boss know that I was going to be working the weekend afterall.

My weekend at work started off prettishiddy. I was not in the mood to spend the last 3 days of my spring break doing what I had been doing week in and week out for the past 32 weeks in a row. I got through a 3 hour block of meetings before I finally decided that it was within my capacity to let it slide off my shoulder and just pretend that this weekend had always been intended to be business as usual. It really helped to change my attitude and the day pretty much whizzed by. Luckily my Saturday shift cover guy was good on his word and I got look forward to my first Saturday off since last August.

Saturday morning I meant to be up and about early, checking to see if I could meet with the UFSA rep at school about starting some courses to get the ball rolling. I want to look into working as a wildland firefighter this summer and there is a certification course required before I'm eligible. I slept in however... and I woke up to a phone call from my (bored) Memphis buddy wanting to go to lunch with a girl we both knew from Memphis who just moved out here for school. We met up with her and her roommates at Brick Oven Pizza and had a few slices of Nostalgia, I had a Calizone. They invited us to tag along with them to Temple Square since a couple of them had never been. After some troubleshooting we all piled into my 4Runner and I drove us there.

It's been a while since I was there, and really it was nice to have some sort of religious experience. After a couple of tours we went to a party by U of U and watched Better Off Dead. They fed us, too-- Pizza, waffles and fried chicken (chicken and waffles may sound bad, but I remembered passing up an opportunity to try it at Roscoe's in L.A. and decided to give it a try, IT is SO good. I ate mine taco-style, and smothered in syrup.) As we left I noticed that my car was having some trouble shifting from 2nd to 3rd gear, but it eventually did and when we got on the interstate it was working just fine. however, after 30 minutes or so my "A/T OIL TEMP" light came on. so we stopped and let it cool down in a gas station parking lot for a good 15 minutes. it didn't come back on the rest of the way home.

On my drive to work Sunday morning my 4Runner wouldn't shift out of 1st gear, I crippled to work at 20 MPH. nothing changed over the course of my 14 hour shift-- same story on the drive home.

I'll be riding the bus to school in the morning.

I don't know how to give myself advice.

I've been coping better with school, lately. I have gotten around the mystery of it all and now I'm just pressing through, head down.

Now I'm on to dealing with the fact that I just plain do NOT enjoy school. I guess I never have, although I had confused my thirst for knowledge as compatible with school until now. I hate going to school. I hate sitting through lecture after lecture, paying for it all out of pocket and not learning anything that I want to.

I have been stressed out because I know that I have two options before me. I can either go to school year 'round and get it all(the first half of it) over with a half year earlier, or I can get through this semester and take the summer off to regroup. I know myself pretty well. I know that I hate being obligated to be anywhere for very long... and I've already passed my previous record for staying put since leaving home. I also know that I will NOT have the gumption to go back to school in the fall. If I quit for the summer I will be done indefinitely. I will probably be gone from Utah before fall semester even starts.

I've been playing little psychological tricks on myself. I sent off for my Passport the other day. I was reasoning with myself that I feel trapped, and that getting my passport would represent some freedom without requiring me to go anywhere to prove to myself that I'm not tethered down.

I have also been trying to make myself feel more at home here by trying out the whole "settling in" routine. Last night I went and bought the first comforter I've had since I inherited Garfield from my brother when I was about 9. I bought a set of matching sheets and a flannel pillowcase. I came home and made my new bed, putting my sleeping bag, which I have grown so accustomed to, in the closet. Maybe having a real bed to sleep in with real blankets will make me feel situated, instead of sleeping in my ready-to-hit-the-road sleeping bag.

Today I dejunked my room. I rearranged a little, I vacuumed my floor and stacked my papers and bills in neat stacks. I cleaned out my closet and rearranged the crap in it. I hung up my jackets, I even started a bag for donating my old corduroy jackets and worn out blue jeans.
I couldn't stop with all that momentum, I went downstairs and cleaned out my car. I'll admit, I left an old sleeping bag in the back, just in case. but everything else has been put away. My car got washed for the first time since I bought it. Vacuumed out and detailed...

I hope I'm not just wasting my time and money by trying to improve my quality of life. in the end I just want some freedom.
P.S. Vero, I found that bright orange pair of high heel flip flops, they are in the bag of donations so if you want them...

Lullaby

you're ready for bed
Lullabible stories read
You clap your hands
and hit your knees
Pray for a little peace

all lullaby yourself,
pray for happiness and health
and lullaby and by
as stars appear in the sky
you'll slip into sleep with a sigh

lullaby bye baby, I'll see you soon
lullaby the light of the moon
Lullaby visions in your dreams
sleep, and let your dreams just glide
and let peace be lullaby your side

Walkabout - Pt. 1

Early this morning I awoke, Not a sound to be heard. I drew the blinds and the gray cold morning spilled over the panes. I showered and dressed for the day. Thick socks, hiking boots, threadbare blue jeans, a ratty T shirt and a light jacket. I shuffled through the garage and filled my old, worn out green backpack with lunch and dinner, a flashlight with extra batteries, and a lighter. I loaded it all into my muddy red Rubicon Jeep and hit the road just as the sun was waking. After stopping off for some fast food breakfast- powdered eggs and filler meat sausage links- I turned my trusty 4WD toward the canyon. The ridge stone contrasted the red horizon of sunrise. I had planned to stop off and pick up a couple of friends, but last night they canceled on me... must have been the early start that was so disheartening. The sun was slowly hidden again behind the rising canyon walls. The misty morning fog spilled over the edges of the narrow canyon and descended like waterfalls from the cliffs. No traffic through here this time of morning. At the foot of the trail I checked my gear to be sure it was all there. I found that I had made off with only one bottle of water. I pulled out my pack and began my hike. There should be some good mountain streams around the caves to fill my bottle in. I began my hike with a deep breath. As I ascended the trail, my thoughts were being lightly pushed through my conscious by a hum of insects, gathering pollen and dewdrops from the wild flowers and clover along the path.

Despite my pleasant surroundings, my thoughts weren't that of contemplating the simplicity of life, or the beauty of nature-- on the contrary. I found myself mulling over my life up to that point. There I was, 25 years old, nothing really to mark my existence save for my meager worldly possessions, of those things my most prized belongings were a mint condition red Dot 335 blues guitar, and a lying-in-pieces, '65 Chevy Nova which had, under the grease and grime, a pristine pearl white finish with chrome trim. Nadia: the "love of my life".

That was the simple truth. It had been 3 years since my last attempt at pursuing a love interest, and before that, a marathon track record of failures. I had nothing to brag about. I guess I had finally given up on holding out for someone who could tolerate my slow pace. After years of pushing myself to be the initiator, and then losing my confidence and taking it slow-- you know, kissing foreheads and holding hands. After doing the routine holding doors, Roses and charms, being snubbed, used, ridiculed and given that ever-reliable speech that mentions why "someone like you, doesn't need someone like me to be happy." and other one-liner shutdowns that come from a realm of logic totally foreign to me. Somewhere along the roller coaster ride I decided to take my chances with gravity and more or less became the broken man that I am.

I retook control of my conscious and planned my day. I planned to spend the morning ascending the mountainside and intended to descend a half hour before sunset, spending the afternoon within the mountain. I knew a place Just above the grassy plateau on the south face of the mountain, a limestone bluff capped the mountain and held an intricate catacombs beneath it, whittled out by eons of running water. The ceilings were low in much of the caves, but if you could handle crawling on your belly for a half hour the reward was well worth it. A few large rooms lay in the center of the tunnel formations, lit by sunlight through holes as small as pinhead in the thin eastern wall. Perhaps a million years ago, a meteorite shower pocked the thin slab above the natural cave and the small grain sized meteorites were able to penetrate it. The result became a wonderful spectacle. I called it the "Night and Day" room, 15 feet to the ceiling and about the same across the smooth floor. The noon day sun shone down through crevices above the caves and eventually reached the pinholes of the wall , giving the illusion of a thousand stars billions of miles away. I found this place many years ago, but this was only my third visit there. Something this grand cannot be cheapened by frequency. It was only there that I went when I needed assurance that there is something more to life than the daily grind, and today I was using my lifeline.

A day in the mountains would be the refreshing escape that I needed to get through another week at the shop. Enduring the pounding pace, the sweltering heat, the whir of impact wrenches. Taking orders from barking bosses, holding the customers at bay, making an occasional escape to the grease pit where I could breathe freely, and maybe salvage some of my sanity. At the end of each day, I would drive home with a stiff back, unlock my front door with busted knuckles, chill them on a microwave dinner before I tossed it in the nuke for 3 minutes as I unlaced my work boots and peeled them off of my swollen, achy feet. Then I would draw a boiling hot bath with Epsom salt to appease my stiff joints, while simultaneously soaking the stains of grim in my wrinkled and scarred hands. I would set a hot cloth over my face to steam out the dirt-caked pores, the sweat of the day running down my nose and collecting on my lips seeping into the corners of my mouth with a salty diesel taste. I would put on a CD in the stereo on the floor of the bathroom that would help me relax, lately a rotation of REM and The Cranberries. Each night this same routine, and each night I had to fight the urge to fall asleep in that filthy bathtub, lined with calcium buildup and soap scum, and just let go. Sink beneath the surface and never wake up.... The Great Escape.

The sun was heating the mountainside now, probably close to nine o'clock. I took a detour that would give me shade under forest leaves. I maneuvered through the underbrush by passing close under the trees, where pine needles mat over the ground and choke the growth of sapling elms, and the roots of the Ash trees spread wide and shallow from the trunk and make the topsoil inhospitable to weaker plants. I watched the sunlight dancing with an almost kaleidoscopic quality on the forest floor, as a light breeze swayed the leafy branches above me. a patch of Sorrel marked a spring beside the natural pathway, I stopped and filled my nalgene and nibbled on a clover stem. Behind me, a sudden racket sent pangs through my body as I jolted with involuntary reflexes; I jumped and spun around. Out of the bushes, about 10 yards from where I stood, sprang a fawn, golden brown with bright white tufts on its hind-end. It dashed across the clearing, missing a collision with me and the surrounding underbrush like a skier on a slalom course. A long-lost memory came rushing back... I was probably 10 or 11 at the time. My brother and I had spent the day poking through "the dump"--a makeshift landfill that lay about a quarter mile behind the house. We pulled an electric motor from some old "lavadora". We had brought it back to the shed behind the house and plugged the exposed wires into an orange, heavy duty extension cord. The drive pulley spun and the motor behaved like a gyroscope, We decided to use it as a grinder and went to the Utility room for some silverware in storage bins on the cinder block shelves. I grabbed three of the oldest, dullest table knives. We spent a good half hour perfecting our methods to get those knives as sharp as possible. We now had sharp knives and mom had no clue. We decided it was high time for a hunting excursion at the clubhouse. There was an old cement storm shelter in the woods by the Dump. we had built a little clubhouse out of sapling pines and scrap sheets of tin roofing. We always saw squirrels or rabbits in those woods and it seemed the perfect locale for a hunting trip. We decided not to do anything differently than we had before, we would sit and wait and the wildlife would come to us. My brother took his place in front of a large blackjack tree and practiced throwing his new cutlery into the trunk of it. I had climbed on top of the storm cellar and reclined next to the ventilation hole in the center of the structure. I gazed into the sky, watching clouds blow across the sky. Then suddenly a rustling interrupted the silence and I sprang up. There was a fawn bolting through our camp. I grabbed my knives and flung them with a notable lack of skill and they each safely missed the frightened young deer. My heart was racing with excitement. I gave chase as my brother hollered at me to stop. The terrorized fawn outpaced me and was gone before I had taken 10 strides. and that was it. My older brother was waiting with a firm tone when I returned to my place in camp. "It's illegal to kill a fawn." he said. He knew everything.

I mused over that memory as I finished filling my bottle and then retook my venture. I longed for the days when I had seen the world in full color. my vision was now riddled with circles of confusion. Fuzzy, bland images had taken the place of crisp and vibrant stimuli due to my subdued, calloused senses. But my early memories always had that rich quality. Depression had dulled my perception of the world around me years before, and though I had grown accustomed to it, I was occasionally reminded of how full life used to be... the new experiences to be had, the strength of a naive imagination and its ability to morph my surroundings in such a way that the thought was enough to spark a palpitation. Oh, the invincibility of a young boy's mind and body working together.

I remembered, the only time I felt weak was when my father was around. It was around dad that I realized my limits. I trusted Dad to drive, he trusted me to lock the hubs into 4WD when we went to cut firewood. I counted on dad to operate the chainsaw, He counted on me to pile the logs into the pickup. We would take a break from our labor and he, my brother and I would have a "hearty" lunch of military bread, Vienna sausage or sardines in Louisiana hot sauce, and lukewarm water from dad's indestructible green plastic canteen. Sometimes we would bring moon pies or star crunches for dessert. It's not that I felt weak around my father, I suppose it had more to do with my high regard for him, and my eagerness to please him. I was always watching dad.

I remember once my dad let me shoot his .22 mag pistol, "The Grendel". We shot at snapping turtles in the man-made ponds surrounding the Natural Gas well site on section 9 of our property. Once or twice we had to wait for passing "renegade" Longhorns to leave the backdrop of the watering hole and mosey into the woods before we could resume shooting at the turtles. Dad explained to me that the Turtles were carnivorous, and would eat the young bass in the pond before they had a chance to grow big enough to catch and eat. We would wait patiently for the turtles to surface for air--poking their noses out of the water. I never knew if I had hit my target because they were so quick when frightened that there was no sign of them when the water subsided from the shot.
Dad always had the Grendel under the drivers seat of his Toyota Pickup. And every time we went out on our remote Oklahoma property, my brother and I would tremble with excitement at the idea that we might get to shoot it after we got a full load of firewood. As we got older it became somewhat of a tradition. Dad would give us tips and cautions. We never got to load it, Dad would let us fill the magazines, but he was the one who put the magazines in the gun and held it till we were ready to shoot.

I could see the peak over the treetops now. I quickened my pace to shorten the last stretch between me and my goal. The sun was in full force and pockets of humid air floated across the forest. The dew was dry now. As I drew close on the columns of rock I could see heat waves rising off of them. I sat on a half buried stone in the shade to catch my breath before beginning the second part of my adventure....

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.