A Christmas Carol

 Wouldn't that be something? If I could create such an enduring story to last over a century, and given freedom by so many interpretations throughout the arts? No... this is simply a story of a lonely child, that became a lonely young adult who on very rare occasion, would become impulsive. This starts with an unkind admission that perhaps I knew only of "It's a Wonderful Life" through satire, before ever really watching the movie. That moment happened one Christmas Eve.

This is not a great story, and I am far from flattering as a main character. My girlfriend (engaged to a college-attending junior), was going away to meet her cousin and his family for Christmas. She asked me if I "would keep her closest and only friend company during Christmas because she will be alone." I said I would, and she handed me a slip of paper with Christine's phone number on it. It seemed obvious to me at the time that she was serious about this request. The mere thought of sharing a "sacred" holiday with someone I'd only briefly met, terrified me. My entire relationship with the girlfriend was terrifying enough.

Obviously, the story doesn't end here. Christmas Eve morning, I would have rathered done anything than the contemporary Christmas with my parents, and I left my body. I called the friend and asked her if she was open to "just doing a movie and having a meal together?" As I recall, my thought pattern at the time was akin to "putting a ball in her court" and "I can't be scolded for not doing what the girlfriend asked" - there also was a bravado about going outside the box that had worked successfully in attaining said girlfriend. My recollections about this moment are probably colored by my own lenses, much like my parent's ideas about my childhood. I did not expect this stranger to meet my bluff, she afterall was just a satellite in the solar system that was my girlfriend; "her anxieties are mine to a fault". Not only did she call the bluff, she told me to bring music, and what to get from the store. 

I was living in Tampa, Christine was on the edge of Seminole, right before you get to the intercoastal. I arrived at her house at dusk, she looked so much different than our brief encounter on the Publix bread aisle. Christine invited me in, and our sentences to one another were awkward and tight... she asked me to put on some music, and she alternated her time between the kitchen and sitting in the dark corner of the room opposite of me on the couch. I believe the house was hers, and her parents house was on the same property - but they were away for the holidays in Germany. I asked the obvious, "I don't think they really love one another anymore and it's just uncomfortable." The house looked and felt as heavily German as one could muster in a mid-century home on the edges of Seminole. This entire aspect of Christine was unfurling in front of me; her heritage via decor and paintings, her history as a ballerina, her features - blonde, fair, pallid. Vividly, I remember the sensation of being swooned by this young woman for no other reason than what my simplistic rationale could formulate into culture. But she was also, inescapably attractive to me. 

"Catastrophe Ballet" was not so much her thing, as much as the Dead Can Dance and This Mortal Coil she withdrew from her collection of records. On went "The Serpent's Egg", Jimmy Stewart now at a point of desperation; muted; our reason for meeting tonight. As dinner cooked, Christine would emerge with "Can I ask you a question?" - followed by my agreeable assurances, and then increasingly probing questions about my relationship with her best friend. This was at least my perception until I began to realize that I was being lead upon a path that was not the reality I arrived with. Christine must have thought me stupid at first, but then realized that my sincerity was rooted in ignorance and inexperience. We spent many hours together, throughout the incredible meal she made, and all three TMC albums until something between us shifted. I still don't know what happened; perhaps two fragile people finding hope in one another, perhaps sympathy mistaken for romantic feelings; perhaps two people under the weight of my gf finding a light she did not allow either of us to have? Yeah, it turns out the gf was as controlling of Christine as she was of me, only she had endured it throughout high school.

The following day, I called Christine, and asked if I could come over? She was taken aback, working on restoring some bookcases, she hadn't planned on company. I offered a gift. She agreed. I gave her the only thing I had been proud of up to that point in my life; a pencil drawing I had done of Andy Warhol, framed and ready to hang. I don't know what she truly thought of the gift, probably less impressed than I was, but we spent an evening together talking. Our discussion shifted to more intimate things, and she and I made out in the waning light of Christmas Day. I should mention how annoyed my mom was that I left on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day - it changed the dynamic of family Christmas from then on. Anyway, Christine invited me to stay the night, but did not want to extend intimacy beyond what we had already shared until after the girlfriend returned.

This is where I will end this tale. It isn't my finest hour. I think about Christine more often that I think about that gf. So many things changed that Christmas - in my head, I refer to it as my "Late Judy Blumer". To this day, I can imagine such an incredible life with Christine... she was so intelligent, and liked such amazing music, and was intrigued by me... not something I was accustomed to. But this is the moment in my life that I broke Christmas for my mom, and carved my first scar upon myself for my failures to do the right thing. I acted with my cock instead of my heart or mind - and I deserved the pain I received. Christine did not. The guilt from that moment should have been a life lesson, it wasn't. The "girlfriends" of the world bait my insecurities every time.

Christmas, "It's A Wonderful Life", they invite me to a different person, a different life; one I embraced and destroyed in the course of a few days. Reality crash in the most ironic way for my gf; but betrayal and a passage back under foot for Christine... or so I assume. Maybe it was enough for her to bail on the whole affair, no pun intended. It was my first intention to die... I remember that as well. My holidays - setting fire to the happiness and stepping out as a cruel after thought... how long until it works? Until either I win, or guilt wins? 

This Ascension - "Carol Of The Bells"

Don't Send Surveys to Dead People. Dead People Cannot Respond. A Therapy Defloration Story... or Therapy Madlibs For Wallflowers

 I have an email to send, later, after this post has been composed. It's going to a therapist; one that I spent an hour with yesterday. My procrastination comes as an innocent bystander, caught in war between my conscience, and my annoyance. This, having been my first ever therapy session, I am not sure what is demanded... if anything at all. I suppose a third option for such an individual is to hide until resolve takes the higher ground. Innocence, not quite, I am therefore conceding that the next person at post will have not benefitted from the awareness I didn't share with interested parties. Indeed - anger at my perceived and unvalidated notions that you should be reading me better than I am reading you. Shouldn't your expertise wield my body language like a crowbar to a coffin? Shouldn't my words hang like tethers that you pull until unwound? I do not know; you have not told me - but you did share that we are going to spend some time on a checklist that the clinic makes you complete during the first session. Our journey into Ron is not fluid or surreptitious; it's a halting, often stalling, jerky-kind of rollercoaster of defining, detailing, and saying the same things in a backwards walk through a thesaurus. If perhaps, I'd thought to bring a family tree, we may have shaved off a minute or two to talk about, trauma? I had a wild thought while staring off into the corner. As yes/no/who/when darts were thrown in my direction, I wondered how much easier, and less off-putting it would have been to maybe answer all these questions before my session... you know, on my "free to me" time. There were enough unrestrained brain cells to ponder my body language... 

"what's her body language?"

"Oh - I don't think I like that?" 

"I wonder what else this office is used for? There's two chairs, her chair, and a patient chair like you'd find in a medical clinic. The bright fluorescent lighting is not amiable to the therapy session I had in my head. Should I ask her if we can turn off the lights?"

"Jack, my step dad is Jack... Charlie is my real dad. Jack is the one that raised me my entire life." Sigh. "Oh, there's her body language firing up. I hear a different tone than before."

"This might be a good time to tell you that I believe I am on the spectrum." 

"Well, because I had numerous indicators as a child, and I recognize some of my adult tendencies to be aligned with possibly Asperger's Syndrome."

"Okay, we'll circle back to that?"

"Artist's Colony in CELO that was founded in the 60's, that's cool... can I guess that it's a lot of glassblowers and potters? Bet they have cool coffee mugs there." 

"No, sorry, Charlie, the real dad, he's dead. Jack - he's the one who married my mom and is still married to her. He married my mom AFTER Charlie married my mom. No - I'm not adopted. Yes, they are still alive. Jack and Mary are alive and still married."

"Oh, I should go to a CELO event and introduce myself to the artists. Yeah, that not really how..."

"Okay, you can't figure out how to send the link, maybe I should just take a picture of your notebook for the never time I go do this?"

My therapists words aren't coming so sharply now. In fact, if I answer with a "yes" to a question, I am then coached thru another list (an outline format if you will where clicking on said ailment opens a sublist of symptoms). We are losing the precious minutes, I'm confident someone timed themselves asking these questions to ensure it filled an entire 60-minute session. Again, these are things that a simple survey would've answered prior to our meeting, and we could have drilled down on the traumas beyond a simple; "did this happen?", "when?", "who?", "did this happen?", "when?"... you get the idea. Here's a thing no one told me to do... during our fluorescent endeavor into the surface psyche of the therapy virgin - I was supposed to be evaluating whether my trust in this stranger with a clipboard was swooning or drowning (because that's how it happens? 

"You be vulnerable, I check a box."

" - funny, you don't look like my manipulative first love? Frankly, she's probably still quite hot. I wonder how many syringes are in that orange box? Wouldn't it be kinda Clockwork Orange to bust that open and stab all of them into her neck? No - not adopted. We just moved a lot. I have some theories on why? Heroin. No, I'm not violent. Syringe. Hmmm." 

Wow - I just said out loud all the events that took 51 years to fuck me up. That was... unpleasant. This is what therapy is, right... saying ugly things that make you feel ugly to someone you don't know.

"I don't want to speak for you Doc, but I really like where this relationship is going. Not only do I get to hear about your therapist and how good she is, but I also get to know A vulnerability about you and the passing of your husband 12 years ago. Are we married now? We may have a problem."

I think we ran out of Madlib pages, because suddenly the notepad snaps shut and that "all-downhill rollercoaster" just left the tracks. Suddenly, like the thunderclap following a successful exorcism, the atmosphere of the room sucks in to a minutely tiny mass. It hovers and spins violently for a milli-second...just enough time to formulate awareness of the event, and then it explodes into a shrill force that expands aggressively, filling every surface of the room with the weight of a million suns. 

"You've shared several events from your life with me that I think I can help you manage. WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM THERAPY?"

"Huh, to receive it? How do I answer this? Just say some words that make sense."

"All of it?" "I'd like to seeing my way to thinking about stuff in a healthy way as opposed to allowing the last 50 years wreak havoc on my exhausted brain?"

"Okay, so I need you to figure out what you want therapy to do and when you figure that out, let's speak. Let me ask you this, do you trust me to be your therapist?"

"I can't answer that, I have no idea. I'm completely disassociated and fantasizing about stabbing you with dirty syringes, maybe that's a no?"

"Well - think about that as well, and if you want to see me again, make an appointment."

In summation. I haven't asked anyone yet, whom I know to have tried therapy what to make of this defloration. It feels a little like violation, but as a side-effect of having to do complete the checklist. Had we sat, and stared deeply into my soul, studying the intricacies of my analytical trauma - I do not believe my disposition on this event would be different. One of us should have been a saboteur, it should not have been me. Sure, you have the facts, but I got more than a little bit of your personality, and it's not romance I anticipated. Maybe it's the "there's 40 checkout lines and only 3 cashiers kind of vibe". 

"Did you ever love me, therapy person?" "Was I not witty enough?" "Are you not entertained?" "Maybe it's Frasier's fault?" "Honestly, I've always been in Lilith's camp."

I am not going back, and I now need to write a Dear Jane letter, "it's not you, it's me..." 

"Now that I think about it, we never did circle back on the autism, but Jack is exactly where he should be. And so is Bill - in there, throwing out the abuse swag. Oh yeah, that's why I hate DC."

So... I need to figure out some stuff. Was this normal? Do I need to know what I want from therapy? Is day 1, SATs? Is therapy like ordering a cake? My instinct says this was abnormal, and my therapist is just as happy that we won't be sharing a small medical office room in the future. I am not abandoning the journey simply because this was off-putting. But I need to find out if there's any validity in the one substantive question she asked, and if so, how do I encapsulate layers of traumatic events into a formulaic a + b = ? I feel kind of crazy (no pun intended) that I the victim of traumas should have enough understanding and awareness of unprocessed trauma on the brain after 45+ years, to say - please turn my trauma into an artistic masterpiece that I can live off of. Oh wait - I'm giving that to you so you can live off of it. Maybe you are my first love after all...  has the student become the master?

Cities Of The Dead: St. Patrick Cemetery No. 1, New Orleans

Another beautiful cemetery in the Cemetery District. One of the first I ever explored, given that it was at the end of my block. Some iconic statuary, and beautiful weathering throughout. 

 

Cities Of The Dead: Chevra Thilim, New Orleans

 This Jewish Cemetery resides in the Cemetery District, at the end of Canal St and very near the end of the streetcar line. It hugs the infamous, Mortuary - an attraction known for it's Halloween Haunted Attraction, as well as escape rooms. This cemetery has been targeted from time to time by neo-nazi groups, so often, the main gates remain locked. It's a very picturesque location with very unique markers.

Cities Of The Dead: Lafayette Cemetery No. 2, New Orleans

 This is a cemetery I longed to film, but safety kept me driving by. I also had no idea at the beauty I would find within... and I am not sure any cemetery in New Orleans surprised me more than this one. Sadly, I picked an usually windy day to film, but my finds are worth it... at least as the person filming.

Jonny Quest - who were you for?

 I was probably a young kid when that first exposure to Jonny Quest happened, and as a young kid, I probably thought, "there's way too much going on here". As a preteen, my revisit to Jonny Quest was eye-opening, it did things no other cartoon would even come close to until the 90s. As a young adult, that original season of Jonny Quest was an aberration in a cartoon world that included Fred Flintstone and Penelope Pitstop and defied logic.

I'm not going to waste anyone's time and bother retreading a history of cartoons, except to articulate, to the best of my knowledge, who the audience was, in an effort to bring attention to the oddity that was Jonny Quest. There's the Disney story, and the Looney Tunes - often preceding whatever you were watching in the cinema that day. They were the "Coming Attractions" of the 1930s and 1940s. As more households acquired televisions, and in a push to expand programming hours, networks adopted what is colloquially referred to as the "Saturday Morning Cartoons" in the 1950s. Mighty Mouse, Bugs Bunny, and Hanna-Barbera ushered in the early success of child-friendly programming on Saturday mornings. Hanna-Barbera alone had nearly put the final nail in Disney's coffin, when it decided to try something that essentially no one was asking for. Drunk on the success the studio had found with Tom and Jerry, they launched the first primetime cartoon, The Flintstones... and it was incredibly popular. Suspicions that adults were enjoying cartoons as much as children solidified into mission goals, and we arrive at perhaps the sincerest effort anyone made to give adult men and children a savory bit of fiction to bite into, Jonny Quest. Rich, detailed, textured art; dialogue ripped out of an Ian Fleming story; and a 10 yo protagonist that is too head strong to know better. Though JQ did not connect with an audience in it's original primetime airings, Hanna Barbera did not abandon the formula entirely. Scooby-Doo, Where Are You? would revisit the idea of corrupted and greedy adults, and the lengths they would go to for power and property. The 1970s brought an age of cynicism, experimentation, and stark realities. Counter-culture artists embraced the medium to tell acid-fueled fever dreams that were made strictly for adult audiences; studios in Japan developed hyper-realistic, and dramatic feature-length films, while the American studios could only think to turn out absurd concepts like Wacky Racers that only served to lampoon their creations than evolve them. The 80s - oh the Reagan 80s... big money, baby! The Reagan administration removed the restrictions on advertisers, and Saturday Morning turned into a 3-hour toy commercial. GI Joe, He-Man - they existed to sell everything from toys to food products... cocaine is expensive! The explosion in cable programming and a return to sanity in terms of what was acceptable marketing was the death knell for Saturday mornings. 

With that jaunt through history out of the way, back to our originally scheduled program. Right from the onset, Jonny Quest borrowed more from the serials of the 40s than it did from any of it's peer animation at the time. Jonny, our protagonist, is a young boy and his father is a widow and a brilliant scientist that finds himself trapped within the military industrial complex as a result of his talents. He has to hire Race Bannon (the equivalent of a green beret) to protect not only himself, but also his son. The comic relief comes in the form of Jonny's bravado outpacing his skill, as well as his French Bulldog, Bandit. Early in their adventures, an Indian orphan named, Hadji, is "adopted" by the Quest Family. He is the intelligence that counter balances Jonny's recklessness. Hadji's character is one that does not age well, written with tropes of mysticism, and in the second season, and exiled prince of a sultan. In sharing that little bit about the main cast, it's probably already evident, the audience is being exposed to characters with some complexity and given motivations both tragic and relatable.

All good heroes need a villain counterpart, and JQ does not disappoint in this arena. Most of our antagonists are bent on some global scheme that would kill millions of people, and have been driven mad by power. What makes any of this remotely plausible is that the writers of JQ kill people. That's it's most outstanding and unique quality for a cartoon of this era, and for any era until we arrive at shows such as Archer, and the heavily-JQ-"inspired", Venture Bros. Fantastical as it may seem, it was entirely possible that deaths of any number of people, good, bad or innocent was attainable by a Quest nemesis. The show probably just skirted a more notorious reputation by making the deaths believable but not gory/gruesome - the writing staff new any kid was already capable of filling in those visuals thanks to cameramen being embedded with troops in the Vietnam war. The villains and their hired goons rarely escaped death on JQ - whether they be blown up, devoured by a monster, or thrown off a cliff... choosing a path of evil meant you would never be absolved of your sins. This is a black and white world, and there's two paths. 

Beyond a flair for non-judicial murder, JQ was a master-class in artistic world building. Incredibly detailed environments, choosing ultra-realism over easily replicated scenery... churning out episodes must have been a grueling feat. Only the early seasons of Scooby-Doo could arguably match in atmosphere and tension the scenes such as the one below evoked.

Hoyt Curtain's brass and percussive-driven score evokes high-energy a la The Ventures, and couples perfectly with the mystique and flow of every episode. Much like the serials that were the shows inspiration, each episode takes the viewer on a complete adventure that feels substantive; you've been transported into a world that not only looks real, it sounds real... fear, terror, anger are palpable. Characters are capable of cruelty and inhumanity that can seem frightening, and you genuinely believe that they would without hesitation murder the entire Quest Family given the opportunity. None is more bent on causing the group chaos than Dr. Zin - an arch-nemesis to Dr. Quest, who relishes in the torture of his foe at the expense of all others. 

With morally bankrupt murderers the norm, who was this unapologetically adult-themed cartoon with a 10 year old protagonist for? Was it the belief of Hanna-Barbera that this was a family-fun half hour; a father/son bonding spy adventure; or a stab at something that tapped into the Mod Squad, The Saint, and Mission: Impossible audience? The recipe spoiled quickly, and no one dared be so adventurous again until given the freedom to do so without repercussions. As mentioned, JQ legacy lives in shows like Archer, Venture Bros, and to an extent, the anime world, because it defiantly decided to do something completely unorthodox, and did so unflinchingly. I think in that vein, it shares a pedestal with shows such as Twin Peaks and The Prisoner - expanding what was possible in a very limited network world. Somehow in this world where we are compelled to retro-fit our cartoons for modern sensitivities, JQ escapes such scrutiny... murdering henchman and their leaders in the hundreds because it's what you do in a right and wrong world. It's escaped cancel-culture for it's bigoted tropes and caricatures, and maybe because it was a failed experiment... that exists only in it's legacy of influence and not at a sole representation of what it did well. It must have been a passion project for the men and women that built each episode, because they certainly weren't receiving the adoration for their efforts. Enough people, in the end, did recognize it and gave it life beyond the 1960s. 

JQ didn't find it's audience in the 1960's, yet somehow would set in motion what would one day be possible, and surely find it's audience decades later. Many, many efforts have been put forth to resurrect that appeal, but all have been flat... until you concede to the short-comings of this show, mostly for it's racist portrayals and willingness to be cruel on an equal scale, you can't have another JQ. And it's for this reason explicitly, we have The Venture Bros. 

“No, this is not a good town for psychedelic drugs. Reality itself is too twisted.”

 At the point we made our exit from Houston, we took nothing. Dad, Mom, a Ranchero, my sister, my step-sister and I. My sisters and I rode in the back of the Ranchero for a full two days. I've wiped all memory of this from my head. Vegas was in a weird place in it's legacy... it's mob-history was on life-support; but the toxins of it's prevalence throughout Greater Las Vegas were still evident everywhere. Being exposed to the idea of winning any sum of money with a simple quarter was an intoxicating thought to me, but my parents were careful to not allow me to indulge. Primarily because the fines for doing so were ridiculous even for the early 80s. So many dark alleys, and nefarious edifices once you strayed from either the Downtown or City Strip. It felt like almost anything could happen, and it felt very haunted. I was only beginning to learn about the city's history, piecing together why anyone right-minded person would pick the middle of a forbidding desert to birth a tourist haven. In a way, it seemed almost appropriate that my parents had settled on this corner of decadence and sin; my mom took a job in a casino, and my dad worked for an exotic car repair shop. It was there that I saw the most incredible cars - the types that adorned posters sold at Spencers Gifts. My parents went to championship boxing events regularly, and I was being left alone for the first time; mostly because I had made their excursions so expensive. The only casino that welcomed kids was Circus Circus and I'd burn through cup after cup of quarters. Interesting fact: I suck as video games.

From the outset, I was already exploring my own path. We arrived about midway through 5th Grade as I recall. The only road to the school was cut through the desert. Kids in Vegas were an interesting cast - mostly what had bled over from Los Angeles (a 5-Hour Drive West). Mods, Punks, Skaters, Stoners, unsure of anything and/or geek/nerd/dweeb (raises hand). One of my Dad's coworkers was aware that when my parents went out, I was home alone. He had an incredible 60's Ford Van that was metallic blue with blue shag interior. Based on me setting fire to all the ping pong balls (previous owner left a ping pong table in the house) - my dad asked this friend to check in on me at some point, and my parents made sure that I was aware of this. There's an aspect of gambling in Vegas that most aren't aware of until they've been there. You are intentionally desensitized to time when you are on the casino floor - no windows, constant sound and stimulation. My parents would go have the breakfast buffet and be gone until dawn the next day. They'd leave me enough money for a pizza or not depending on my behavior, and that was that. My dad's friend did indeed check in on me, and he'd root around for my dad's pot stash and leave. Sometimes he'd take me on a journey (not in a psychedelic way) - convenience store, or out into the desert to stare off in the direction of Area 51.

My taste in music was Motley Crue, Quiet Riot... I had one of those fake wood grain alarm clock radios. I would listen to the Top 5 at 10 PM every night and it informed my taste in music. My parents weren't keen on my metal leanings, but full endorsed my appreciation for new wave. For Christmas, they bought me a boom box, Michael Jackson's "Thriller" and Duran Duran's "Arena" on cassette. One guy that used to pick on me quite a bit also could be decent when no one else was around. He ran away from home a lot, I'd say he was 15 or 16... and I'd usually find him in a half destroyed concrete structure that sat on an undeveloped strip of desert. Adorning it's walls were anarchy symbols (didn't know what that was), the DK logo, and Skate or Die... he would force on me records from Agent Orange, Circle Jerks, Black Flag - that I could only play when my parents were losing the rent money. In the three years we spent in Las Vegas, everything I was when we arrived had evolved into a facet that exists today. This span of time was also my introduction to Christian Death... specifically, "Ashes". I bought this based solely on it's simple cover and song titles. It would however be a few more years before I began my love affair with Rozz. 

Another interesting aspect of Las Vegas was the way in which they promoted "desegregation" - I'm not sure what it would be coined. Before moving on to Junior High School, and after leaving Elementary - one would go to a Sixth Grade Center. But you couldn't go to the one close to your house. No, you had to go to the one at the opposite end of the city. So, a bunch of white kids got bussed to North Las Vegas which was primarily African American, and they were bussed to the white neighborhoods. I'm really unclear what this was supposed to accomplish, but our school was enclosed in a 20 foot high fence with barbed wire. We were forbade from being within 50 feet of the fence, but that rarely was enforced. Many of the kids would antagonize and taunt the teenagers on the other side of the fence until a knife or gun was flashed. There was an "older" (probably in his twenties) that suffered from albinism, and the kids were especially cruel to him. It was not out of character for him to start climbing the fence and verbally attack kids with a ferocity I had never been exposed to before. He established a new bar from what my parents had established during their fights. I made a lot of friends that year, I saw maybe three of them when I went to 7th Grade. More than anything, my time at the CVT Gilbert Sixth Grade Center exposed me to wealth disparity, that racism was greater than just my family, and the realization that somehow this was the result of systemic efforts.

Seventh grade was not spectacular. I was able to walk to school, and it was an oddity. There were no windows,  and you were required to pass from class to class outside of the building, and no student was allowed to use the inner hallways. The building was a series of circles, similar to maximum security prisons. I was still pretty awkward by 7th Grade standards and if I wasn't teased, I was ignored. Not proficient in sports, but academically, I was above par. In the summer between 7th and 8th Grade, my parents obviously had a stroke, because they concocted an idea to fly me to Virginia to meet my real dad... a man I hadn't seen since I was six months old; had denied I was his seed... and had stolen money that was supposed to be in a trust for me. He also was an alcoholic and spousal abuser - so - great! 

While on this vacation, something inside me broke. I couldn't tell you with any sincerity where I was mentally before this trip, but surely, things must have been going off the rails. I stayed with my brother, and I stole several models he had done in his younger years. I then went to meet Dad and stay with him, his new wife and step-daughter, Crystal (maybe 17?). She was forced to entertain me, so I met her bf Tony and her best friend Danielle. All of them is what I would have called Stoners - but they somehow were stuck in 1974... there cassettes consisted of Queen, Aerosmith, Boston - and I was truly confused. To their credit, they entertained me, and took me to the mall, and into the woods to go skinny dipping in an old quarry where a bunch of kids had drowned. Neat. I didn't get naked, but I saw Danielle's ass and I was hooked. My brother picked me up and I returned to their home for my final night. He had packed my bag for me and found all of the stolen models. Some years later he told me that it was because of who raised me and that has never left me. It's an infuriating statement that I can't argue with - but I think it makes me mad because it implies that I turned out like someone I didn't respect (at this time in my life). 

My big lesson from this journey was that being meek was not attractive. When I arrived home, my mom had thrown away all of my Dungeons and Dragons stuff, taken down all my posters, and found my Playboys. Did my brother tell her what happened? She said it was Satan. I've never forgiven her for this violation. I started shoplifting; got caught stealing a Heart cassette and lighters from K-Mart. For months, I would arrive at school right when they unlocked the doors and start checking lockers. All of my grades tanked, and had we remained in Vegas, I would have repeated 8th Grade. Skipping school was my favorite thing to do, and I traded some Motley Crue posters for a BB-Gun. One day, while skipping school, a friend and I climbed on to the roof and began shooting at signs. At least until a police officer arrived and busted us. Mom, not so happy. I wrote lengthy letters to Danielle filled with insane lies about being stabbed, and in trouble all the time - I went full bore on the bad boy thing. Her mom called my mom. I can't begin to imagine what my parents were thinking? They didn't have the skills to right my path, and I had every desire and reason to unload on them, and I think they feared that more than my step off the cliff. During my school day, I pursued the bad girl at school, Debbie. She had cigarettes, and we would play Super Mario Bros at the 7-11 instead of going to first period. I was really into Debbie... but then I met Neal's (BB Gun Seller) girlfriend Tammy. Neal was red-headed, tall, pale, freckled, and listened to metal. Tammy wore pastels, sweaters (lots of layers), and loved Duran Duran. There was no conceivable reason these two should be together, and when that imploded, I became Tammy's friend. Besides, Neal, as he was, in Las Vegas - the kid was doomed to turn bright red and explode. Just as I believed Tammy and I were developing a close friendship, off we were to Virginia. Who's to say what happened, but I'm sure it was well below par. Tammy Macedo - if you are out there, I still have your letters. But I still wasn't well. I made up stories to Tammy as well, because I couldn't face how bad everything had become for me.

Affections for the fair ladies aside, I was smoking; I discovered cutting; and I had lost all concept and value of friendship. People were an avenue to things I wanted, and I stole comic books from my friends. I've been in a lot of darkness, I've had very selfish tendencies following failures - but never at any point in my life did I go to war with everything of value in such an unrelenting fashion. Obviously, it's not uncommon for a pre-teen or young teen to be a fatalist, but my toxicity was boiling over and had we not left Vegas, I don't know where I would have been - honestly, I was probably headed for  juvenile detention. There is so little of my life in Vegas that I recall with fondness... it's reels like an after-school special. I crawl from this broken land, leaving this one beacon of honesty and light that discarded my failures and touched my heart... and for 37 years, I've kept her every word in a box. It the shred of evidence I have that I mattered to someone.

From this point forward, my story seems cyclical; at least in my effort to find affection. I pursue, I fail. I don't know that I want to take this story from here forward. My memories are crystalized from here on, and it is layer after layer of scar tissue and chasing hearts that can't reciprocate. Somehow, it seems so easy for others... so many people meeting people, making people, who meet people. A pattern I'm unable to discern. 

Impermanence

 One of the elements of my psyche that developed very young was a fear of impermanence. It's likely we moved a dozen times, and to five different states before I was 15. If you include that first year of high school, you can tack on an additional move to an additional state. I have seen a lot of things, and it's only as I've reached these reflective years that I can appreciate the varied environments, cultures, and experiences I've had. As discussed previously, who would I be had my parents not uprooted all things and relocated countless times? More successful, less interesting, more balanced, dead? These are the trains of thought where I am capable of hitting the pause button and remind myself that every moment before now is encapsulated into right now; how and who I am; and the past is at best a reflection. 

This journey introduced me to people I love, but mostly loved; it brought me to music, a barometer by which I measure my demise; it brought me to landscapes of inescapable beauty; though mostly too hot. I know myself well enough that I am not someone anyone would describe as interesting. My charisma has for as long as I was aware of hormones has been manufactured. My bag of charms is these experiences, I'm little else without them. I'm a scared, abused child that learned to be cautious about most everything because of impermanence. Marriage - maybe it's only important to me because it's a vow of permanence. Maybe having a massive music collection is a statement in defiance of absence and starting over. These are guesses, my effort sans therapy to unravel this cliched, uninspired, caricature of my self-identity. I'm essentially weightless in any measure of value. This is not written to beat myself up; or even the sum total of my scars bearing witness - this is my analytical brain calculating the breadth of my relationships from my earliest memories to today. If it's true that you can measure the merit of a man by the company he keeps, well, those who know Birthday know he's the Clyde to my Bonnie.

Sunset on white sand beaches with dolphins breaching The Gulf's ebb. Muddy beaches amid Victorian mansions that illuminate the brain with thoughts of secret passages, and gothic horror. Wild horses streaking across stark landscapes ripped apart by towering peaks that hide our government's most expensive secrets. I can speak to these things. I was also barley alive, and saw it all from prepubescent eyes with barely any understanding of the magnitude. The wounds I took throughout this journey of movie b-roll provided only one moderately safe shelter. I often get asked my earliest memory... I don't know, most of my pre-teen life exists in snapshots and I don't know if they are a memory, or a photo I've seen. If my life depended on an answer, it was my dad dropping me off at a family friends house when I was five or younger, and this person trying to molest me and my resistance to that. I have a recollection of those moments where I am aware of not having enjoyed the experience (specifically with this individual) previously, so molestation had already happened. These are memories I would not recall until I was much. much older. There's an arrogance that people often carry when "they have gotten away with something", and as a child, you begin to recognize this pattern of behavior as extra-ordinary. Not remarkable, in fact, it brought me shame. I was however aware, that my life was circumstanced upon such actions, and thus, I had a different school for nearly every grade, and I soon just gave up on friends I would never see again. 

Texas brought different realities. Our first home was an apartment that was in an area of the city that was hemorrhaging with problems. I recall exploring unfinished and abandoned apartment complexes, and would often find money and any manner of things I didn't understand then. My only friend at this age of 7 or 8 was an Asian woman that owned a beautiful white husky. I loved running with her dog, and playing fetch with him. At some point, maybe a month of making her acquaintance, I did not see her anymore. I knew something was wrong, and I knew she hadn't moved; in my mind, my family was the only impermanence - travelers through a static world. After some weeks, I saw my friend again, with no dog. She would not talk to me. I noticed that she was wearing cuts and bruises. The next day, I saw her again, and pleaded with her to talk to me, and she in a very mindful and careful way described to me an attack that took her dog's life and left her forever changed. I understand it now, she had been attacked, beaten, raped and her dog was killed. I don't know if it's a normal tendency, but any narrative that includes rape, I am immediately taken to this moment. Sitting on starkly green, unmanicured grass outside of her apartment complex; she was wearing all white; and she wore a wide-brimmed hat with a white lace veil. This moment, for me, embodies the violence, anger, and inhuman terror of sexual assault. Texas also offered the worst arguments I recall my parents having with words like "divorce" and "bitch" being thrown around along with ashtrays, plates and wine glasses. I can't explain why I found it so terrifying, but at that age, I must have preferred a broken family over no family. That family friend from Florida, well, he came to stay with us. We even shared a bedroom. How amazing. I must have got too old, because he left, and my mom's childhood friend moved in with us. She often threw up on my comic books; but maybe the night where she stripped naked, and ran through the neighborhood screaming about tanks was peak "what the fuck" for my 8 year old brain. I got to visit a mental hospital, and that was the traumatizing icing on the cake. I understood mental illness probably as well as I understood a grown man wanting to diddle my fiddle. Let's be honest, there must be a moment as a parent where you tell yourself, "any additional damage we do to Ronnie at this point is probably akin to the 49th time a child is molested by the same person." My parents would never use the word "akin" - so that's some poetic license with the only rationale I can subscribe to the remaining days in the Alamo State. One Sunny Day, we just up and drove to Mexico for a picnic. No passports. "It's right there, why not?" First thing we did was buy a bottle of tequila (with the worm of course) and a Fanta in Matamoros. My dad drove so fucking far into the heart of Mexico, we began to pass guard stations, and eventually, one of them gave chase. I imagined for a second that I lived in an orphanage in Mexico now. We were allowed to "go the fuck home". Every Friday night, we would meet my dad at a bar where his co-workers frequented and I would play Space Invaders for like 3 fucking hours. One particular night, I remember imploring my parents to not go to a planned party. Somehow, I manufactured some internalized cliff notes on drinking, arguing, misery, sad child. "No son, that's not going to happen." The party was staggeringly far from our home; I know this; and remember this vividly; because my dad was so drunk, I had to drive us home. I was at best, 10. always having been adept at remembering patterns, I knew how to get home, so I steered and he fucking floored the car accelerator. We were driving 80-90 mph in the wee hours of the morning on Houston's interstate system. To this day, my dad comments on the fact that white people never got pulled over in Texas. Maybe... maybe, you are wondering where Mom is?! I was too! She walked the fuck home at some point. I can't tell you how many miles it was, but it was FAR. The explosion of anger the ensued once mom arrived home was nothing short of terrifying. Do you remember that scene in "Hereditary" where Toni Collette loses her shit? I was in the next room wanting to die. 

I guess I have to save Vegas for tomorrow. I didn't plan on going full exposition with this post, but once I started, what the hell?! What else am I doing. I've been thinking a lot about these times lately; digging through old photos; and puzzling together certain memories, events, mostly wounds. I want to understand my worthlessness, why I can't sustain love, and why I am not a pleasant person. I also don't want to throw down the gavel and project all of this on the failings of two flawed people that  managed to keep me alive for 15 years. Alot of who I am stems from my rebellion in their machinations; yet, I arrived at an equally flawed and fractured place. They've been married for 50 years, I can't make it 10. Clearly, my choices gave me sickness and disease; hiding from the world for all my life, inside a chrysalis that has hung for so long, it's rotten beneath the skin.

That's all for now. Sleep well - 

Listening to: Systeme Paradoxe - "Les Anges de la Mort (Black Version)"

Can you just not...

 Today was a repeat of yesterday. It differed in the aspect that at the moment the work clock began ticking, my phone rang, and I was ushered into a meeting with yesterday's protagonist and my mentor. This phone call followed the previous evening's decision by the mentor and myself to take the path of least resistance and just do what the sales rep wanted instead what they had agreed to. It was a decision that alleviated me from the drip drip of needed data, and circle-speak evading best practices and bigger picture rationale. So, the words out of my mouth were, "your project is done, Mentor and I decided to build the new plans and forego having any historical data." Salesperson was elated, but decided 15 minutes of dialogue was needed to flush out a lot of shit I had no interest in hearing. The deal was over, you have the money, I have the drugs - walk away. Instead, a retelling of the story that brought us today was somehow warranted, and the understudy for facts took stage. Just as I was leaving my body, traveling into the Flogging Molly poster above my desk, recalling the deafening and incomprehensible volume at which the band played that one March in St. Petersburg, the weight of stupidity lurched forth and knocked me out of my journey. Salesperson no longer wanted to talk about the project at hand, but instead picked a fight with my mentor about months old "expectations" that she and Mentor had completely different narratives and recollections of. Melting into my chair, my audible sighs seemed to offer no indication of my discomfort. I had witnessed a similar exchange between this pugilists at the end of the year, and it was equally riveting then as it is now, in that I'd rather pull out my own wisdom teeth. Salesperson left the call, and I was left with a miffed Mentor. She repeated to me all of the words she said to Salesperson, as if I had been invisible for the past 43m, 37s. 

45 Minutes later, the Mentor called me again to say that Salesperson was sifting through her Outlook archive in search of evidence to bolster her arguments. This is the same Salesperson that couldn't find 15 minutes to talk yesterday and declined my calendar invites. Pettiness is not becoming when you are the one holding all the cards, always. We talked for 10-ish minutes before I was saved by someone calling her.

Tonight, at exactly 5:01 PM, texts start dropping in rapid succession. Salesperson wants me to hear her side of the story. "Bitch, again?", I thought... I ignored the texts until they my last nerve was struck. I told her that Mentor deserved her thanks, not me, because Mentor decided to give Salesperson what they wanted, not me. She then told me I was "too humble". "How can you be too humble?", I asked. She attacked my phone with bewildering narratives about money, and our company, and seniority - and I left my phone downstairs for awhile to take over for me while I watched the news.

Somehow, I know there will be more to all this insanity tomorrow. Because egos have been bruised and there must be an equivalency in pain.

In other news, I had a dream that I awoke from at 4 AM, and it was a dream I wanted to remember and record. As my alarm was going off in the next 2 hours, I mentioned to myself to note this for when you get up later. I am only now remembering this dialogue with myself but zero things about the dream. That's a load of crap. Stupid brain. Maybe it was foreshadowing and something will remind me of the events.

That's all I have. Shitty work talk. Fuck me.

Listening to: Cindytalk - "Wappinschaw"

My Important is Not Your Important

 There's so much one could say about their individual job; I believe the majority of us would have more complaint than praise. Maybe that's just me. For what it's worth, I did succeed in finding a job where the workforce was small; the culture was familial; and the focus was relationship building. "Wait!", you may be saying, "...this does not describe qualities one would subscribe to Ron; he's a sarcastic, anti-social, nihilist..." This is not entirely inaccurate. I also don't want to work in an environment of a dozen me - because that sounds miserable, unprofitable, and doomed to fail. So...

I'm not entirely keen on my mentor, but since the eruption, we've been ignoring the differences and focusing on the positives of our approach to our roles and our ability to coordinate. I've shared more than a healthy share on how this relationship has at times been toxic and devastating to my work/life balance. 

One relationship specifically that I've struggled to see eye to eye with are sales people. They are the darlings of any company, and are far less concerned than I about lighting matches on incendiary bridges. Their talents are transportable, and ass-kissing is the preferred salutation they expect. Those who support their endeavors; constructing the wish dreams they've sold upon pedestals of unyielding rewards and inconsequence tend to be "lesser human" and our "lack of money" is at root of our "bitterness and stupidity". We are identifiable by clothes of comfort, and cars that can be repaired by more than 10 people in the world. It is our bones from which the pedestals are constructed... while essential, so are cockroaches for a harmonious and natural state. Don't think of it as classism... it's a simple have/have not mode of life choices. The trickle... it trickles down off one large precipice where the 99.98% of us gather to rob, murder, manipulate and intoxicate ourselves in relentless fashion for. 

Did I come here this evening to vouchsafe a bunch of liberal talking points? No... it really doesn't matter. We cannot change because caring en masse must be vilified and subjugated to lazy stereotypes, and racial biases. Our love of humanity beckons no further than our own hands. You must die if you cannot afford medicine; you must starve if your cannot eat; you must be raped, tortured, murdered because you are not white-enough to be here; you cannot give love because you love another of your gender. This is our American identity... step after step of hateful and isolating rhetoric in defense of our Christian heritage. The hypocrisy of who we are as a nation is so rampant, that facts are arbitrary, and lies are words without context. We enflame and turn blind eyes to hate, and murder; take those who love and burn them in courtyards. We are a people sick with hate, oblivious to our own suffering in an effort to make the world as dark a place as we believe our own reality to be. Jesus does not bring light - he brings condemnation and judgment. 

People like to remind us, this is a minority. Maybe it is, but not by much. The only evidence one needs of this is a cartoonish idiot that leads a cult of followers to horrendous acts of violence. They attempted to overthrow our government in an effort to protect our democracy. That in and of itself incapsulates the idiocy and hypocrisy of this time. 

Anyway, here I am. I had a bad day. All I wanted to do was finish a fucking project that has been drawn out for weeks. For the fifth... sixth time (who's counting anymore) - I asked the sales rep for the fucking data I needed to finish the project, and instead, I got talked in circles for 10 minutes. Gaslighting me about agreed upon parameters, followed by empty promises and sprinkles of everyone else blaming. This person is my age, so they know better than to put their incomprehensible stupidity into an email - they pick up the phone after every email I send detailing the phone call we just had. Because idiots deserve to be quoted correctly. Don't thank me, thank the dumbass that suggested injecting bleach and swallowing florescent lights. I want to make sure I get your assertions succinctly correct.

By the end of the day, I had decided that the project was only going to be finished if I threw half of it in the trash. So, I did that. Who's idea was that? Sales person's of course, because "as I guess you don't remember, I suggested doing..." a half-ass, piss-poor "...job from the beginning." If only I had money, I would understand "path of least resistance and the hell with rules and consistency and quality product".  Yeah... that was my day.

Listening to: "After Dinner... Arsenic"

Two Days

 As written last night (this morning), there are additional events that are testing my faith in the faithless. Maybe beginning with a bundled triumph/failure is the best place to begin. As part of my new career, it is required by law for me to be licensed in the insurance industry. It's the same licensing that an agent that sells insurance would have, but my role does not involve sales. Anyway - I was struggling intensely with my training material. I was memorizing patterns (see autism) instead of learning - this was evident when I'd fail the initial test and then pass all subsequent retests. In an effort to overwhelm pattern memorization, I created a 250 question exam. Anyone observing would think I was some type of insurance savant. I did not have the patience to reorder the answers which I had done on my previous licensing exam. My depression was as such, that I had convinced myself that if I did not pass the exam I would be terminated; yet, I couldn't be bothered to provide myself with the best opportunity to pass. As the day of testing approached, I made the fool's bargain of saying to the universe, "if I pass, I'll stop self-harming" - as if they even shared a bed or schedule. Unlike my first test, this one was in as a remote testing center as one could muster, and I had the entire center to myself. When I arrived at a question I was unsure about, I didn't dwell on it; I went with my gut and moved forward. I had 90 minutes, I was done in 20. No one would have been more surprised than I that I passed. Sadly, the don't give you a score, it's pass/fail. I was very happy that day. And did I honor my deal with the great unknown... no. Perhaps... this is why I subsequently received an infection. Is the universe a vengeful force as well?

Next.

Most recently, my son and his girlfriend visited. This was a package of excitement and anxiety; and somehow I managed to do something right. I will explain. Seeing my son wasn't the source of my anxious thoughts, it was meeting someone new. This person, whom my son is emotionally and physically invested in; what if she does not enjoy my company; what if she feels seeing me in the future is a chore? That will certainly negatively impact how often and how long I see my son. I certainly do not wish to be a bad host or company for anyone, I wanted her to enjoy her visit as much as my son. So, that was a bit of pressure for me. Awkward and odd are my subject matter expertise. For the first few hours, the girlfriend seemed unimpressed and unengaged; but over dinner, she challenged me directly on my Radiohead deficiencies. The remainder of their visit went extremely well in my opinion. They are even discussing moving here in a year's time, which would be life changing for me. Why am I bringing this up, what does it have to do with celestial alignments?! Right now, I am still mired in the quicksand, evaluating my rescue is less a focus than my survival. Am I click-clacking up the rollercoaster's steep hill, or is this one of many loops, or am I tearing ass through it's deepest recesses? These events collectively, I could postulate, arrived as a buoy just as I was drowning. A religious or spiritual person would argue exactly this. I'm honestly questioning the timing as too precise; and I am also bargaining that it's enough and it's reached it finality. I don't know the answer to any of these things. One clue I have (a key maybe), is that I am practicing what I will call "Yes Man" or "Reverse George" efforts. Where generally, I will see something I want to do, or recognize something I should so, and then upon arrival, navigate my way out of it. Perfect example of this was the recent Pixies concert. I've done this most of my life. The anxiety I build around an event is so great that I make myself sick in dwelling on it. There have been some recent moments where I just did that thing. A funeral for a work colleague, driving to Greenville to help a friend (twice), changing phone carriers (again), going to work events outside the office, adventuring out alone on my birthday, and going to the Spruce Pine UFO Festival. I cannot argue that all of these moments returned positive results. I'm fully aware that it will not always be that way. Can I overcome trepidation with practice? In ignoring inner pessimist, can I train this person to speak only when it's important? Do I need to hear from you that parking is going to be a nightmare; most people do not worry about this. 

I mentioned UFO. 

A UFO Festival in Spruce Pine! I very nearly talked myself out of this, and in retrospect, the gravity of what I would have missed is difficult to comprehend. This was my first ever UFO Festival, and in terms of UFO Festivals, I think it was decent. Mostly people with cheap Chinese products that they adorned with stolen images from the internet. Also a flea market/farmers market vibe. I did buy some original art, so that was exciting! I also stopped at a booth that did terrariums in apothecary glass. The couple running the booth had familiarity to me, and I spoke with them for 5-10 minutes and moved on. As I was leaving, I saw their booth again and stopped by, trying to decide if I was taking home an additional piece of art. In speaking with the husband, I was struck by the familiarity of his voice and I quickly put a puzzle together. I asked him, "Did you once live in St. Petersburg, FL?"

"Well, I lived in Tarpon Springs." - this is about an hour north of St. Petersburg.

"Did you once work at Dunkin Donuts, making donuts at 3 AM?"

"Yes, ha ha, how do you know that?!" - Man in Black here, asking you very specific questions about your past.

"Did you once work the overnight shift at Home Shopping Network?"

"Uh, yes, do you know me or something?"

"Are you Jeff?"

"Yes! What?!"

"We worked together at Home Shopping. I am Ron."

So - that happened. Someone I have not seen in 25-30 years, that I would with for less than a year, but had a good friendship with, was at a UFO Festival in Spruce Pine, NC, and I ran into him and recognized him. Please tell me, what are those odds? The 2010 census for Spruce Pine, NC was 2175 residents. It turns out, Jeff lives in Hot Springs, NC, population 560, and an hour away from Burnsville, NC. Please someone, calculate the odds for me. When I think about all of the things that have happened in 25 years that have resulted in me being here, and I do something out of my "comfort" zone to attend a UFO Festival to find a friend I lost touch with about half my life ago - is this simply coincidence?

Here we are. It's not a singular moment. All of these things wrapping about either out of coincidence, or out of formulation. Some force battling against my instincts and fading will to build a foundation upon which to stand. What is this? Maybe... maybe - I can relent to my influence on these events, wrapping the thinnest of tethers around desires, and slowly pulling them forth. If, unconsciously, I lay these paths, what then of all the connections that failed without my knowledge. In this scenario, it's not a force beyond sheer will that brought them to fruition. What then of Jeff? This surely was not a bridge which I've labored upon for more than 25 years. It's sheer coincidence or its intervention; what else is there to explain it. And when I stop for just a moment to think, had I simply not gone, I would never know any of this. How many times in my life did I evade an opportunity such as this out of complacency? I think I could drive myself mad and into misery calculating that. 

This is where I close. It's a lot for me to ponder. I know at least, I will not take these gifts for granted... even if I remain oblivious to the benefactor.

Listening to: Einstürzende Neubauten - "Silence Is Sexy"

Is this working for you?

When I am locked in to some work project, I have plenty of thoughts I want to convey. Weekend comes - I've got nothing... but the guilt of having not written in far too long. At least once a day I think about writing, and I go to bed annoyed with myself. I'm so easily distracted, and compelled to sit in front of a TV. I find it difficult to escape watching the news, but will it is on, I can't escape my cell. This seems like a many-layered trap that I've slowly been sinking deeper in to for several years. But what value is there sitting here writing about not writing. 

It feels like a lot has happened in a small window of time; and I am struggling to piece that all together. Possibly it's better framed as; life is happening to me, and my ability to approach outstanding moments for what they are is compromised; and packed with a lot of anxiety and fear. In not knowing who the "two" people are (I may be one of them), that consistently read this blog, it's probably best that specificity remains shelved. And because this sphere of characters is such a small one, I'm full of trepidation in even cracking the spine to some chapters.

As previously addressed, fate, universal intervention, deities - I'm not particularly subscribing to their catalogs. There's an experience that Christians often cite as their claim to faith, "the word/voice/hand of God" - tearing through all the layers of science that sustain even the most complacent of moments; ushering them from a precipice instance. Generally, I feel this is hyperbolic, and such a miracle (this would indeed be a miracle of Catholic recognition) is incredibly rare. However, I have felt that recent events are oscillating about me, and right now, I am aligning my beliefs that this is a pattern of life that we conscript consciously and unconsciously. In my current state of unwell mental health, I am unable to participate in patterning this out. So, I will attempt to present this in a linear fashion; ranging from the absurd to the unlikely coincidence.

I'm afraid, I have to begin this narrative as The Vandal. An unflattering, foolish, selfish decision that is in my opinion where this portent of gravitational forces takes root. Granted, the history; brief as it was, offered brilliant, explosive hues that tore through heart and mind; lighting the imagination and fantasy that lie just beyond a door and a failing keycard. No time, no root, too many vying for the same moment. To this very second, we have not revisited those passages; only to say, there remains an undefinable thing. A mass so dense it solicits orbit. It's but a few pages out of either of our books, though the tone is agreeable, I may never know if the experience was shared to a point of arguable plagiarism. Emotional and intellectual spans give way to self-sabotage and hurt; and I told my friend that I did not value her enough to see her and support her. I crawled inside my darkness to protect the tethers I had left of my everyday world out of fear. Rightly, I was given a forever ultimatum. I honored these wishes for many years; the kind of time span where someone finds their footing and creates a life of stability and unconditional love. I broke that last remaining bond of trust last year... as I stood in the parking lot at work; experiencing my first real Autumn - and I was doing so alone. From that moment forward, I am asking myself, did I do the right thing? Not for my sake, I am the one who is reaping the rewards of this connection, I am not the one with value in the cards I hold. I'll be honest, there are feelings, emotions here that are as raw as when they formed. My resistance is as pale as a ghost, as loud as a whisper. This isn't a shared sentiment for good reason. I have to also believe that trust is at best, unrecognizable. Every day, I question if I broke a promise only to add complication to a person doing their best to navigate the same life that only a few months ago did not include me. Am I continuing the cruelty? What kind of love exists like this? 

Now, if I try to step away, a lot of pieces in both our lives moved in support of our gravity. Is it just nothing; a random pattern of pain, emotional hurt, job loss, relocation, the nature of our jobs - all just things of no mass or consequence? Here I am, at this crux of critical thought vs an orbital collision neither of us saw coming. I'm fully cognizant that my shattered confidence, and hemorrhaging heart reached out in desperation for the last memory of tenderness it ever felt. In that, I have guilt and shame... should I have waited until I was well. Did I come bearing gifts of unexpected burden without consideration? I did. I don't know the right thing to do.

I have other situations to ruminate on... it's clear to me, this is the one that's been gnawing at me. Finally having articulated to myself these thoughts and feelings gives them freedom. You know those people that are just happy to be along for the ride? Is that something you can learn? It may be my weakest skillset.

Let's pick this up at a later date.

Listening to: Guilty Strangers - "Memento Mori"

Will the real Beyonce please stand up?

 Just so I am following, the secretive "they" took over Beyonce and created a spectacle concert filled with symbolism, so that we are all aware of the secretive "they" and "their" control over the media and celebrities? What is the benefit of "them" letting us in on the secret? Is this simply an apparatus to draw attention to a matter, so that it seems so utterly ridiculous, as not be believed (a double bluff)? And if that is true, where does that train of thought stop? The "they" take over a celebrity, then "they" make a show about taking over the "celebrity", and then you draw attention to it... it hardly seems worth noting if it's all that obvious, no one seems to be "hiding" anything, especially "them". 

I think it's more plausible that this spectacle is either designed as a mockery of a belief in a global cabal, or using the narrative (as an artist would do) to speak to a culture that is poisoned by misinformation brought about by access to technology. 

#donttellbondtheplan

Animal

 How did I get here? Well, I was asked, "if you could be any animal...?"

I'm thinking way too long about the question in terms of the logistics involved. So I stop myself and just blurt out my favorite animal, "Cheetah!"

Their response was, "Nah, their life is hard. They're always on the hunt for food; you always gotta run like crazy just too eat; you don't have a long life expectancy, and it's always hot."

Baffled, I said, "why are you projecting human emotions on to a cheetah? The cheetah doesn't have any concepts of age, or expressing awareness of abnormal temperature, or 'I'm sick of running'."

This was the end of this exchange; but my brain wouldn't drop it. It pondered, "animals definitely feel fear, so they surely must feel the opposite of fear." To which I wondered, "what motivates animals to care for and protect it's young?" Humans are animals obviously and it is naturally what we must have done instinctually as early humans that we are even here. But I would argue as human mothers today, it's learned behavior and love. So my question, I think, is: Do animals tend to their young out of learned behavior, instincts, or love? And if animals are capable of love, why would we ever kill such a creature? Since, obviously, we have decided it's okay to kill animals and eat animals, is what motivates us the same as it is for animals; an instinct to survive? 

Flirting with Pale Horses

I somehow thought, like most experiences in my life, time would move me along a trajectory where the sadness and pain of the past year would incorporate itself into the unprocessed trauma of 50 years and reside quietly; possible speak with fanciful verse and prose when called upon to elucidate some meaning. It seems however, this despair has no container, it courses throughout; it tears my skin to ensure reminders of the pain are permanent. It gives me just enough light to provoke forward movement, nurses my wounds and teases my curiosity. Perhaps, my path forward is to find commiseration, and to improve my health; seek to repair the external. But there can be no such path. The tools to even sustain my life are gatekept by cost. The perverse humor of this situation writes like a Hitchcock nightcap. Despite my depression and despair, I seek to keep breath in my lungs, but the person holding the preserver, wants my banking information first. As I slip further into darkness, my doctor throws an increasing amount of amber pillars to keep me seeking slivers of light. Depression has been a part of my life as far back as my memories allow, but for the first time, it truly feels like I am at war with a foe, and I have been drafted to fight on the side with which I have no history or familiarity; I barely hold empathy for. 

I seek a friendship with someone whom I can share one moment of escape with, there is none to be had. I seek health, one single moment to feel normal, there is none to be had. I seek a moment of escape from financial freefall - there is none to be had. As if not having a couch, a place to put my records, making the crippling decision to give up on treading water with my credit cards just so I can afford my gatekept health - my television breaks and a speeding ticket. The reminders come without trepidation and I struggle to make sense of their purpose. Like intangible events have power - I was the one speeding, electronics fail, shit just happens. This is my logic now grasping for that preserver. Where hope, heart, health fails - my brain tries to give me a failsafe to see a path through the panic. My exhausted, abused, and dying brain is standing between myself and my end. I suppose if I survive this war, I owe my brain a better life, whatever is left. 

Nothing is familiar; there's just ghosts here. My failures are thread to my skin, scar after scar, following about; mocking. Reminders of choices turned into sacrifices; the wounds I gave others - I thread them to my own. You cannot purchase the past, instead walk across the shards of the moments I shattered. Tonight, I am flirting with the idea of death, thinking like always, if I only make it to dawn, maybe tomorrow, I will gain some ground in this war. I gave myself a milestone that's a week away... my insurance exam. I will make a decision based on pass or fail. If I took that test right now - I would fail, so I am looking at a precipice. I don't have a mile marker after the insurance test, just darkness. 

Maybe?

 If I was to equate what I have been feeling these past couple of days to how I've come to understand the stages of grief (a la normal, functioning individuals), I've entered the stage of anger. My thoughts have shifted from the "what if" scenarios, to the "wtf" memoires. Maybe this is fleeting, I am not one to experience "stages" like your average person does; it's not my natural inclination - so to adopt it now would be hypocritical and misguided. 

The one barometer I do have, that seems to work relentlessly and exhaustingly is right from wrong I advocate on behalf of love, tolerance, and understanding. Maybe to my own detriment, I give others the benefit of the doubt until there is simply nothing left by which I can afford their behavior. What's lacking within this fortification of righteousness, is a soapbox upon which I protect my own heart. That character is a muted paralytic weighed down by self-loathing and worthlessness. I sometimes feel like Shirley Mason but with a crippling awareness of every personality's failures.

Do I prefer anger over pain? No, of course not. Like I told everyone, I don't blame my wife for this situation; we came to this point after a very long road and much of the past 3 years was handled poorly by both of us. Everything that came before is why we are here now. No cosmic force threw down the bolts of intervention to sever our marital bonds. There are certainly many moments where I was treated unfairly, as I am sure is equally true from her perspective... and where neither of us trusted one another to be honest about our feelings. There are several emails and letters where I was at the end of my rope (figuratively), that I never sent. I loved my wife with all my heart and I wanted to share the rest of my life with her; I always believed that time would heal our wounds and we'd once again find the path back to one another. It is fair to say, the majority of our time together, one or the other of us had left that path; when I needed my wife the most, she was gone... as I was for her emotionally for far too long. You cannot reinvent this, and circle back to what worked; the scar tissue and pain is thick and at the surface.

For better or for worse... just words, I suppose. Do we mean these things? What does it even mean? What is "worse" - how far do we journey down the wrong road before stopping to ask directions; or just splitting up to find our own correct road?

Anyway, New Year! "It's just sex"... sigh. It's not. 

Listening to: The Cult - "MTV Concert" - The Ritz, 1985