“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"