My Disability

I got the letter from Social Security today saying they are reviewing my case to determine if I'm still disabled. I am guessing they just want to cut some folks off, and they might as well start with me. I don't know if I was ever truly disabled. I just know that I'm not any better now than when they evaluated me and declared me disabled in March of 2017. I am worse, if anything.

But how I qualified before was mostly due to Sharon's need for a full-time caregiver. Now that she isn't here, they may say, "Back to work, you lazy bastard. Time to quit riding on your wife's gravy train. It's over, move on."

I should have been enjoying this little break, because soon it's going to be back to some shittier version of my life, with a crappy job and less money. Now I have time and money. Then I will have neither. But I've failed to enjoy anything, in the presence or absence of either, so what does it matter. My life sucks either way.

Or I can just sit here and dwindle my limited resources until I die, which isn't seeming to come soon enough. I'd try to hasten it, if I could do it without the pain of the debilitating deterioration process.

Fuck! Now I have one more reason to not sleep at night, worrying about whether I'll lose my income and/or my so-called freedom.

It can always be worse, and it usually is, eventually.

I deactivated Facebook...again

 

Who cares? It was just reminding me of shit that bugs me anyway. If it's not politics or some preachy little meme, it's someone's happy damn life and their wonderful kids or vacation or whatever. There's no place for me on there, or at least I don't want to be the guy that is me on there. And who else would I be? Some fake-ass version to make people like me? Sorry, everyone, I can't do that anymore. And I don't even want to be around myself, so don't feel bad, like it's personal against anyone. It's me and only me that is having a problem. And so, until someday...goodbye.

What this meme says to me...

"Yet you do not know what your life will be like tomorrow. You are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away." James 4:14

Usually, the unexpected turns out to be something unwanted. Like a new ache or symptom. Or a bad news story like "Paradise is on fire." Every day is mostly the same until it is the day when something stops working, or someone dies.  As a human being destined to die, I can't hope to avoid it.

The word hope is a bitter pill disguised as candy. Hope is a lie that you want to come true simply by believing in it. Concrete and steel -- these are the structural basis of reality, not hope. If I build a bridge out of hope I will wind up in the river.

What is, is. Hope, like dreams and "the future," speaks of things that don't exist. They may exist as a potential, a possibility in your mind and as a probability based on conditions in the present. So, if in the present moment you are doing something to alter conditions favorably, you might enjoy more favorable conditions in some future moment, which doesn't yet exist.

Or you might get run over by a truck, because you never know what tomorrow may bring.

Diane

I had changed the title to "How to Lose Friends and Alienate People -- Just Be Yourself" but then changed it back. Why? Because I figured it would be more intriguing and give my one or 2 occasional readers the enticement to read it. Conniving? Manipulative? Overthinking it? Sue me. I'm human, or at least it hasn't been disproved yet. Not sure where the burden of proof lies. Anyway, back to the original narrative.

I guess I’ll attempt to write about something that’s been bugging me since September. I will try to not get in my own way, as I usually do, by censoring or evaluating each sentence as I go. This isn’t going to make me look good anyway, so I just want to get all the words out, and maybe I’ll be better off.

So, in September I gave some money to someone’s go fund me account. Not some random stranger, but someone who I’ve known for years and thought I had a pretty decent online rapport with. It was Diane, who is my friend on Facebook, and who I knew 30 years ago from “the cult.” I've always enjoyed her posts and pictures and we’d comment on each other’s stuff, etc. She seems like one of the more genuine types, as in she’s gonna tell ya what she thinks and be honest about it.

Anyway, her daughter posted that her mom was in need of money for some medical bills and she started this go fund me thing. I felt moved, in my grinchy little heart to give, so I attempted to do so anonymously. Apparently, it doesn’t work that way, and I got put on a list of people whom she thanked in a group tagging type of post. I wasn’t looking for any recognition, or so I thought at the time. But anyway, she thanked everyone, and that was that.

I wondered what it was that she may have been dealing with and wanted to offer some kind of words of encouragement, so I PM'd her. Anyway, here’s the message:

Hi, Diane. I hope you are doing ok. I know I haven’t been very Facebook-y lately, but I saw your daughter’s post and guessed you must be going through something serious. I just wanted you to know and feel that you have friends that care about you. Your photos and funny observations are part of your magnetic personality which, I’m sure you must know, have given you quite a fan base. But it is your openness and genuineness that have always made it very easy to be your friend. Don’t ever lose that unique “Dianeness” that makes everyone that knows you love you. And please be ok! Okay?

OK, she never replied. And I guess what I’m ruminating about is that I went ahead and creeped her out by my over-the-top, socially inept message. I know she saw the message, according to Facebook’s little tattle-tale “seen” icon. Perhaps I was not as unselfish in my giving as I had hoped to be. I guess I thought it would strengthen our friendship, or at least not ruin it by making it uncomfortable or weird.

Now, I know it could be all in my mind, but I haven’t been speaking to anyone on Facebook lately and this is partly why. I go out of my way to insert myself into people’s lives, even in the most innocent of ways, and I come off creepy. I think of myself as “that guy” and “bad dog” for even approaching people without prior approval. I wasn’t trying to date her or anything of that nature. But I must have projected lonesome loser-ness all over the place.

That’s what it’s like in my head. I don’t make friends easily but I can lose them without any effort (or despite my best efforts). It’s difficult to live without any interaction with people, but I’m finding it more and more to be my default. It’s easier than second-guessing everything you say and certainly less painful than getting rejected or snubbed or whatever it is I am perceiving is being done to me.

So now, I’m hiding out under the deck. That’s what my two socially stunted rescue dogs do. Despite years of reconditioning, they are scarred by some traumatic event which left them extremely distrustful of humans. If you so much as raise an eyebrow at them the will head for the shelter of the trusty back patio, hiding under it until coaxed out with extreme assurances of their being “good boys.”  Even dog treats have no effect on this behavior. Someone evidently fucked that up for them, too, so they see treats as a prelude to more abuse.

I know it’s messed up, but I can relate. There. I’ve addressed the creep in the room.  It’s me.

For what it's worth, I've thought about trying to fix it, maybe one of two ways. (1) Start interacting again and let it go. Pretend I never got all butt-hurt and just get over myself, already. That would be best, but unlikely. I'm just not able. (2) Ask Diane directly. I can't even begin to compose anything that is concise enough or wouldn't convey the overly mental brain-fuckery in my head. I'm sure if it was an innocent oversight on her part the first time, I would creep her out by my way inappropriate reaction.

Too much time has gone by, and I've invested way too much emotion in this. I get it. Nobody is really thinking of me all that much. Other than myself, of course. And I hate myself for so many things, this is just one of them.

A price for everything in this world

I so want to wake up dreaming. In a world with no consequences. Where a pound of flesh isn't required for every moment of pleasure. Anything I do in this life seems to have its downside. I'm the official pointer-outer of downsides. I'd like to try a world of absolute upsides, but I just can't imagine it.

The psychic mentioned Sharon being able to do whatever she wants, whenever. Like I Dream of Jeannie or Bewitched. Just blink and you are on a beach. Blink again and you are in the 14th century on a pirate ship. Wriggle your nose and dinner is served. Wriggle it again and, voila! Dishes cleaned and put away. Instantaneous results just from conceiving of something.

The Tibetan Book of the Dead mentions a time like this in the bardo state, between death and reincarnation and outside of liberation. There is a type of no man's land where one's mind is all-powerful and can perform all sorts of miraculous feats. But one is cautioned to not be concerned with such things and to focus instead on merging with the oneness of the luminosity, which is the unseen, eternal everything which is our true nature. Umm, no, thanks. I just got here, and I find out I can do miracles? I'm gonna stick around and have some fun.

But I'm sure there would be consequences in that realm, too. So, listen to the Bodhisattva and nose to the grindstone, everyone. Say your prayers, meditate and focus, and no fun for you! Don't even wish for a nice life in a land of plenty, it will only screw up your dharma. Be austere and think of nothing, desire nothing, work the steps, follow the path and, maybe---maybe, someday you will shed all of your wicked karma and be free. Free to be the everything that is nothing, formless and forever. Or something to that effect.

I'm not ruling any of that out, just as I'm keeping Jesus in my back pocket for a spare, in case that turns out to be the way to go. Meanwhile if it's all earthworms and rot, I don't have too much invested in either path. Just keeping the roadmaps in my glove box.

Not so entertaining, is it?

Watching someone's descent into mental illness probably shouldn't be fun. One should probably be made to feel a bit slimy themselves just for peeping in here.

This blog was never meant to be read by anyone. It was made to be a toxic space, not unlike those "safe" spaces people are always talking about. Only, this was made to be a wretched and crap-filled space, used only for dumping raw, terrible emotions, unfit for others to view.

My wife found it and was so impressed by the purity of my evil core that she promptly started her own blog, competing with me for just how deeply into the harsh world of negativity one could lower oneself. Her rantings were mostly directed at me and my shortcomings as a caregiver, husband and human being in general.

Around that time I began using this blog to beam positive energy towards her. I stopped with all descriptions of my angst (mostly) and tried to generate "love and light" or some such happy fiction. I would do this usually after a fight, when I was banished to the little room downstairs, which I now inhabit full time. From my time-out box, I would send out a desperate coded message to the universe saying "I give up. Here, is this what you want? Love and light, it is, then."

I can't say that it ever fixed anything permanently. It was kind of a stop-gap measure, like duct taping a leaking pipe. When I look back at all those "Love and Light" posts now, I have no real record of what we were fighting about or how bad it even was. I just remember that it must have been awful or I wouldn't have gone to the trouble of logging in and posting the request.

Anyway, in a roundabout way,  I'm saying that this portal into my private hell is going to be made private again. I guess, not wanting to disgust my Facebook friends, I retreated to this location to bleed out my foul innards. I'm only aware that my Mom and Lori ever decided to follow the now deleted link which led them to look at this.

I long for attention, but I guess I don't respond appropriately. I am not good at being truly humble. I'd rather choke on my own bitterness than ask for assistance. I alternately send up flares and hide out in a cave avoiding humanity. My flares are running out now and I think I'll be just hiding out for the duration.

I'm making this public again for a while, as a kind of last, weak gesture, until I get into another, even worse, frame of mind. Then I will disable it entirely and I'll be just another cancelled reality show. Sorry I wasn't more entertaining. Perhaps if there had been a few more comments in the box below I could have found a way to make the program more to your liking. But that would run contrary to the whole theme of speaking into a void. The void never answers back.

Screen saver settings

I was sitting on the chair, watching Wagon Train and practicing my version of On and On, and I glanced at my computer monitor. The screen saver normally plays a slideshow of pictures from my photos, which are numerous, but do not include the standard Windows stock photos or any other generic stuff. As I'm watching the slideshow, I notice that these are not my photos at all. It appears they are somebody's collection of professionally acquired stuff, like you might see on the Windows 10 lock screen. I got up off the chair and checked my settings, and they haven't changed.

So where did these pictures come from? Facebook, NSA, Windows and Google need to stop with all the spying and leave me alone. All those pictures were happy, motivational type pictures, the kind you expect a caption under.

Caption this!

In case anyone was wondering

I didn't do anything for Thanksgiving.

I stayed home alone and talked to no one. I got one phone call but didn't answer it. It was Martin, calling to say he hoped I was having a nice thanksgiving. He heard about my evacuees and assumed they'd still be here. I almost picked up the phone, but he hung up just before I did. It's for the best. He got to wish me a happy Thanksgiving minus the depressing aspect of actually having to talk to me.

It has rained the last 3 days. Good for the fire and the air quality. Bad for my going for a walk. I missed 14 days of walks due to the fire and weather. I haven't made up for them with any new activities, so I'd say I'm losing ground, if we're keeping score.

Days go by without much to show or much to look forward to. Sleep is my favorite, but it takes its toll. My body sometimes feels worse for all the bedrest. Sitting all day is not comfortable either. I've worn out my bony ass, even on my comfy recliner, to where I dread sitting on it.

If life is so precious a gift, why does it feel so empty and tedious? I'm only thankful for things because I'm aware of their impermanence. Grateful for things the way they are because I'm aware of how much worse they could be. Is that any way to appreciate life? At the barrel of a gun? Because you are forced to acknowledge death? For all you new age "we're co-creators" out there -- I didn't sign off on this one. I'm sending these plans back for revision. This world, reality, existence sucks!

No one is gonna miss me much. Not really. The person they thought they knew died already. This is his bitter shell continuing to hang on. Dead fruit on a dead limb of a dead tree waiting for a wind to come and knock me down. It wouldn't take much, the roots are dead, too.

On and On -- By Stephen Bishop

It's on my Itunes, right after the recording of my session with Margie Lantos, the psychic.

I loved that song back in the '70s when it was on top 40 radio. It is a melancholy song with a slightly uptempo calypso or some kind of island feel. I could relate at the time, I thought, having had many cases of unrequited puppy love in my pre-teens.

This time around, I remember it because I had it stuck in my head a couple years ago, so Sharon downloaded it for me. I think she kinda liked it, too, despite not being a fan of '70s era music.  After listening to my session with the psychic, I thought I'd  try learning it on the guitar. I went to E-chords, got the lyrics and chords and challenged myself to learn to play the whole thing. Sharon always got mad at me for not learning a whole song, ever.

Although it has some difficult chord changes, I feel I have the gist of it now, on day two. Of course, after going on Youtube, I saw 4 or 5 different versions, played differently, all more polished--but, whatever.

I hope you can hear me now, Boopie. I did  it for you. The part about smiling when you feel like crying always makes me think of you.

On and On

Down in Jamaica, they got lots of pretty women
Steal your money then they break your heart
Lonesome Sue, she's in love with old Sam
Take him from the fire into the frying pan

On and on
She just keeps on trying
And she smiles
When she feels like crying
On and on, on and on, on and on

Poor ol' Jimmy sits alone in the moonlight
He saw his woman kiss another man
So he takes a ladder, steals the stars from the sky
Puts on Sinatra and starts to cry

On and on
He just keeps on trying
And he smiles
When he feels like crying
On and on, on and on, on and on

When the first time is the last time
It can make you feel so bad
But if you know it, show it
Hold on tight, don't let her say, "Goodnight"

I got the sun on my shoulders and my toes in the sand
My woman's left me for some other man
But I don't care, I'll just dream and stay tan
Toss up my heart to see where it lands

 

On and on

I'll just keep on trying

And I smile when I feel like dying

On and on, on and on, on and on...

The smoke cleared out today...and so did my evacuees

Now, back to my life of self-absorbed isolation and regrettably anti-social behavior.

I have mixed feelings about the hosting of the guy with his mom and animals. I would like to say that I am just bubbling up with joy and an overwhelming desire to be a selfless helper, but I'm not. I'm more grimacing than gracious. And, I guess, petty and materialistic, too. Oh, and judgemental. While we're at it, throw in hypocritical just for safe measure. Of course, I was going to help this guy and his 83 year old mom avoid being made homeless by fire evacuation. And I would do it again. And probably be just as annoyed, too, unfortunately. I'm such a small person, really, on the inside.

The guy drove me nuts. He is extremely talkative and ever so ready to share his abundant knowledge. Mostly, he is obsessed with herbal medicine, functional medicine, German new medicine and some kind of radionics type mumbo jumbo which basically amounts to magic. He also asked me to watch a DVD on Dianetics, which I eventually agreed to so he'd stop talking about it (and because I am that bored). I am too tired now to even think of all the reasons why his obsessions annoyed me to death. Maybe if he didn't talk about them at such great length or steer every conversation in that direction...

I was polite, if unenthusiastic. But the thing that irked me more was his clumsiness and lack of awareness of what he was doing.

The list of things that got my goat:

He is one of those people who overshares in a loud voice and his stories could use a little trimming. I know, I'm one to talk, Mr. Long-winded himself.

He showed up with more animals than he originally spoke about on the phone. I was able to  accommodate them, but I would have liked to have known there was going to be a dog that had to be kept in the house. I have 2 indoor cats.

He crashed into my bookshelf on day one. I heard something crack, but I didn't see any damage. Moving on.

He would eat oranges and bananas and leave the peels in areas that would attract flies and in general stink up the place. I have a fly problem now.

He fed his cats some godawful wet food which made them poop and throw up on the carpet and bed. This happened while they were out on a shopping trip, so I was stuck cleaning it up.

He stunk up the house by burning broccoli in a pan of boiling water because it ran out of water while he wasn't paying attention.

He left his 83 year old mother here with me alone while he went out to watch Harry Potter and stayed out all day without giving me any ETA or instructions about her level of care. I had seen her use crutches, a wheelchair and require assistance while walking. Other times, I guess, she was able to walk on her own. I felt like he had just bailed on her to do his thing and left me responsible for her safety, but I had no clue about what she might or might not require.

And he left the crock pot on Hi while he was gone all day to the movies. The water was boiling out of the side after an hour, luckily I noticed and turned it down. Oh, and he broke the knob off the crock pot.

He also broke the on/off switch on the subwoofer in the bedroom, which is a big ticket item that we had shipped here at quite some expense. He wasn't paying attention when he was unloading his stuff into the closet.

His mother requires a certain amount of care and it is not my place to be the judge. I just felt he was not quite managing his marbles in doing the caregiving. She didn't shower for a week although he claims she is perfectly able to do so without him. I encouraged him to let her use our disabled shower, which she finally did.

He told me he flipped his mom's wheelchair on my front lawn by going down the steep part of the yard instead of going the long way. She flew out of the wheelchair and into the gravel driveway. I know accidents happen, but with the elderly you gotta be more careful, man.


I can't fault him for everything, though:

He did find a local guy who might be able to repair my speaker. We loaded it up and took it there before he left.

He did clean the room up to at least the level of cleanliness that existed before they brought all the animals into the house.

He did profusely thank me and apologize for any inconveniences.

He did listen patiently while I chewed him out for leaving his mom all day and for his other "crimes" of clumsiness and sloth. I am not the easiest person to endure a lecture from, so that was no small feat.


I guess it felt more cramped because the Camp Fire smoke kept me indoors for most of the 10 days. It didn't stop the two of them from going out to eat almost every day. They would drive 25 miles to town and back. They'd spend 3 hours or more in a restaurant because his mom has no teeth and it takes her that long to chew. If she needs to use the restroom, that's another 45 mins. At home, she would wake him up several times at night and require his assistance using the toilet.

I feel for the guy. He is in my situation 8 years ago, when Sharon was first getting really disabled.  He is at the beginning of the journey and I'm wondering how he will manage if he doesn't get some outside help. He us doing a lot of self-sacrifice to keep his mother out of an institution. She tells him she wishes to die at home. Sound familiar?

They slipped out while I was screwing around in the barn starting the quad and motorcycle engines. They left a note and he called me later. Now they are just a lingering memory. The room needs a good airing out from having 4 animals and 2 humans living in there for a week with the windows closed. Once it rains I can open up all the windows for the first time in 11 days.

Not sure if there's a moral or even a point to all this. It was an experience. Now it's over.

Another fire dream

I dreamed of fire again. This time I was in Paradise, so I know it can’t be precognitive. Most likely, post traumatic, if anything. I notice that the process of writing dreams down can contaminate their purity. As I attempt to weave the disparate threads together into a cohesive story line I find myself slapping together a picture which is impressionistic, at best. The editor/analyzer can describe things in such a way as to interpret or solidify the events into his own post- dream perspective. It's hard to be objective, is all I'm saying. That goes for pretty much all writing. 

Side note: Did you know that Facebook posts which have been edited can be viewed in all their prior versions? Once you push "enter" that's it. You can't take it back. Not really. Not so with this blog. I can say something and then magically, next week or in a month, I didn't say what you remember that I said. Is it he Mandela Effect or is it just me cleaning up my sentence structure? You'll never know. Over time I will probably forget which version is the truth and will have to settle for whatever is currently on the page at any given time. 

Back to the fire dream.

I was there in the early stages of the fire and becoming aware of the intensity and magnitude of the fire. I seemingly experienced several different versions of the moment of creeping awareness that this was a serious event.

In one I was at a location looking east and saw the fire on the top of a ridgeline headed down toward the town. Although it was far enough away, perhaps a whole canyon over, I could see that it was coming fast. I made my way down the Skyway to another location.

At this location, I was again unaware of any fire and was preoccupied with the social scene in some apartment building. There were college co-eds, a barbecue and some naked guy walking around. You were there, but in a younger form. I was, perhaps, younger, too. We weren’t even dating yet, it was still only in the possibility stage.

You left the party and told me you might be back. I amused myself with the co-eds, thinking of possible scenarios, such as young men think. Somehow, you must have been my ride because, as my schemes began to unravel, I was finding myself without a car and in need of a way down to Chico.

That’s when the fire entered the picture. It was on the west side this time, on a hill very close to the apartment building. I could see it was an immediate threat, and I began to panic. I ran from one apartment building to another, hoping to find a ride. I finally gave up and began running down the street.

I could hear the fire roaring and actually felt the heat. I joined up with other people on foot and we entered a building and were looking around for a minute. I suggested commandeering a bicycle and the suggestion was reprimanded by a group leader. Not having a plan, the group split up, everyone dispersing on foot. I started running down the Skyway, then back up. Seemingly all exits were engulfed in flames.

I was convinced that I was going to die but somehow I didn’t. Through the ineffable power of dream editing, I must have fast forwarded through some logistical hurdles.  I found myself zipping along on a moped, safely outside the fire, on a desolate stretch of Butte County road. I was safe for the time, but the feeling that I must be vigilant and keep moving remained.

A few questions, please, on the transmigration of souls aka "reincarnation"

What happens to our “less than perfect” characters as we journey from one lifetime to the next, if such a thing exists?

If our soul survives death, what does it look like?

Suppose someone recalls a person, or the persona, or mask that the soul inhabited—does that identity survive somewhere intact? Or is it thrown away, like single use plastic?

Someone please tell me, then, if we find we are missing someone, who, or what, are we missing? Was that ever truly them? Can they ever exist again, or do they exist in that version somewhere? Or are they gone forever?

In this world, all that’s left of our old home in Paradise, where we spent ten years, is a perimeter foundation and the cement front steps. I have so many pictures of it, taken while we lived there. Now the only place it exists is in those memories.

Is there a salvation army for the people we remember? Can we find them somewhere and pull them off a shelf and treasure them like they were never gone?

If we go to join them, which one of the many masks will they be wearing?

Who am I, really? Is there a better version of me waiting on some other side, longing for this act to be over? That would make two of us.

Do I exist at all? Sure feels like it. But will “I” exist after I’m dead and my body is ashes or compost? Will I need a suitcase, in which to carry all the previous disguises that my soul has masked itself in? Or am I going to be just some amorphous ball of energy roaming around with no recognizable physical appearance?

I’m hating my body because of its ailments, its lack of resilience and durability. But what if it’s all I’ve got? Will I ever again be the best version of this version of myself?

Please submit the answers in a timely fashion, because I’m losing hope, faith and patience. I’m hoping love exists, because this version of me isn’t upgraded with that feature. 

I'm hoping the next version of me isn't so obsessed with comma usage. 

149 Sutter Rd

Paradise, CA 95969.


I called it home for over 10 years.

                                                                                                Gone.

Who uses the term "optics?"

Guilty people who are concerned about their public image, that's who.

When someone says they are concerned about their optics they are really saying, "I need to spin this so I don't come off looking like a total A-hole."  I know I am doing something which will be perceived as bad (because, well, it is bad) but I just need to fix the optics so you ignorant people, who don't know what's really going on, will still think well of me. If you were on the team, knew the backstory and were an insider like me, you'd know what shady shit is really going down. But for you everyday folks, who might happen to witness my unscrupulous acts, I have to manage your perception to make what you see acceptable. I know what I'm doing is righteous and pure, says the sociopath, but the optics, well, maybe they need a little tweaking.

Optics. Fancy.

I guess it all depends on how you look at things

I have a windup clock on a bookcase in the living room. I never run it because it takes too much to keep it wound and the chimes frequently malfunction when you wind them up. As in they will chime hundreds of times in a row and then be done for the month. I used to keep it set on 4:20 permanently. My token nod to the California equivalent of "it's 5 o'clock somewhere." Since Sharon's death, I reset it to 7:44. That's the exact time she stopped breathing and it's listed on her death certificate as time of death. It has stayed on that exact time ever since.

Until the other day. I looked up at the time and it now says 6:23. For it to have traveled that far forward it would have had to start up and run for more than 10 hours. It takes quite a deliberate push to get that pendulum swinging enough to make the clock run.

The possibility exists that my house guest activated it by bumping into the bookshelf when wheeling his mother in the door. I saw him bump the shelf, but did not see the pendulum swinging. He even remarked about, "What a nice clock," etc. Or he could have decided to start the clock later, since he admired it. But I asked him and he said no. I don't disbelieve him, he tends to be very respectful of other people's things, and honest to a fault.

So what kind of spookery am I dealing with? I have no good explanation, so the shelf bumping and my failing to notice the clock running as a result is my logical default. The timing would fit. But the degree of difficulty of starting the clock, even intentionally, makes it less of a clear choice.

So, do I now attach significance to the time 6:23? Is it a prophetic warning of my own time of death? Or is it just physics? Nuts and bolts. Action and reaction. Spring tension and gears. Nothing to see here, move on.

The two hemispheres of my brain are not in agreement. So they will meet in the middle. In the crack that divides them, the area called "I don't know." It seems like a lot of my previously held beliefs have migrated to this area from both the left and right sides.

I was out walking a few months ago and stumbled upon a pristine cassette tape lying in the roadway. It should have been melted or dirty at least, being out of its case. But I took it home and played it and it was completely fine. The tape was Golden Earring. On one side is their hit song "Radar Love" and the other side "Vanilla Queen" and "Are you receiving me?" I could look at this as a synchronicity, too, I suppose. A song about some kind of distant, psychic connection between lovers and an ode to a powerful woman that haunts a man even in his dreams. Am I receiving her message yet?

Another thing which I dismissed, but perhaps shouldn't, was a symbol I found painted on the asphalt at the end of my walking route. I had spoken to a psychic only days before and she described to me that Sharon was trying to show her a symbol which looked like "a sideways 8, but different, like angel wings." She said this represented eternal love. The picture below shows a symbol, like the infinity sign, only slightly tweaked to look like two connected hearts. Was this a true spiritual postcard?  Or was it the work of enlightened vandals, doing the universe's tagging, like those crop circles some people say they feel compelled to create? It had probably been there for quite some time, and it existed just long enough for me to see it, because a few weeks later they repaved the road.

 

I can easily write off Ipod glitches or randomly timed song choices, those things happen to everyone.  But I did have one instance where I was really bummed out and wishing I could just get a message from Sharon (nothing surprising there, pick a day, any day). I was out on my walk and talking out loud, begging for some kind of  sign or word from her. Suddenly, a song that Sharon and I recorded together came blasting into my earphones. It starts with her voice speaking in a not so subtle, rather commanding tone, some instructions of a particularly (ahem) explicit nature. I was beyond startled. I was elated, shocked and sentimentally misty at the same time.

I suppose I could see a vision in every teacup if I let my mind drift far enough in the right direction. But I still want to be convinced beyond the possibility of scientific explanation. Please, universe, Sharon's essence, spirit -- anyone! Disregard the afterlife protocols and demonstrate to my poor human senses something that will forever make me a believer.

In the meantime, dreams are nice, too.

Another reply to Lori (and anyone else who might be reading this)

I’ll try to be concise, as I know how tiresome I can be. I also know how hard it is for me to actually be concise, but I’ll at least acknowledge that I should attempt to do so.

I’m not well -- physically, emotionally, spiritually or socially. I just don’t have it in me to engage in anything or feel like I am of any value to anyone. I’m isolating myself as much as possible so as not to spread my diseased mental state.

I don’t want the obligatory pity chit chat, where I have to feign socially appropriate responses and act like I believe that the people who are inquiring about my well being actually care. I mean, sure, they probably do to some extent, like when one follows a news story with casual interest.

In my self-centered world, I suppose I want to feel like I am worth the effort to save. So I put myself on an island and kick the rowboat out to sea. And I wait for someone to notice I’m missing and send out a search party. I really am messed up, but I want to feel like I matter enough for someone to grab a hold of me and pull me out of my mess. To kindly, and with compassion, do whatever it takes to get through to me and make me feel loved.

In short, I’m delusional. I’m lazy and want someone else to do for me what I can’t or won’t do for myself. Convince me that I am somehow special or worthwhile or something worth going all in for.

Because I rarely make these efforts with others, and when I do it usually backfires and I come off all “creepy,” I know I shouldn’t expect it of others. I’ve spent a lifetime not cultivating close friendships or relationships, so this is what I get. I am going to die alone, with my cats and dogs – and that’s only because they didn’t have a choice in who adopted them.

So, I failed at being concise. I am trying to be real, and unfortunately, right now, that is ugly. I know it is, and that’s why I’m making myself into a pariah. I can’t face the world in my condition. I know why Sharon isolated herself so much from family and friends. No one wants to be thought of in such a vulnerable, crippled state. My disease is different, and I certainly don’t want to compare what I’m going through to what she did.

However, getting one’s head out of one’s ass isn’t as easy some make it out to be.

All that emotional crap notwithstanding here are a few fun facts:

The town of Paradise, which I called home for 10 years has been 95 percent burned to the ground. This most likely includes my father in law’s house and the house Sharon and I spent our first 10 years together in. If you follow the news you probably know the death toll is rising daily. It is currently at 48. 52,000 people are displaced. 200 are missing.

I am hosting a friend of Sharon’s family along with his 83 year old mother, 3 dogs and 3 cats. They are evacuated from an area that didn’t burn, but was highly threatened by the spread of the wind driven fire. It’s been 4 days and no word yet on when they can return home. I got a phone call saying they needed a place to stay and I didn’t say “no.” I may be a pariah, but I’m not going to turn away someone’s 83 year old mother. 

 

They are very polite and respectful of my privacy. The situation is less than ideal for their 3 cats and little pug dog which have to stay in their bedroom so as not to terrify my cats. The fire isn’t likely to reach their house, so it is just a temporary arrangement.

The smoke from the fire is likely to linger far longer and is preventing me from going outside much, hence, my daily walks are suspended for the time being.

That’s about it. Thanks for asking. I get to feeling pretty low, and I guess at least the fact that someone asks about me is better than not asking. Sorry I’m so prickly. I can be very difficult, and I’m not even sure, myself, if I’m really worth the effort.

And I’ve taken up the use of way too many commas, that’s apparent.

Never mind. Forget it. You wouldn't understand anyway.

It takes too much energy to reach out for the help I suppose I “need.” The help that won’t help, and against which I will resist, fighting tooth and nail. To listen to the reasonings of people who are not me, tell me things from their own perspectives about why I should or shouldn’t think a certain way or feel a certain way. I know that nobody knows me, truly. Or if they do, possibly that is why I feel so abandoned. Because they realize what they are dealing with and have written me off. I could go around fishing for sympathy or an ear to bend, but why? I would just tire out the listener. And I’m tired, too. Too tired to say “help me.” I suppose I’m a little bitter, too. I would have hoped for the universe or even some earthly savior to plead for me and save me from my own wicked, destructive self. 

I suppose I'm like an old paint can that has had most of its contents used up and is sitting around waiting for someone to open me up and stir up the contents. Those paint cans can be pretty tough to pry open. It takes a lot of patience and persistence to even begin to pry the crusted lid from the can. If the can is too empty most would tend to just toss it. Maybe there is some useful paint left in the can, maybe not. Too much work to find out. That's me. I suppose there are many other, more deserving, paint cans and I am just getting payback for my own lack of empathy over the years. I’m even too tired to carry on this tirade against myself. It’s pointless.

If 

Not gonna sugar coat it

 

 

And forget about silver linings. I just wish I could close my eyes and wake up in a different type of reality. Why not? A little over 24 hours ago there was this reality where the whole town of Paradise wasn't destroyed, and then, in a few hours, it all changed. For the worse. 

I have a hard time understanding who to pray to or why. This sucks. I am not going to "accept" this or be at peace with the turn of events. This year has been so unbelievably fucked. Count fucking blessings my ass! Why? So later, when they are gone, you can tally your losses? Better to have loved and lost? Better to have experienced fleeting joy and lose it than never to have experienced anything?

I'm beginning to see why people make up such nice stories in their religions about eternity and everlasting this or that. It is just too difficult to face all these things that you love being gone. What's the point?  I guess if lying to yourself makes you happy, sure. We all want to escape reality in one way or another. And as for "embracing the messiness" of your human experience ala Jeff Foster or Byron Katie or any of those other "loving what is" fools -- embrace this! How about a red hot poker up your ass? Holocausts, babies on pitchforks and any other version of human misery you can think of. I don't get it. Pray to whom? A sadist? Myself? Nothing?

I've been more angry with God than this. This is just a boring rehash of my argument with reality. I'm really just looking for someone to blame, as if that would make anything better.

It's smoky outside. The wind shifted and now everything is in an overcast orange haze. Soon the air will be unfit to breathe. Whatever. I'm getting tired of doing that, anyway. You can get your news from the TV. I'm not an objective reporter. This channel is reserved for my bitching about stuff. 

Fire

 

I dreamed of fire last night. Not surprising, there was a wind and extreme fire weather alert for the area. PG&E is planning to cut power in the event of high wind events. This morning I see people posting about a fire in Paradise and Feather River Canyon. I look up the fire on the Cal Fire website and find it is already at 1000 acres with evacuations for the town of Paradise. I called Bob and he said he was about to leave. He is so slow about doing these things, I hope he got out. The routes out of town have all been engulfed with fire on both sides of the roadway. Many places I remember in Paradise are reportedly burning.

There is some light haze in my area, but nothing like the thick blanket covering Chico and Paradise. I expect the power to be cut later on today in advance of the predicted heavy winds. I'm listening to the scanner, the TV news and looking on Facebook for any reports or pictures of the situation. It looks like hell. I've been through it last year, and everyone in my area gets super paranoid and on edge every time there is even a hint of smoke or a breeze of more than 10 mph. We need rain. I can do nothing but sit and hope that nothing starts up in my area, resources are all being dispatched to Paradise. Fire is now 8,000 acres and no containment.

later
I spoke with Bob this evening. He made it out and is staying with Harold in Red Bluff, but he most likely won't have a home to go back to. The fire jumped to 18,000 acres in a couple of hours. Paradise is more densely populated than Loma Rica. The hospital and a school are destroyed and probably over 1000 homes. Many people are trapped, as the fire quickly cut off escape routes. It will be a while before a good accounting is done.

The smoke is going south west, so I am still not experiencing the smothering cloud. When I went out for my walk the wind was picking up, probably 15 mph, with gusts. I turned on the sprinklers, as has everyone in my neighborhood.  This massive human drama has eclipsed my own personal story. I still have plenty to feel sad about, watching my old home town and many places I have memories of go up in flames. My old house and neighborhood was right in the fire's path.

And sure, I am thinking about how Sharon would feel about her home and everything she grew up with getting destroyed. I'm remembering last year's fire, how we survived it, and I'm wishing she was here with me as this new tragedy unfolds. She was a newshound, and I know we'd be glued to the TV set and hanging on every update.

I used to look forward to apocalyptic events like this as a way to lessen my own fear of personal doom. Kinda the old "if I'm going, you're going with me" type of thing. Since the fire last year I stopped looking at it that way. I no longer find any solace in the giant boat of doom scenario. I'm wishing for the impossible, a no-doom scenario, where everybody is OK.

Power just flickered. Probably going to lose it soon in advance of the projected windstorm. I have plenty of candles and supplies for a power outage. It's just another fire that I am dreading as I listen to the wind chimes. That's it for now, my one reader. Goodnight.

I voted and I rode the motorcycle for the first time since the accident

         

                                          And neither one killed me.

Is there anybody out there?

 Somebody, please leave a comment.

Managing my addictions

Trying to lessen the hold of depression, I am finding myself looking back at my old addictions. Maybe giving them a second look. I didn't drink (coffee and alcohol) and smoke weed for no reason. I did it because it made me feel good. Sure, I pushed the button so many times that it wore out and eventually became the source of more problems and less feeling good was the outcome.

This grieving process has become it's own addiction, using sadness as a cure for emptiness. In an effort to loosen its grip, I have turned to all 3 of my old friends, albeit in a less compulsive, more deliberate manner. I have given in to a habit of 1 alcohol beverage once a week. Something I can look forward to on a Friday or Saturday evening. I do the same thing with coffee, but that's in the morning. The weed I will include with either or both of these other indulgences.

I'm not trying to justify or rationalize my behavior. Clearly, there is no one I'm trying to impress. I'm just documenting my feelings and what I'm doing about them.

The weed and coffee combo in the morning has the effect of speeding up my metabolism and rewiring my brain to be interested in doing things. Lots of things, from playing guitar to taking on the next project. (I need a bathroom shelf. Custom sized, wood stained to match existing fixtures.) I don't want to rely on these drugs, as I know where that leads me. So far, I've kept it to just the one event per week. One hit of weed, one cup of coffee. One beer or shot, one hit of weed. That makes 2 hits of weed per week, I can still do math.

I figure it is just as bad for me as anything else, but in tiny amounts, it's not going to be the cause of immediate health problems. The same goes for peanut butter. If I have maybe a tablespoon in a day, fine. If I pig out to the point of saturation, maybe a half a cup or so, I will experience skin problems. The point is, completely denying myself of these things which give me a modest amount of pleasure, is doing nothing for my overall well-being. Sitting on my ass all day, watching TV or even doing this stupid blog, has an equally deleterious effect on my health. I need a balance.

Activity, in the form of exercise and recreation, as well as tasks like gardening or home maintenance, are necessary for me not to deteriorate rapidly. Simple routines may keep me from completely wallowing in lethargy, but by themselves, day in day out, become drudgery. The need is for me to have something to look forward to. Checking the mail or folding laundry can't be the high point of my day.

I am finding that while I go out for a walk, despite my seeking routes that I hope will be less trafficked, I am talking to people occasionally. It's not much, but now at least I am reasonably certain that I'm not a ghost. I still feel like one, though, most days.

Nothing is going to fix this for me, not drugs, not spirituality, music, people, food, drink or any other distraction. Nothing is going to get to the core of what's wrong. What's wrong with me can't be fixed. It's called being human. And going through shit. And I'm still doing that. So, in my own way, alone, I'm managing. Thanks for asking.

I quit the group...and tore down a tv antenna

And that's about all I can say I did yesterday, beyond the minimum requirements of eating, walking and exercise. I did research lethal doses of hydrocodone, but was unconvinced that it would be a painless way to go. All of the leftover prescriptions I have would certainly be enough to kill me, but possibly with more pain and suffering due to the huge amounts of acetaminophen mixed in with the opioid. I don't want to die of liver malfunction, I just want to go to sleep.

The tv antenna had been hanging upside down from a light pole in my yard for over a year. Since the fire. It was literally hanging by a thread, or wire, as the case may be. But enough was enough. I pulled on the wire and down it came. One rusted bolt had snapped and the other pulled out easily from the soft wood. It is so much less unsightly to look up and not see the corpse of antenna that served only as a monument to that destructive windstorm. It was a minimum work, maximum reward, kind of task.

Quitting the group was harder. My browser or Facebook or some combination of things wouldn't let the "leave group" button work. Maybe it was my pending post. After trying all sorts of other things, I deleted it (again) and finally I was free. I am petty and reported the group as spam or a scam. Why? Besides being petty, I feel that it was at the least disingenuous to name a group "You are not alone" and then leave people hanging for days while waiting for some approval process. Do you know what those days are to a lonely person? For fucking ever, that's what. A person, who really doesn't want to reach out, finally does and is met by a week long wall of silence. Well, fine, I don't want to be in a group that doesn't want me in it, anyway.

Oh, and I also spent some time researching commas. The kind of questions that come up on what rules are hard and fast and which ones can cheerfully be ignored. I'm already aware of my incomplete sentences and am quite ok with that. I'm sure my prose has plenty of other issues, too, I don't care. I invoke poetic license. Frequently. I'm licentious that way. But the use of commas was bugging me. I'm still on the fence about some of the places I use them, but I don't think it is going to change how I use them. I will just be more aware of which rules I am breaking.

Now I need to get up and walk the dogs. They need it and so do I. All this sitting around during the day makes my butt hurt. And the dogs have got mailboxes to examine and pee on.

I saw you last night

I saw you last night in my dream. You were riding next to me in a car. There was no doubt it was you, at least it looked like you. Right down to your stubbly chin hair. I was so happy to have you there, but I was unable to restrain the curiosity to ask you, “Do you remember being dead? What’s it like? I mean, you aren’t dead now. It’s like it never happened. And yet I remember it did happen. You’re here really here with me. And I know you couldn’t have reincarnated. Am I imagining you? How does it work? Can you tell me?” 

I was trying to make sense of  it in my dream, you know, how this could be. I remembered another dream (while I was still dreaming) in which I was present for the exact moment where reality shifted. The dream was the one where a comet was heading for earth, and I was watching it bearing down, getting closer and closer. At the moment of impact instead of a crashing, destructive mess, it was like the channel just switched, and I was staring at a New York City skyline. That dream.

Anyway, as I was contemplating the idea that this could be my new reality, with you back again, you began to answer my question. “Yes. You just…” And that was it. You were cut off in mid-sentence and I never knew whether you were saying “Yes, I remember being dead” or “Yes, you are imagining me. That’s how it works,” or what other secrets you were about to reveal.

Something shifted, and I was alone in the car. I was on a mission, going down the wrong way of a damaged, accident-strewn freeway with panicked people heading in the opposite direction. I was looking for a leak or a place in a culvert where the water was flowing the wrong direction. I had to dig out some obstructions to restore it to the right direction. It was flooded and backed up. I wasn’t really sure which direction was the right direction, but my digging would temporarily reverse it, so I felt it was helping, even though it would switch back as soon as I stopped digging.

Previously, I had been fishing in a lake with enormous tidal swings and had gotten wet up to my hips while casting out. Some kids were there and thought it was funny. I should have been standing on higher ground. I thought it was funny, too. Why wasn’t I? It was right there, just a few feet away, so I moved to a safer spot.  I checked my camera, and it was still dry, so I took it out to take some pictures. There were some impressive fish being caught, very easily, I thought.

That’s about it for now. I wish I could have had more time with you in the car. Damn stupid mission. Damn stupid afterlife protocols. Damn stupid universe matrix fictional reality bullshit. I so wanted it to be my new reality. Then I woke up, and everything started getting fragmented and fuzzy, and these were the only impressions I was able to salvage.

I don’t know how one could ever write a non-fictionalized account of a fictional event. I’ve tried not to embellish or invent details that weren’t there, but I always feel like I’m not being accurate. Oh, well, it was a dream, after all.

Fuck it

Who cares?

I suppose I should follow Sharon's advice and "lower my expectations." The problem is, once you've lowered them down to nothing, it still isn't enough. You have to go negative to cover all the possible crap that can come your way after you cease to expect good things. And when the negative shit you expect finally does happen to you, well, at least you won't be disappointed. I say this as it would have applied to her situation, which, in absence of good, never failed to be without the inevitable "it could be worse" coming to pass.

Gratitude? Fuck gratitude. The whole appreciate the good things line is shit. Appreciate them because they will be taken away? Because they are here today, gone tomorrow? Because they don't last forever? I suppose I should be "grateful" that this applies to me and my stupid fucked up existence. Just when, and how will it end? Please tell me. Or don't, so I won't be disappointed when another promise fails to deliver.