He seemed as surprised as me, held in a headlock with the blade against his neck.
“You’ve ruined me,” I said. “And now, you’re ruined too.”
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. XVI. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Violence
Friday, May 13, 2011
Rage
It was over.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. XV. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Friday, April 29, 2011
The Wish
I'd become invisible.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. XIV. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
BLJ: Big Life Journey (or Through the Fog)
An essay in three parts.
1. It happens often enough that we hear some trite phrase that compares life to a journey. Not trite because it's untrue, and surely not because it doesn't fit whatever context in which we may find it, but only because we've heard this comparison a million times before. But have we ever really considered the truth of it?
I'm sure everyone has, to some extent, though not all have pondered it long. I know many who've peeked above the rim of everyday life and been thoroughly frightened permanently back below, and a few who've been traumatized by their first glimpse beyond the daily grind, and therefore are loathe to ever look again. I don't blame anyone in either of these camps, and I both pity and envy anyone who's never had need to consider those forces behind the life that is projected, as if onto a screen, before their faces.
I've spent many thousands of words and hours considering my own journey, but like everyone else, my view is skewed because it's impossible to see it objectively since, well, I'm still on it. It happens often that I (we all?) am more able to say definitively what I'd do in any situation presented to another human on his/her own journey, but for some reason find myself stymied by my own, even simpler, circumstances.
So because there really is no other choice, I just keep on moving, making each decision with the wisdom at hand, and hoping I always see it as the good choice I believed it to be at the time. This happens to everyone... right? I know this is true of many whom I have surrounded myself with for years, but for some reason all of us, every one, believe we are the only people dealing with this or that trouble at any particular time. And because we either don't want to bother anyone else, or we're too embarassed by our inability to handle something (or the fact that we have to deal with it in the first place), or a bad memory of trusting the wrong person, or some other stupid reason, we fail to reach out to those who may be able to help, and thereby create for ourselves a perpetual lonliness.
2. When I drive from Detroit to Milwaukee, a trip of roughly 370 miles, I do so with such severe limitations I am surprised sometimes that I even get into the car. For one thing, when I'm driving, I can only see a few miles ahead on a flat, straight, relatively empty road, or less than 1% of the total distance. Wouldn't it be preferable if I could see the destination before starting the trip? Usually the road goes up and down hills, is curved, and is crowded, and this of course limits visibility even more.
If I happen to see trouble ahead, it's usually a good enough distance away that I can avoid a collision or any other bad news. It isn't always far ahead: sometimes it appears right in front of me, and I have to make a quick decision. And it isn't always apparent what the trouble is: sometimes I just see the orange barrels or slowed traffic and know something bad is up the road without actually knowing what it is or what to do about it.
What's worse, if I make the drive at night (which is most often the case), I have a maximum visibility of only a couple hundred feet with good headlights (or about 0.01% of the total distance), which is not much further than the minimum stopping distance at highway speeds with good tires and road conditions. If there is something ahead of me that would stop or slow me down, I don't know it's there until I very quickly need to make a decision about how to handle it, and though the roads are typically less crowded at night, I still have the other factors to make the situation even more complicated.
To make matters worse, there are occasions when conditions aren't favorable for travel. It's inevitable that there will be rain, or fog, or snow, or ice, or mud. I can also count on the chance that something from someone else's vehicle will fly into my path, or hit my windshield, or be left on the road for me to avoid. With other cars out there, this is just a given. Though it's many long years ago, I still remember the minor panic I felt when I realized that, although my driver training was complete and I was fully licensed and such, I would eventually have to contend with less-than-ideal travel conditions.
Why on earth would I want to even consider such a trip? First and foremost, because of the people I'm travelling to visit. A close second is that I've been a passenger on the trip enough times to believe I can do it on my own. (Still, the first solo attempt was nerve-racking.) Also, I have maps to guide me: I know which route is the most reliable. What's more, I have experience that will help me make decisions when something goes wrong, even with only seconds before disaster strikes. And finally, I know my vehicle is up to the trip: it's been maintained well enough that I don't have to worry much about the transmission, battery, tires, etc.
3. Every day when I get out of bed, shower, dress, breakfast, drive, work, lunch, work, drive, school, cook/help with dinner, do/help with homework, give kisses and hugs goodnight, rinse, and repeat, I'm on that Big Life Journey, and it's not much different than when I'm on westbound I-94. But beyond that basic similarity, things get very, very different.
For one thing, I have only a vague idea of what my destination is, and I've certainly never been there before. Therefore, I have only ideas about what the best route is. Consequently, I sometimes find myself on a road I suddenly realize I've traveled before, which is not always a good thing. Also, visibility is limited to days, or weeks, or until the next paycheck, or the end of a lease. At best, I can see only 1-2% ahead of myself on a trip that I hope will take in excess of 80 or 90 years. And this road is nothing like I-94. Crappy Michigan road conditions aside, the routes available to me are never straight, never wide. Though some appear to be, it's usually only they're toll roads, and I'd therefore be forced into conventions and directions that might not always suit me--that may, in fact, be detrimental.
Troubles are common and cruel on the BLJ. I never go a day without the need to circumnavigate some pothole or debris, sometimes left there by someone else, more often thrown into my path by my own ignorance or stubbornness. Usually I can see things coming, but this doesn't always mean they're unavoidable. When I can't anticipate them, they seem to come out of nowhere, and I end up not only trying to drive and navigate but clean up the mess I've made. Sometimes it even happens that I find something's been behind me a good while, trying to get my attention, and I've been ignoring it, and that makes the cleanup a bitter task. It's rare that failing to avoid or deal with some such hindrance does not have consequences that affect other people's BLJs. It's also true that making a hard choice to take the right path for any given leg of the trip has potential to hurt others.
Also, it's rare that a dry, sunny day presents itself along the BLJ. I've spent a majority of my own in considerably bad weather. Some people would say this is a matter attitude, and I wouldn't argue with them. That translates into where you choose to be traveling. Unlike a real road trip, if you don't like the current road conditions, the BLJ lets you consciously choose to "relocate" to a place with better weather. This of course, is not easy, and learning how is a journey in itself. And, you do always have to start out from where you currently are, which makes it difficult to realize relocation is possible in the first place.
Finally, I am never sure of my vehicle's travel-readiness. Each morning, I risk some kind of breakdown. I have known issues with particular things, which I treat, but they all have root causes that have yet to be fully diagnosed. Also, many parts and systems are either wearing out for lack (or ignorance) of replacements, or are completely untested, and therefore I have no idea how much they can take. I fear situations that will push them beyond their limits, and I won't see the failure until it's screwed everything up and I'm mired in the conquences. That has happened more often than not, and typically I'm not the only person who ends up screwed or mired. In fact, thinking about it now, I realize that every known issue has been discovered by an unexpected breakdown, usually with accoutremental embarrassment and/or shame.
So, why would I choose to make the BLJ? First and foremost because of the person at the end of the journey: ME. To be more specific, it's not just one single journey, but many smaller ones; and it's not one single person that is the goal, it's just some improvement on the version that began that particular leg. A close second is the chance to make a difference in other people's journeys. Large or small, anything I can do to help someone along their way puts me further ahead in my own. It's about filling buckets. There are some people in particular for whom I strive to be a positive influence, whose BLJs are a main focus in my own. It is for them that I choose not to turn off onto a road I know will end abruptly, when that is my inclination.
I know so little about how to conduct the BLJ it's a wonder I even stay on board, but what I have learned, or what I think I've learned, is that there is no 'end' destination. There are desirable ends, yes, but no Milwaukee in this trip. I've also learned that reaching some desirable end will require a lot of circular travel: many roads will be taken again and again as a necessity; indeed, the sub-goal of any day's travel may be just to reach a familiar road. Finally, I think I've learned to take risks: to take roads that are unfamiliar, or even unpaved, because when taking these roads, like a path in the forest, the point is not to get somewhere, but the experience you have along the way. Usually you end up right where you began, but as a better version of who you were at the first step. Sometimes, you end up somewhere different, and having found that place--somewhere you never would have seen if you hadn't taken a risk--always makes dealing with some other leg of the trip that much easier.
SCWA
1. It happens often enough that we hear some trite phrase that compares life to a journey. Not trite because it's untrue, and surely not because it doesn't fit whatever context in which we may find it, but only because we've heard this comparison a million times before. But have we ever really considered the truth of it?
I'm sure everyone has, to some extent, though not all have pondered it long. I know many who've peeked above the rim of everyday life and been thoroughly frightened permanently back below, and a few who've been traumatized by their first glimpse beyond the daily grind, and therefore are loathe to ever look again. I don't blame anyone in either of these camps, and I both pity and envy anyone who's never had need to consider those forces behind the life that is projected, as if onto a screen, before their faces.
I've spent many thousands of words and hours considering my own journey, but like everyone else, my view is skewed because it's impossible to see it objectively since, well, I'm still on it. It happens often that I (we all?) am more able to say definitively what I'd do in any situation presented to another human on his/her own journey, but for some reason find myself stymied by my own, even simpler, circumstances.
So because there really is no other choice, I just keep on moving, making each decision with the wisdom at hand, and hoping I always see it as the good choice I believed it to be at the time. This happens to everyone... right? I know this is true of many whom I have surrounded myself with for years, but for some reason all of us, every one, believe we are the only people dealing with this or that trouble at any particular time. And because we either don't want to bother anyone else, or we're too embarassed by our inability to handle something (or the fact that we have to deal with it in the first place), or a bad memory of trusting the wrong person, or some other stupid reason, we fail to reach out to those who may be able to help, and thereby create for ourselves a perpetual lonliness.
2. When I drive from Detroit to Milwaukee, a trip of roughly 370 miles, I do so with such severe limitations I am surprised sometimes that I even get into the car. For one thing, when I'm driving, I can only see a few miles ahead on a flat, straight, relatively empty road, or less than 1% of the total distance. Wouldn't it be preferable if I could see the destination before starting the trip? Usually the road goes up and down hills, is curved, and is crowded, and this of course limits visibility even more.
If I happen to see trouble ahead, it's usually a good enough distance away that I can avoid a collision or any other bad news. It isn't always far ahead: sometimes it appears right in front of me, and I have to make a quick decision. And it isn't always apparent what the trouble is: sometimes I just see the orange barrels or slowed traffic and know something bad is up the road without actually knowing what it is or what to do about it.
What's worse, if I make the drive at night (which is most often the case), I have a maximum visibility of only a couple hundred feet with good headlights (or about 0.01% of the total distance), which is not much further than the minimum stopping distance at highway speeds with good tires and road conditions. If there is something ahead of me that would stop or slow me down, I don't know it's there until I very quickly need to make a decision about how to handle it, and though the roads are typically less crowded at night, I still have the other factors to make the situation even more complicated.
To make matters worse, there are occasions when conditions aren't favorable for travel. It's inevitable that there will be rain, or fog, or snow, or ice, or mud. I can also count on the chance that something from someone else's vehicle will fly into my path, or hit my windshield, or be left on the road for me to avoid. With other cars out there, this is just a given. Though it's many long years ago, I still remember the minor panic I felt when I realized that, although my driver training was complete and I was fully licensed and such, I would eventually have to contend with less-than-ideal travel conditions.
Why on earth would I want to even consider such a trip? First and foremost, because of the people I'm travelling to visit. A close second is that I've been a passenger on the trip enough times to believe I can do it on my own. (Still, the first solo attempt was nerve-racking.) Also, I have maps to guide me: I know which route is the most reliable. What's more, I have experience that will help me make decisions when something goes wrong, even with only seconds before disaster strikes. And finally, I know my vehicle is up to the trip: it's been maintained well enough that I don't have to worry much about the transmission, battery, tires, etc.
3. Every day when I get out of bed, shower, dress, breakfast, drive, work, lunch, work, drive, school, cook/help with dinner, do/help with homework, give kisses and hugs goodnight, rinse, and repeat, I'm on that Big Life Journey, and it's not much different than when I'm on westbound I-94. But beyond that basic similarity, things get very, very different.
For one thing, I have only a vague idea of what my destination is, and I've certainly never been there before. Therefore, I have only ideas about what the best route is. Consequently, I sometimes find myself on a road I suddenly realize I've traveled before, which is not always a good thing. Also, visibility is limited to days, or weeks, or until the next paycheck, or the end of a lease. At best, I can see only 1-2% ahead of myself on a trip that I hope will take in excess of 80 or 90 years. And this road is nothing like I-94. Crappy Michigan road conditions aside, the routes available to me are never straight, never wide. Though some appear to be, it's usually only they're toll roads, and I'd therefore be forced into conventions and directions that might not always suit me--that may, in fact, be detrimental.
Troubles are common and cruel on the BLJ. I never go a day without the need to circumnavigate some pothole or debris, sometimes left there by someone else, more often thrown into my path by my own ignorance or stubbornness. Usually I can see things coming, but this doesn't always mean they're unavoidable. When I can't anticipate them, they seem to come out of nowhere, and I end up not only trying to drive and navigate but clean up the mess I've made. Sometimes it even happens that I find something's been behind me a good while, trying to get my attention, and I've been ignoring it, and that makes the cleanup a bitter task. It's rare that failing to avoid or deal with some such hindrance does not have consequences that affect other people's BLJs. It's also true that making a hard choice to take the right path for any given leg of the trip has potential to hurt others.
Also, it's rare that a dry, sunny day presents itself along the BLJ. I've spent a majority of my own in considerably bad weather. Some people would say this is a matter attitude, and I wouldn't argue with them. That translates into where you choose to be traveling. Unlike a real road trip, if you don't like the current road conditions, the BLJ lets you consciously choose to "relocate" to a place with better weather. This of course, is not easy, and learning how is a journey in itself. And, you do always have to start out from where you currently are, which makes it difficult to realize relocation is possible in the first place.
Finally, I am never sure of my vehicle's travel-readiness. Each morning, I risk some kind of breakdown. I have known issues with particular things, which I treat, but they all have root causes that have yet to be fully diagnosed. Also, many parts and systems are either wearing out for lack (or ignorance) of replacements, or are completely untested, and therefore I have no idea how much they can take. I fear situations that will push them beyond their limits, and I won't see the failure until it's screwed everything up and I'm mired in the conquences. That has happened more often than not, and typically I'm not the only person who ends up screwed or mired. In fact, thinking about it now, I realize that every known issue has been discovered by an unexpected breakdown, usually with accoutremental embarrassment and/or shame.
So, why would I choose to make the BLJ? First and foremost because of the person at the end of the journey: ME. To be more specific, it's not just one single journey, but many smaller ones; and it's not one single person that is the goal, it's just some improvement on the version that began that particular leg. A close second is the chance to make a difference in other people's journeys. Large or small, anything I can do to help someone along their way puts me further ahead in my own. It's about filling buckets. There are some people in particular for whom I strive to be a positive influence, whose BLJs are a main focus in my own. It is for them that I choose not to turn off onto a road I know will end abruptly, when that is my inclination.
I know so little about how to conduct the BLJ it's a wonder I even stay on board, but what I have learned, or what I think I've learned, is that there is no 'end' destination. There are desirable ends, yes, but no Milwaukee in this trip. I've also learned that reaching some desirable end will require a lot of circular travel: many roads will be taken again and again as a necessity; indeed, the sub-goal of any day's travel may be just to reach a familiar road. Finally, I think I've learned to take risks: to take roads that are unfamiliar, or even unpaved, because when taking these roads, like a path in the forest, the point is not to get somewhere, but the experience you have along the way. Usually you end up right where you began, but as a better version of who you were at the first step. Sometimes, you end up somewhere different, and having found that place--somewhere you never would have seen if you hadn't taken a risk--always makes dealing with some other leg of the trip that much easier.
SCWA
Friday, April 22, 2011
Complications
She knew his old doctor was nearing retirement, and that he thought of her very affectionately. She was careful to make sure everything was ready: life insurance and malpractice policies.
Minor surgery was scheduled. There were complications. Now Naliene’s a widow.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. XIII. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Angels
I do believe in angels.
A couple days ago, the wind picked up my baby child and she was thrown into the air, holding on for dear life to the thing the wind had caught. She was moved at least six feet vertically and ten feet leeward. She was dropped onto this giant pad, then fell to the ground, after which the pad landed on top of her.
A vendor search tells me a typical pad is 7'2" x 16' x 30", and that's about the size of this one. It took three grown men to move the pad off her shoe, which had come off when I pulled her from the ground.
She suffered a scraped ankle, and a couple bumps on the head, and was scared so badly she barely cried with any real abandon. But that was all.
I held her the next few hours, looking for signs that mean a head injury's gone bad and praying I'd made the right decision by bringing her home instead of to the ER. I saw many futures in which that day was pivotal. I tore my insides apart asking myself why I hadn't made her stay off it, like some other parents had their kids, or at least been closer when it happened. I came up with no answers.
This was a freak accident that could have ended tragically, and given the physics of the event, probably should have. But there was some Intervention that protected my little girl. I don't care what anyone calls it; I am infinitely thankful.
I do believe in angels.
A couple days ago, the wind picked up my baby child and she was thrown into the air, holding on for dear life to the thing the wind had caught. She was moved at least six feet vertically and ten feet leeward. She was dropped onto this giant pad, then fell to the ground, after which the pad landed on top of her.
A vendor search tells me a typical pad is 7'2" x 16' x 30", and that's about the size of this one. It took three grown men to move the pad off her shoe, which had come off when I pulled her from the ground.
She suffered a scraped ankle, and a couple bumps on the head, and was scared so badly she barely cried with any real abandon. But that was all.
I held her the next few hours, looking for signs that mean a head injury's gone bad and praying I'd made the right decision by bringing her home instead of to the ER. I saw many futures in which that day was pivotal. I tore my insides apart asking myself why I hadn't made her stay off it, like some other parents had their kids, or at least been closer when it happened. I came up with no answers.
This was a freak accident that could have ended tragically, and given the physics of the event, probably should have. But there was some Intervention that protected my little girl. I don't care what anyone calls it; I am infinitely thankful.
I do believe in angels.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Busted
That was a year ago. I hope Jim is enjoying Anguilla. I’m in federal lockup. I got caught.
* * * * *
FFF-55, Vol. XII. It seemed fitting for tax day. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Undiet
 |
| http://www.roberthouse.com/painting.html |
I had a 29" waist as a teenager. I'm nearly six feet tall, so you can imagine I was pretty lanky. Add that to my nerdery, my social ineptness, my inability to get (and keep) any popular girl's attention before post-puberty, and my lack of athletic skills, and you could accurately imagine my teen years as being cruelly unremarkable.
Being super skinny did, however, not go without its benefits. Among them is the fact that twenty years after graduation, I still look mostly the same as I did back then. Yes, I've put on 40+ pounds, like most of my classmates probably have, but I really put them to good use. I haven't beefed up or anything, but I look like a normally slim guy now, not a beanpole with arms. Also, I haven't lost my hair or gone completely grey, and I've lost enough of my social ineptness to function well, so at the reunion this summer, I ought to have a darn good time, if for no other reason than seeing many people who were more popular and better looking than me in '91 as bald, fat slobs.
However, this past fall I noticed a little change. My clothes were fitting differently, and worst of all, I could see a difference in the mirror. I was gaining weight. Statistically, I was the 2nd heaviest I've ever been in my life. I wasn't large by any means, but I knew that if, in my future, I became a heavy man, I would look back at Fall of 2010 and know that that is when it all started. So I resolved to do something about it.
I couldn't, and wouldn't choose, to repeat my previous weight loss method, so I was forced to think in healthy terms. I went with something simple, which was just to reverse the thing that seemed to make me gain in the first place: I'd just eat better/less. I didn't starve myself or go on any formal diets, I only ate when I was hungry, and stopped eating when I was full. I asked myself each time I put something in my mouth if it was a thing a healthy person would eat. Sometimes the answer was "no" and I ate it anyway, but just having the thought made a difference. I actually, at one point, lost the desire to eat unhealthy foods. When I stopped getting heavier, I stopped sweating it, but kept up with my good habits.
Then, six months later, I found I could fit into pants I hadn't worn in years. I really only put them on as a desperate last resort: my regular (34" waist) jeans were all dirty, so I would be forced, for a day, to suck it in and go with the...wait a minute, these 33"ers actually fit! Really well!! I know they make TV commercials about this, so sue me if I'm being dramatic, but I really did feel the way the women in the Nutrisystem ads appear to, all without the yucky shakes or prepackaged foods.
The Wife gives me a dirty look every time it's come up in conversation. Her body type is different than mine, and so she and my middle son (who inherited her body type) will always have a harder time managing their weight than me and my oldest son and daughter (who inherited mine). Them's just the breaks. It's really of no consequence anyway, because she's so damn fine as-is, even if she wouldn't agree. And besides, she's known throughout our many years together that no matter what she looks like, or how she feels about herself, I always think she's gorgeous, and would do her in a heartbeat. To be, well, blunt.
So here's what I've noticed: the last month or so, the groceries coming into the house have had the distinct and increasing characteristic of having more sweets and goodies to my liking. More and more, she's bringing stuff home that defies that question: "would a healthy person eat this?" And more and more, I'm falling prey to it. My recently new habit of stepping onto the scale (keeping it in the kitchen REALLY helps) has shown me that this eating more Swiss Cake Rolls is not such a great thing. It isn't even really a change in the numbers or my pants size (the 33"ers still fit marvelously, thank you very much), but in how I feel.
Maybe that was the biggest change of all: how I viewed my health. You see, since I started this process, I've always allowed myself a little flexibility (because who can give up chocolate milk completely? seriously...), but I've also always kept the big picture in mind. The things I've come to believe have an effect on not just my weight, but my overall health in general, have grown on me, and now I've found myself breaking my happy new rules in just the tiniest of ways. None of these little things would break my healthy cycle on its own, but the combination of them would have me moving decidedlly in the wrong direction.
Look: I'm not suggesting she's doing it on purpose, but you have to admit the coincidence is strange. I know she's trying to take good care of me and all, but it brings to mind a story I read once (content warning on the link! and grammar warning: it's not prefectly transcribed. Bukowski is phenomenal and would never make those mistakes.) It would be a lie to say she's never told me she's jealous, but I never imagined her to be vindictive. It has me wondering: should I be worried?
I suppose I'll have to settle for a happy medium until my gustatory discipline gets back into shape. It's just the right thing to do. After all, I've got my eyes on those 32"ers I've kept around, and summer is coming, which means I'll have to be publicly shirtless at least part of the time. And, just in case, it'll keep me from falling victim to any weird schemes some people might have in mind that involve feeding me delicious sweets or other bonnes bouches.
"Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead." -Charles Bukowski
Friday, April 8, 2011
The Muse
 |
| Image source. Posterity. |
After the performance, we met in the lobby, and we hugged. “Beautiful,” I signed. She only blushed, and smiled.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. XII. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
And on another note...
I was just looking for an image to go with the blog post, honestly. And what I found is this. I don't care if it's connected to shampoo, I don't care if it's based on a true story, I don't care if the girl is completely made up. This will make you cry. And for real, I wrote the 55 before I found it, though I understand if you don't believe me.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Once Bitten
 |
| Truly a noble creature. |
Gorram dog bit me. It's my own fault; I was going to beat the crap out of him. I guess he and I are square. Well, maybe. He's done a service by reminding me what rage costs. At least he isn't holding a grudge. Neither am I, but he owes me $52 for prescription antibiotics.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. XI. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Plea
I'm sorry; you must have me confused with somebody who has their life together.
I know, I make a grand illusion of sanity and sobriety, and I appreciate you having noticed. I guess it's really my fault you had the wrong impression of me. Believe me when I say I'm not out to decieve anybody...well, hurt anybody, so I apologize if this realization comes as a disappointing surprise.
Really, the entire point of my facade is to trick myself into going out every day and trying to achieve a life of togetherness. If I really looked back at myself in my Mirror of Yresim and acknowledged what I saw, I probably wouldn't even get out of bed in the morning. But that's not good for the kids to see, and I desperately want them to grow up emotionally healthy, for them to lead "together" adult lives... so I have to put on the show.
Also, I have to stay employed. I'm not building wealth, or making a cache I'll be able to look forward to retiring on, or anything remotely similar, I just want to keep the lights on, and some Cheerios (or their generic equivalent, when necessary) in the cupboard. I've been lucky enough to have these resources, for the most part, for a good long while, so you must understand that maintaining this existence is also essential to the presentation I make to my family. I need to provide them with enough to keep up the lifestyle to which they've become accustomed, or it might alert them to the truth.
Finally, I'm trying to stay married. This part of the illusion is the biggest part of all. Please don't tell my wife I'm just pretending, that I'm really a hopeless mess. She thinks I'm a good man, and though I am trying to be, she has no idea how far off the mark I fall most days. She has no idea of the mess I truly am, of the emptiness inside, of the desperation to mean something to someone. I love her, and I don't want to lose her, even though I clearly don't deserve her. She loves me for what she thinks is the real me, but I know, and now you know too, that if she knew the depth of my inadequacy, if she could see through the membrane, she'd bolt like a thoroughbred in a thunderstorm, and take with her everything that has ever meant anything to me.
So will you do me a favor? Will you allow me to keep faking it in your presence? If you pretend not to know I'm no good, I'll act like I haven't realized you know the truth. This will allow us both act as civil people, at least until our business is finished. Then you can think of me as you like.
Thanks.
I know, I make a grand illusion of sanity and sobriety, and I appreciate you having noticed. I guess it's really my fault you had the wrong impression of me. Believe me when I say I'm not out to decieve anybody...well, hurt anybody, so I apologize if this realization comes as a disappointing surprise.
Really, the entire point of my facade is to trick myself into going out every day and trying to achieve a life of togetherness. If I really looked back at myself in my Mirror of Yresim and acknowledged what I saw, I probably wouldn't even get out of bed in the morning. But that's not good for the kids to see, and I desperately want them to grow up emotionally healthy, for them to lead "together" adult lives... so I have to put on the show.
Also, I have to stay employed. I'm not building wealth, or making a cache I'll be able to look forward to retiring on, or anything remotely similar, I just want to keep the lights on, and some Cheerios (or their generic equivalent, when necessary) in the cupboard. I've been lucky enough to have these resources, for the most part, for a good long while, so you must understand that maintaining this existence is also essential to the presentation I make to my family. I need to provide them with enough to keep up the lifestyle to which they've become accustomed, or it might alert them to the truth.
Finally, I'm trying to stay married. This part of the illusion is the biggest part of all. Please don't tell my wife I'm just pretending, that I'm really a hopeless mess. She thinks I'm a good man, and though I am trying to be, she has no idea how far off the mark I fall most days. She has no idea of the mess I truly am, of the emptiness inside, of the desperation to mean something to someone. I love her, and I don't want to lose her, even though I clearly don't deserve her. She loves me for what she thinks is the real me, but I know, and now you know too, that if she knew the depth of my inadequacy, if she could see through the membrane, she'd bolt like a thoroughbred in a thunderstorm, and take with her everything that has ever meant anything to me.
So will you do me a favor? Will you allow me to keep faking it in your presence? If you pretend not to know I'm no good, I'll act like I haven't realized you know the truth. This will allow us both act as civil people, at least until our business is finished. Then you can think of me as you like.
Thanks.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Proposal
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| Add caption |
I convinced her to rise with me for an early walk on the beach. I was nervous, but soon the sun broke the Maya Riviera horizon, and I knew it was time.
I got on one knee.
She said yes.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. X. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
The Forest for the Trees
2 March 2011
What kind of man am I?
Not the kind I thought I'd be. But not the kind I feared I'd be, either. I consider myself a coward--afraid to take hard steps toward being a better person--but I know I'm far less a coward now than I have been in years past. I have learned over and over that more regrets are generated by chances not taken than those taken. I have no idea how those things I've opted out of in life would have changed me, but I'm pretty clear that this path, the one without the risks I decided not to take, has become less spectacular than I imagined.
But what is that a comment on, the choices I made or the expectations I had? It's not hard to understand how one's choices affect the direction of one's life, not at my age, but it's very difficult to know whether my expectations were in line with the direction I was comfortable starting in, which also begs the question: were my skills and confidences suited, or even applied, to the goals I made?
Truth is I made no goals, not real ones anyway. I followed a motivated crowd right to the edge, but when they all took flight on wings well-prepared, I went right over the cliff. I relied heavily on positive words given me by mentors, but had no substantial understanding of their meaning. I'd only adopted those goals of my friends which sounded close enough to be within reach, but still lofty enough to impress my parents, and pretended to my teachers and counselors that I knew how to realize them. Because my method was twice-flawed, my end was twice-doomed.
Now, twenty years later, I'm so far along a path I barely know how to navigate I have no clear memory of what led me this way. I still have a token idea of who I was when I started, and what brought me to this place, but no real clarity and no real direction. When I think I get these ideas, I realize more often than not that I'm only seeing an old reflection of a situation that seems familiar, not anything real. What I think I've learned only has meaning in the moment. The most objective clues I have are the trail of breadcrumbs I've left, marking the way with scars of the people I've hurt or used over the years. It's a pitiful map that, when seen for what it truly is, reveals only the circular wanderings of someone who is hopelessly lost.
(unfinished)
What kind of man am I?
Not the kind I thought I'd be. But not the kind I feared I'd be, either. I consider myself a coward--afraid to take hard steps toward being a better person--but I know I'm far less a coward now than I have been in years past. I have learned over and over that more regrets are generated by chances not taken than those taken. I have no idea how those things I've opted out of in life would have changed me, but I'm pretty clear that this path, the one without the risks I decided not to take, has become less spectacular than I imagined.
But what is that a comment on, the choices I made or the expectations I had? It's not hard to understand how one's choices affect the direction of one's life, not at my age, but it's very difficult to know whether my expectations were in line with the direction I was comfortable starting in, which also begs the question: were my skills and confidences suited, or even applied, to the goals I made?
Truth is I made no goals, not real ones anyway. I followed a motivated crowd right to the edge, but when they all took flight on wings well-prepared, I went right over the cliff. I relied heavily on positive words given me by mentors, but had no substantial understanding of their meaning. I'd only adopted those goals of my friends which sounded close enough to be within reach, but still lofty enough to impress my parents, and pretended to my teachers and counselors that I knew how to realize them. Because my method was twice-flawed, my end was twice-doomed.
Now, twenty years later, I'm so far along a path I barely know how to navigate I have no clear memory of what led me this way. I still have a token idea of who I was when I started, and what brought me to this place, but no real clarity and no real direction. When I think I get these ideas, I realize more often than not that I'm only seeing an old reflection of a situation that seems familiar, not anything real. What I think I've learned only has meaning in the moment. The most objective clues I have are the trail of breadcrumbs I've left, marking the way with scars of the people I've hurt or used over the years. It's a pitiful map that, when seen for what it truly is, reveals only the circular wanderings of someone who is hopelessly lost.
(unfinished)
Friday, March 18, 2011
Poem: To My Love
6 January 2006
When I'm with you, I find
All the things in my mind
That would tear me apart cease to be.
When your smile comes my way
All my nights turn to day.
All the Joy in the world is for me.
When with you, Bliss wakes
And my fearless hands shake
Afraid that I'll say the wrong thing.
When your eyes meet mine
There is no other time
That I feel happiness dawning.
With you in the room
My mirthless heart blooms
All my world turns from darkness to light.
And when you have gone
I'm completely alone
My poor heart aches cold in the night.
When I'm with you, I find
All the things in my mind
That would tear me apart cease to be.
When your smile comes my way
All my nights turn to day.
All the Joy in the world is for me.
When with you, Bliss wakes
And my fearless hands shake
Afraid that I'll say the wrong thing.
When your eyes meet mine
There is no other time
That I feel happiness dawning.
With you in the room
My mirthless heart blooms
All my world turns from darkness to light.
And when you have gone
I'm completely alone
My poor heart aches cold in the night.
Bereavement
21 February 2006
Family is a mirror you keep covered. Relatives you never see, whether you'd choose to or not, do not know you. They remember the newborn, the toddler, the awkward teen. There are always a few from the wedding and baby showers, but still you're not a real person to them; after all those times are about being a couple or parent.
Changes you make, real changes, to your soul and to your life, go unnoticed, unless they make trouble. Big events like death or divorce are heard about and taken notice of like an accident on the highway. Feel bad, move on, and forget about it, but never take into consideration that someone else's life could be completely ruined, at least for the moment.
But my life is no one else's (this much I have been painfully aware of) and I have lived my life without serious regard to how most of these relatives have existed day to day. Why should I be so surprised to discover that they, too, have done the same?
Maybe this means I don't know who I am yet, to be so upset that when I walk into a room full of people who have supposedly known me all my life and find that they really know nothing about me. Of course there are lots of people I don't know, attached to people who were probably newborns or toddlers I can remember, but do not recognize now. And babies have been born that I might hear the names of, and people have married, and divorced, and died. And I feel bad and move on. And forget. Because the kids need to get their dinner, or there was a fight and bitterness lingers, because the kitchen needs picking up or the groceries need putting away. Because my life is happening right now, right in my face, and the people whose lives are ruined, even if only for that moment, and despite their status as 'family', are just other people, like so many faces I pass on the road during the commute every day.
The tragedy of it all is astounding. As children we all grew up together playing in Grandma's backyard, or sneaking out during a sleepover, or getting someone to buy us cigarettes. Now things like this are only distant memories, and the cousins you did them with are like characters in a book you read years ago. These things will never happen again, and the people you did them with are just other commuters, other homeowners, other people with kids you might pass in the store. No matter how fond those distant memories are, the things that make you who you are, the things that make you unique and interesting, will never be shared with or understood by anyone except...yourself.
Exceptions apply, but I do not speak in ideals here. That is for the Good One. The things that make ME unique will only ever be understood by ME. And now I've become bitter.
There will be another episode to pull the cover down, the main event as it were. I will make I am neatly groomed and my tie is pleasant to glance at, knowing that these are the only things people will see when they look at me and think of who I am. And then they'll go about their lives once more, remembering that the newborn I was, the carefree toddler I was, the pain-riddled teen I was, has grown into a man who has a nice haircut and seems to have turned out just fine.
It is selfish of me to think this is important; it is arrogant of me to even pass judgment on them for doing it.
Family is a mirror you keep covered. Relatives you never see, whether you'd choose to or not, do not know you. They remember the newborn, the toddler, the awkward teen. There are always a few from the wedding and baby showers, but still you're not a real person to them; after all those times are about being a couple or parent.
Changes you make, real changes, to your soul and to your life, go unnoticed, unless they make trouble. Big events like death or divorce are heard about and taken notice of like an accident on the highway. Feel bad, move on, and forget about it, but never take into consideration that someone else's life could be completely ruined, at least for the moment.
But my life is no one else's (this much I have been painfully aware of) and I have lived my life without serious regard to how most of these relatives have existed day to day. Why should I be so surprised to discover that they, too, have done the same?
Maybe this means I don't know who I am yet, to be so upset that when I walk into a room full of people who have supposedly known me all my life and find that they really know nothing about me. Of course there are lots of people I don't know, attached to people who were probably newborns or toddlers I can remember, but do not recognize now. And babies have been born that I might hear the names of, and people have married, and divorced, and died. And I feel bad and move on. And forget. Because the kids need to get their dinner, or there was a fight and bitterness lingers, because the kitchen needs picking up or the groceries need putting away. Because my life is happening right now, right in my face, and the people whose lives are ruined, even if only for that moment, and despite their status as 'family', are just other people, like so many faces I pass on the road during the commute every day.
The tragedy of it all is astounding. As children we all grew up together playing in Grandma's backyard, or sneaking out during a sleepover, or getting someone to buy us cigarettes. Now things like this are only distant memories, and the cousins you did them with are like characters in a book you read years ago. These things will never happen again, and the people you did them with are just other commuters, other homeowners, other people with kids you might pass in the store. No matter how fond those distant memories are, the things that make you who you are, the things that make you unique and interesting, will never be shared with or understood by anyone except...yourself.
Exceptions apply, but I do not speak in ideals here. That is for the Good One. The things that make ME unique will only ever be understood by ME. And now I've become bitter.
There will be another episode to pull the cover down, the main event as it were. I will make I am neatly groomed and my tie is pleasant to glance at, knowing that these are the only things people will see when they look at me and think of who I am. And then they'll go about their lives once more, remembering that the newborn I was, the carefree toddler I was, the pain-riddled teen I was, has grown into a man who has a nice haircut and seems to have turned out just fine.
It is selfish of me to think this is important; it is arrogant of me to even pass judgment on them for doing it.
Untitled Poem
3 March 2006
When I sit quietly
My life opens up
Like so many pages of a book
The pages do not fit
From here to there
But I know they are all mine.
Some are boldly writ' upon
In brightly colored ink
While most are simply penciled in
Crossed out, erased or written over
Though some thoughts may be
None are ever truly changed, or forgotten
Though things of beauty all around
May be, they are never to be seen.
My self denial censors all true goodness.
When I sit quietly
My life opens up
Like so many pages of a book
The pages do not fit
From here to there
But I know they are all mine.
Some are boldly writ' upon
In brightly colored ink
While most are simply penciled in
Crossed out, erased or written over
Though some thoughts may be
None are ever truly changed, or forgotten
Though things of beauty all around
May be, they are never to be seen.
My self denial censors all true goodness.
down
15 March 15 2006
Days like this I don't even know why I'm here.
Of course I know why I'm *here*, but I mean why I keep going the way I do. Why I stay in this spot. I can't remember why I'm supposed to feel good or happy, or when I think of "good" reasons, why they apply to me.
Today I am an empty shell.
Days like this I don't even know why I'm here.
Of course I know why I'm *here*, but I mean why I keep going the way I do. Why I stay in this spot. I can't remember why I'm supposed to feel good or happy, or when I think of "good" reasons, why they apply to me.
Today I am an empty shell.
Inner Child
16 March 2006
Boy am I a project. Mind is blank but I feel like something is BANGING on the walls to get out. I know the screaming person in the closet. I know this terrified child.
I look in the mirror each morning and watch myself fall. I age, and I will look dignified, but I will still be a child. A small, scared face looks back at me every day. I have learned to love this child, but I know not how to bring him out, to heal him. I know his name, but his heart is a mystery.
Every day he tells me how he feels, and I know not how to listen. Though sometimes I allow him to react for me. Sometimes, it's easier, at least for the moment. Sometimes, I allow him to feel, because I do not know how.
He is a beautiful boy in a rust-colored knit sweater, with a lopsided smile, delicate cheekbones, an angled jaw, and thick blonde-brown hair. He smiles innocently and boldly and it is not a nice smile. But it is genuine. His eyes are eager to please, and eager to achieve. And for a while, he will do both. But it will cost him his innocence, his courage, his genuineness, his smile. It will cost him the ability to see what's before his eyes and name it. He will pay the rest of his life for what he has, and it will never be enough, and he'll never know why.
This boy is with me. He finally has someone to love him, even though I'm still figuring it all out. Gentleness, humor, love, and respect. And I, for one, will never leave him.
Boy am I a project. Mind is blank but I feel like something is BANGING on the walls to get out. I know the screaming person in the closet. I know this terrified child.
I look in the mirror each morning and watch myself fall. I age, and I will look dignified, but I will still be a child. A small, scared face looks back at me every day. I have learned to love this child, but I know not how to bring him out, to heal him. I know his name, but his heart is a mystery.
Every day he tells me how he feels, and I know not how to listen. Though sometimes I allow him to react for me. Sometimes, it's easier, at least for the moment. Sometimes, I allow him to feel, because I do not know how.
He is a beautiful boy in a rust-colored knit sweater, with a lopsided smile, delicate cheekbones, an angled jaw, and thick blonde-brown hair. He smiles innocently and boldly and it is not a nice smile. But it is genuine. His eyes are eager to please, and eager to achieve. And for a while, he will do both. But it will cost him his innocence, his courage, his genuineness, his smile. It will cost him the ability to see what's before his eyes and name it. He will pay the rest of his life for what he has, and it will never be enough, and he'll never know why.
This boy is with me. He finally has someone to love him, even though I'm still figuring it all out. Gentleness, humor, love, and respect. And I, for one, will never leave him.
Hey Hey, My My
The first "she" and the second "she" are different "she"s.
* * * * *
7 April 2006
"Rock and Roll will never die. That's what Neil says." He's right, dearie.
My oldest friend is in trouble and I can't do anything about it. I can't support her because I can barely support myself and my own. I can't see her because she lives in a blue-collar armpit city, which I also love, but is far away. I can't hug her and tell her how I miss her wit, her humor, her endless compassion.
She is a brilliant, beautiful, proud woman whom I have never properly known. We meet in tangents of our lives during special events, then we once again part ways. Her life and her passions are a mystery to me, as mine no doubt are to her. My relationship with this friend is a perfect example of how many of my friendships conduct themselves. Fortunately, I am intimately connected with this woman, and she will not fade away like others have. Still, although she is always somewhere on this earth, and I take great comfort in that, she will not always be here, and our time together should be appreciated. I need to show my love more.
* *
She was adamant last night, and I reluctantly accepted. I regret this. Despite my body's participation, my head was somewhere else. It was behind the wall. What shape would I be if I were 2-dimensional? Circular (but not a perfectly round one; more like the one Spongebob drew after Squidward berated him in art class), with my heart somewhere in the center, separatred from everyone else. My life cycle keeps on repeating, always following the same familiar contours. I occasionally hammer out a new niche, but then I come to rely on it so much that it becomes part of the same daily business. So that's where I was. And she said she had a good time, and that's great, I really truly am happy about that part, but I never got mine. I never got mine.
Out of the blue and into the black.
I have so many thoughts to uncollect and drudgingly express to no one. An hundred indecisions, Visions and revisions. What a train wreck. I may be a bit fustian but my point stands: I have not taken care of myself these last several days, and I have not taken the time to properly address it.
I'm not being completely fair. I did start something I needed to do. I did make that appointment. I have kept the kitchen counter clean, and the office. Posts are up to date. I am not a train wreck. But it's just me that isn't. Outside my circle, my perception fades. Maybe "wreck" is just the wrong word.
I read about Hawking's brane theory last night. I wonder how much work I really have to do. I thought I knew once; I didn't really, but I could get my head around the kinds of things I needed to accomplish, and had faith that once I did them, I'd be ready for what's next...but now I can't say either is the case. Maybe it's the antibiotics. On top of heartburn and that yucky taste in my mouth, I have felt energetically odd since I started on them. Maybe it was the bite, though I doubt it because trust was retored almost immediately. Maybe it's sex, but again I doubt this because I've learned to cope well without jeopardizing outside issues. But I always suspect sex anyway, because it's a natural enemy.
I am rambling with thoughts of Prufock, monomer injections, and strawberry summers. I am not safe from myself today. A pot of tea, flannel pants, Harry Potter, and my fuzzy blanket are a perfect prescription, with intermittent naps and ball-tossings with the dog. I should have taken the rain as my first clue. Take two o' dese and call me in da mo'nin.
* * * * *
7 April 2006
"Rock and Roll will never die. That's what Neil says." He's right, dearie.
My oldest friend is in trouble and I can't do anything about it. I can't support her because I can barely support myself and my own. I can't see her because she lives in a blue-collar armpit city, which I also love, but is far away. I can't hug her and tell her how I miss her wit, her humor, her endless compassion.
She is a brilliant, beautiful, proud woman whom I have never properly known. We meet in tangents of our lives during special events, then we once again part ways. Her life and her passions are a mystery to me, as mine no doubt are to her. My relationship with this friend is a perfect example of how many of my friendships conduct themselves. Fortunately, I am intimately connected with this woman, and she will not fade away like others have. Still, although she is always somewhere on this earth, and I take great comfort in that, she will not always be here, and our time together should be appreciated. I need to show my love more.
* *
She was adamant last night, and I reluctantly accepted. I regret this. Despite my body's participation, my head was somewhere else. It was behind the wall. What shape would I be if I were 2-dimensional? Circular (but not a perfectly round one; more like the one Spongebob drew after Squidward berated him in art class), with my heart somewhere in the center, separatred from everyone else. My life cycle keeps on repeating, always following the same familiar contours. I occasionally hammer out a new niche, but then I come to rely on it so much that it becomes part of the same daily business. So that's where I was. And she said she had a good time, and that's great, I really truly am happy about that part, but I never got mine. I never got mine.
Out of the blue and into the black.
I have so many thoughts to uncollect and drudgingly express to no one. An hundred indecisions, Visions and revisions. What a train wreck. I may be a bit fustian but my point stands: I have not taken care of myself these last several days, and I have not taken the time to properly address it.
I'm not being completely fair. I did start something I needed to do. I did make that appointment. I have kept the kitchen counter clean, and the office. Posts are up to date. I am not a train wreck. But it's just me that isn't. Outside my circle, my perception fades. Maybe "wreck" is just the wrong word.
I read about Hawking's brane theory last night. I wonder how much work I really have to do. I thought I knew once; I didn't really, but I could get my head around the kinds of things I needed to accomplish, and had faith that once I did them, I'd be ready for what's next...but now I can't say either is the case. Maybe it's the antibiotics. On top of heartburn and that yucky taste in my mouth, I have felt energetically odd since I started on them. Maybe it was the bite, though I doubt it because trust was retored almost immediately. Maybe it's sex, but again I doubt this because I've learned to cope well without jeopardizing outside issues. But I always suspect sex anyway, because it's a natural enemy.
I am rambling with thoughts of Prufock, monomer injections, and strawberry summers. I am not safe from myself today. A pot of tea, flannel pants, Harry Potter, and my fuzzy blanket are a perfect prescription, with intermittent naps and ball-tossings with the dog. I should have taken the rain as my first clue. Take two o' dese and call me in da mo'nin.
On Nerdery
This was very obviously written before it was cool, even desirable, to be a nerd...let alone proudly label yourself one.
* * * * *
13 April 2006
This morning at the gas station I saw someone who caught my eye. It was a young man, very light build, and dressed too conservatively. He had shorter hair and glasses. He was a classic nerd*. And right then I recognized myself, ten, maybe five years ago. And today. I watched him closely, and noticed something very important. It wasn't his appearance that made him so...well, nerdy. It was his awkwardness, his stance, the way he carried himself and looked nervously around, wondering who may be near him, judging. I felt this way only...hell, I still feel this way. But I was also aware of the vast physical difference between myself now and myself then. I am 40 pounds heavier than I was ten years ago (only four inches bigger around the waist), and still considered light/average build. I don't necessarily wear my hair any different, I'm still wearing glasses, and still have no sense of fashion, but I see myself very differently, more confidently, now than I did then. More than that person at the gas station.
* [For the record, I have always hated the word "nerd". I was called that name incessantly from grade 6 on, and vehemently defend anyone else to whom the moniker is assigned. I'm not condoning the use of the word at all, but I have to start with some frame of reference. These thoughts have to come out.]
There have been years of experiences to account for this change of self-opinion. I have earned my place in my self-designed social template. And I know that my own standards for myself are still higher than those around me. So other people like me, think I'm funny, good looking, interesting, even sexy. How did I become this way?
I cannot quantify what the experiences were or did. I know there has been heartbreak, betrayal, denial, sacrifice, and exploration. I know that I have been on my knees begging for understanding and forgiveness. I know that I would never live the last 10 years of my life the same way again, ever. Maybe the gas station guy will go through that, too. The way his eyes searched for approval in the faces of others, the way his half smile waited for a positive response. I know these eyes and that smile. I still cast them around, waiting for others to answer. And I still close up when I perceive that they will not approve. I retract the smile I just offered, wishing I'd never tried. Wishing I could just disappear. Some days, I am still just that nerdy, awkward young man, who does not know how to talk to other humans, how to act in public, how to like himself.
I'm going to ramble now, dear audience, so be prepared.
But I do like myself. That's the bottom line. That's what my dad always says in his three-quarter drunken fits, when he's still barely rational enough to put sentences together and hold his opinion at the same time. "The bottom line is..." and I catch myself using it at select times. Maybe just to prove to myself that something is true. Like because I heard it used in his context, I can justify what I don't quite believe by adding it as a tagline.
But I do like myself. It's not something I don't quite believe, it's a real truth. Of course there are days I don't, but they number few compared to my normal, and what I have believed to be healthy, state of mind. I am worth the effort to get to know. I am worth improving. I deserve the best. I have much to share with this world and my fellow humans, and I regularly try to do so. I am practical and decently intelligent, I'm compassionate and mostly humble. I enjoy the outdoors, fine arts, and a well-crafted wooden thing. I can install junction boxes and change oil, and also map out the rhyme scheme of a poem. I can recite Jabberwocky, Prufrock, and the first lines of Moby Dick and The Hobbit. Children and dogs like me, and I can communicate with both. I take decent care of myself physically. I am a good kisser and a generous lover.
None of these things are invented by me to make myself feel better; they are all truths I'd tell anyone, and verifiable by people I know. Yet why do I constantly shoot myself (my recovery, my success, my education, my productive days, etc) in the foot with doubt and/or self-destructive behavior? What is it that I fear? How can I be so critical of what I am not, when the list of things I am should be enough to make anyone happy?
* * * * *
13 April 2006
This morning at the gas station I saw someone who caught my eye. It was a young man, very light build, and dressed too conservatively. He had shorter hair and glasses. He was a classic nerd*. And right then I recognized myself, ten, maybe five years ago. And today. I watched him closely, and noticed something very important. It wasn't his appearance that made him so...well, nerdy. It was his awkwardness, his stance, the way he carried himself and looked nervously around, wondering who may be near him, judging. I felt this way only...hell, I still feel this way. But I was also aware of the vast physical difference between myself now and myself then. I am 40 pounds heavier than I was ten years ago (only four inches bigger around the waist), and still considered light/average build. I don't necessarily wear my hair any different, I'm still wearing glasses, and still have no sense of fashion, but I see myself very differently, more confidently, now than I did then. More than that person at the gas station.
* [For the record, I have always hated the word "nerd". I was called that name incessantly from grade 6 on, and vehemently defend anyone else to whom the moniker is assigned. I'm not condoning the use of the word at all, but I have to start with some frame of reference. These thoughts have to come out.]
There have been years of experiences to account for this change of self-opinion. I have earned my place in my self-designed social template. And I know that my own standards for myself are still higher than those around me. So other people like me, think I'm funny, good looking, interesting, even sexy. How did I become this way?
I cannot quantify what the experiences were or did. I know there has been heartbreak, betrayal, denial, sacrifice, and exploration. I know that I have been on my knees begging for understanding and forgiveness. I know that I would never live the last 10 years of my life the same way again, ever. Maybe the gas station guy will go through that, too. The way his eyes searched for approval in the faces of others, the way his half smile waited for a positive response. I know these eyes and that smile. I still cast them around, waiting for others to answer. And I still close up when I perceive that they will not approve. I retract the smile I just offered, wishing I'd never tried. Wishing I could just disappear. Some days, I am still just that nerdy, awkward young man, who does not know how to talk to other humans, how to act in public, how to like himself.
I'm going to ramble now, dear audience, so be prepared.
But I do like myself. That's the bottom line. That's what my dad always says in his three-quarter drunken fits, when he's still barely rational enough to put sentences together and hold his opinion at the same time. "The bottom line is..." and I catch myself using it at select times. Maybe just to prove to myself that something is true. Like because I heard it used in his context, I can justify what I don't quite believe by adding it as a tagline.
But I do like myself. It's not something I don't quite believe, it's a real truth. Of course there are days I don't, but they number few compared to my normal, and what I have believed to be healthy, state of mind. I am worth the effort to get to know. I am worth improving. I deserve the best. I have much to share with this world and my fellow humans, and I regularly try to do so. I am practical and decently intelligent, I'm compassionate and mostly humble. I enjoy the outdoors, fine arts, and a well-crafted wooden thing. I can install junction boxes and change oil, and also map out the rhyme scheme of a poem. I can recite Jabberwocky, Prufrock, and the first lines of Moby Dick and The Hobbit. Children and dogs like me, and I can communicate with both. I take decent care of myself physically. I am a good kisser and a generous lover.
None of these things are invented by me to make myself feel better; they are all truths I'd tell anyone, and verifiable by people I know. Yet why do I constantly shoot myself (my recovery, my success, my education, my productive days, etc) in the foot with doubt and/or self-destructive behavior? What is it that I fear? How can I be so critical of what I am not, when the list of things I am should be enough to make anyone happy?
A Message to My Male Coworkers
Written long ago, but this message will never lose its relevance. (Edited for content.)
* * * * *
July 14th, 2006
Turns out they were right. Your mothers, sisters, wives and girlfriends all did know what they were talking about when they told you to put up the seat. Leaving your pee all over the place where someone else may have to sit (even you, imagine that) is nasty. NASTY. Even worse? Having to wipe up someone else's pee before placing your bare butt (up until then possibly the cleanest part of your body, provided you stayed dressed that day) on the seat of a communal toilet.
Big news: there's a urinal in the same room. On the off chance someone's using it when you walk in, and you can't wait, go right ahead and pee in the toilet. But don't be nasty: either prevent the mess or clean it up!
Guys, we all have to work together in the same building. Occasionally, we have to share the bathroom. Between two urinals and four toilets, there's plenty of capacity for everyone to do their business. Believe it or not, you aren't entitled to an easier bathroom experience than any of the the rest of us. Let's all take responsibility for our own business.
Thanks.
PS- Also, to all you gross individuals who don't wash their hands after peeing, I know who you are. You think you're alone because I don't make much noise behind the partition. But you're not. I recognize your shoes. Even you, Mr. Big Man Manager who sits near me and sneers at everyone with less experience and education than yourself...yes, you know who you are...you can wash your damn hands. Everone uses the same handle on their way out, and none of us (I'm wagering even you) want to get another man's germs and microscopic pee splatters on our hands on the way out. So find your way next to Godliness. Please. And don't make faces at me when I won't shake your hand; it's not me who's being rude.
* * * * *
July 14th, 2006
Turns out they were right. Your mothers, sisters, wives and girlfriends all did know what they were talking about when they told you to put up the seat. Leaving your pee all over the place where someone else may have to sit (even you, imagine that) is nasty. NASTY. Even worse? Having to wipe up someone else's pee before placing your bare butt (up until then possibly the cleanest part of your body, provided you stayed dressed that day) on the seat of a communal toilet.
Big news: there's a urinal in the same room. On the off chance someone's using it when you walk in, and you can't wait, go right ahead and pee in the toilet. But don't be nasty: either prevent the mess or clean it up!
Guys, we all have to work together in the same building. Occasionally, we have to share the bathroom. Between two urinals and four toilets, there's plenty of capacity for everyone to do their business. Believe it or not, you aren't entitled to an easier bathroom experience than any of the the rest of us. Let's all take responsibility for our own business.
Thanks.
PS- Also, to all you gross individuals who don't wash their hands after peeing, I know who you are. You think you're alone because I don't make much noise behind the partition. But you're not. I recognize your shoes. Even you, Mr. Big Man Manager who sits near me and sneers at everyone with less experience and education than yourself...yes, you know who you are...you can wash your damn hands. Everone uses the same handle on their way out, and none of us (I'm wagering even you) want to get another man's germs and microscopic pee splatters on our hands on the way out. So find your way next to Godliness. Please. And don't make faces at me when I won't shake your hand; it's not me who's being rude.
Hope?
No longer current news, but still very relevant thoughts.
* * * * *
6 October 2006
A few days ago I discovered I was only 5 degrees of separation from Emily Keyes, the 16 year old girl who was killed by the school shooter in Colorado last week.
This doesn't increase my reaction to the tragedy, or the reaction to any of the recent others, but it brings it closer to home. How soon will it be before someone I know personally has an experience like this? What if it happens to my family? What if it happens to me?
Millions of people have asked themselves that same question recently, and all have likely come to the same conclusion: I can do nothing to stop it.
As big a fan as I am of the idea that one person can change the world through positive energy and action, my ability to affect my fellow human beings is limited to those I can reach with my hands and, to some degree, my voice. But this certainly does not constitute control. If someone next to me on the bus kills everyone in a convenience store later that night over $20, I cannot blame myself.
This is a human plight. We have a need to take responsibility; we tell ourselves that a few kind words may have altered the mood or eased some pain, and XYZ tragedy could have been avoided. When we say this to ourselves...we are probably right in some cases. But we live in such fear that our personal bubble will pop or become polluted by contact with a stranger, or even with someone not so strange, that we talk ourselves out of reaching out. We are so afraid of each other that we dare not interfere. Or is it fear of exposure, and potential disapproval? Regardless of the reason, the result is the same: isolation and all its children: prejudice, fear, greed.
We all need safe places...physically, emotionally, etc., but wouldn't it be nice if we helped contribute a bit more? Jeez I'm starting to sound like John Lennon. (What, don't flatter myself? Fine...) But...just think about it a little. One day, it might all pay off, on that day when someone else decides the course of the rest of your days on this earth.
* * * * *
6 October 2006
A few days ago I discovered I was only 5 degrees of separation from Emily Keyes, the 16 year old girl who was killed by the school shooter in Colorado last week.
This doesn't increase my reaction to the tragedy, or the reaction to any of the recent others, but it brings it closer to home. How soon will it be before someone I know personally has an experience like this? What if it happens to my family? What if it happens to me?
Millions of people have asked themselves that same question recently, and all have likely come to the same conclusion: I can do nothing to stop it.
As big a fan as I am of the idea that one person can change the world through positive energy and action, my ability to affect my fellow human beings is limited to those I can reach with my hands and, to some degree, my voice. But this certainly does not constitute control. If someone next to me on the bus kills everyone in a convenience store later that night over $20, I cannot blame myself.
This is a human plight. We have a need to take responsibility; we tell ourselves that a few kind words may have altered the mood or eased some pain, and XYZ tragedy could have been avoided. When we say this to ourselves...we are probably right in some cases. But we live in such fear that our personal bubble will pop or become polluted by contact with a stranger, or even with someone not so strange, that we talk ourselves out of reaching out. We are so afraid of each other that we dare not interfere. Or is it fear of exposure, and potential disapproval? Regardless of the reason, the result is the same: isolation and all its children: prejudice, fear, greed.
We all need safe places...physically, emotionally, etc., but wouldn't it be nice if we helped contribute a bit more? Jeez I'm starting to sound like John Lennon. (What, don't flatter myself? Fine...) But...just think about it a little. One day, it might all pay off, on that day when someone else decides the course of the rest of your days on this earth.
Addict
This post may be deleted very soon.
* * * * *
20 October 2006
I am an addict. Call me whatever you want: criminal, freak, deviant, pervert, et cetera. Neither your opinion nor your label changes what I know I am.
Would you like to know what else I am/have been? An honor roll student, a scholarship recipient and graduate of one of the country's leading college prep schools, an award-winning author, a poet, a cadet and mid-ranking adult officer in a military auxiliary youth organization, a Sunday School teacher, and a scouting volunteer. I am a good, intelligent, passionate, creative, articulate, spiritual and self-aware man.
I haven't done these things to try to hide my dysfunction, but because I think they are the right things to do. My addiction alone doesn't disqualify me from any role I choose. I have crossed lines before, and broken laws, and hurt people (adults) to meet my needs in the wrong ways. I've been selfish and childish and decietful and destructive and all manner of ugly in the way I've handled my life and my connections with fellow humans. But...
Every day I get a new chance to be a different person. Most days I make good choices, some days not so much. I move on because there is only one alternative in this world. Every day ends, whether good or bad, and a new one starts right after it. Every action I take is a tangent of the whole curve of my life, and no single one can characterize it all. Recently I choose well more often than not, and of that I'm proud.
* * * * *
20 October 2006
I am an addict. Call me whatever you want: criminal, freak, deviant, pervert, et cetera. Neither your opinion nor your label changes what I know I am.
Would you like to know what else I am/have been? An honor roll student, a scholarship recipient and graduate of one of the country's leading college prep schools, an award-winning author, a poet, a cadet and mid-ranking adult officer in a military auxiliary youth organization, a Sunday School teacher, and a scouting volunteer. I am a good, intelligent, passionate, creative, articulate, spiritual and self-aware man.
I haven't done these things to try to hide my dysfunction, but because I think they are the right things to do. My addiction alone doesn't disqualify me from any role I choose. I have crossed lines before, and broken laws, and hurt people (adults) to meet my needs in the wrong ways. I've been selfish and childish and decietful and destructive and all manner of ugly in the way I've handled my life and my connections with fellow humans. But...
Every day I get a new chance to be a different person. Most days I make good choices, some days not so much. I move on because there is only one alternative in this world. Every day ends, whether good or bad, and a new one starts right after it. Every action I take is a tangent of the whole curve of my life, and no single one can characterize it all. Recently I choose well more often than not, and of that I'm proud.
The Place I'm In
31 October 2006
The place I'm in has strings being played with screeching tones. Ambient sounds are drowned by an otherwise silent player, callously demanding my attention through his craft. I try to be polite, but I'm not really interested, even though the melody is lovely.
The place I'm in has muted sounds. The world moves around me and I am simply carried by the water. Echoes of what might be interesting and alarming and touching reach my ears and are not picked up.
The place I'm in is filled with mediocre women. Though some might be called beautiful, my own perception is that of a faceless horde intent on drowning me in their wiles. I cannot close my eyes, but I still control my mind, at least for the moment.
The place I'm in is vast and lonely. It is an empty warehouse that has not been swept; remnants of former contents, both rich and valuable, apparent all around. But now in ruins.
The place I'm in has chest-high walls. I can see over and beyond when I dare to look, but this is not often. I put the walls there to protect myself, and now I cannot recall how I might venture through. Sometimes I tell myself it's cozy here, but what I'm really protecting myself from is a healthy fear of failure.
The place I'm in smells distantly of dust and roses, like an abandoned gazebo taken over by the garden. Wafts of sunny breeze are here, somewhere, but I can't ever catch one; they're too far away.
The place I'm in has strings being played with screeching tones. Ambient sounds are drowned by an otherwise silent player, callously demanding my attention through his craft. I try to be polite, but I'm not really interested, even though the melody is lovely.
The place I'm in has muted sounds. The world moves around me and I am simply carried by the water. Echoes of what might be interesting and alarming and touching reach my ears and are not picked up.
The place I'm in is filled with mediocre women. Though some might be called beautiful, my own perception is that of a faceless horde intent on drowning me in their wiles. I cannot close my eyes, but I still control my mind, at least for the moment.
The place I'm in is vast and lonely. It is an empty warehouse that has not been swept; remnants of former contents, both rich and valuable, apparent all around. But now in ruins.
The place I'm in has chest-high walls. I can see over and beyond when I dare to look, but this is not often. I put the walls there to protect myself, and now I cannot recall how I might venture through. Sometimes I tell myself it's cozy here, but what I'm really protecting myself from is a healthy fear of failure.
The place I'm in smells distantly of dust and roses, like an abandoned gazebo taken over by the garden. Wafts of sunny breeze are here, somewhere, but I can't ever catch one; they're too far away.
Broken
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. IX. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Letter to Dad
This was supposed to be a 55, but turned out to be more like a 68 before it was even finished. I decided I didn't want to make it shorter; it deserves full expression.
* * * * *
Dear Dad,
Last night I dreamt we were hectically busy, and supposed to meet you somewhere, but couldn’t. We did our business, and I tried to think of the time, when all was settled, that I’d be able to apologize in person for ditching you. Then, outside the dreamscape, I realized I hadn’t seen you in a long, long time. Then I asked myself why. Then I remembered.
I miss you, Dad.
Love,
Son
* * * * *
Dear Dad,
Last night I dreamt we were hectically busy, and supposed to meet you somewhere, but couldn’t. We did our business, and I tried to think of the time, when all was settled, that I’d be able to apologize in person for ditching you. Then, outside the dreamscape, I realized I hadn’t seen you in a long, long time. Then I asked myself why. Then I remembered.
I miss you, Dad.
Love,
Son
Friday, March 11, 2011
Announcement
When she said it, the universe stopped. The bottom dropped out from under the life I’d been building, we’d been building, for the last twenty years. My soul shuddered, and nothing else in the room existed—there were no sounds, no people chatting at tables, no waitresses in their smart white shirts. It was over.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. VIII. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. VIII. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Parting
The day they told us what was going to happen, I had no visible reaction. While everyone around me reeled in emotion, I was stoic, a model of tragic calm. It was only after, when the relatives had flown home and the house was empty and the mirrors all uncovered, that I began to weep.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. VII. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Word Count Tool
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. VII. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-Man.
Word Count Tool
Friday, February 25, 2011
Poem Excerpt
I'm sorry
I'm too busy
Trying to control
The bleeding from
The exit wounds
Of the last few things you said
To respond with words that might
Appease you
If such words exist at all
I'm too busy
Trying to control
The bleeding from
The exit wounds
Of the last few things you said
To respond with words that might
Appease you
If such words exist at all
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Masterful
Failing this bad is an art form; you should see some of my previous work. I’ve left wrecks they could write an article about in Time magazine, or that would make an episode of Entertainment Tonight. If people got paid for this stuff, I’d be a billionaire.
The method is simple: be hopelessly empty inside.
* * * * *
FFF-55 Vol. VI. Tell a story in exactly 55 words. Go see G-man.
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