Public Service Announcement

 

Back and forth I go between wanting to have people look in on me and wanting to be left alone completely to stew in my own isolation. For now,  I've decided, fine, if people want to look in on me, they will get what they get. I may say some things that will be odious and make me less than likeable. That doesn't seem to matter to me right now as much as saying what I want to say when I want to say it.

The idea of this blog was originally not to be read by others but to vent. I have figured out that I can do two things to keep it private. One is to make the blog available only to selected readers (or no readers). The other is to revert all of the posts to drafts so that they still exist, but can't be viewed. I've done both of these from time to time, and it does help me to feel less inhibited, knowing that the couple of potential readers aren't going to be able to read these meandering posts (and, gasp, think bad things of me).

I'm not feeling that it is making a whole lot of difference to me now, in my day to day existence. If I spew nonsense, if I have a good day or another 50 bad days, no one is going to give me any sort of feedback or validation of any kind. So why should I bother to self-censor? Public it is, then. At least until I get some common sense or decency, that is.

And, yeah, this is me screaming for attention, in my wounded, quiet way. I could be even more reckless and put my crap on Facadebook, but I'm leaving some bridges to be burned at a later date. I'm not really ready to blow up everything all at once. I just don't want to deal with the fallout. Someone might, oh my god ---comment or react!

For now, enjoy the freak show that is my life. Read at the risk of your own personal feelings. And as always, the comment box is below.

and now I'm going to rap about it

 

don't talk to me bout no architect I'm just an ant climbing up a wall
i can't see where i'm going, i'm just trying not to fall
don't matter how many times i fail, i just keep climbing up again
might be nice if someone noticed, kinda pointed me toward the end

or you gonna try to tell me this shit's all about the journey?
let me tell you son, it's not so fun lyin' here squirming
feeling all these feelings like a bunch of exposed wiring
how the fuck am I supposed to just sit back and enjoy the ride then?

I don't know I why torture myself by retelling your sad story
It's been ten and a half months, I still feel it every morning
seven forty four, march 15, the day that will live in infamy
cause that's the day you slipped off into infinity

I tried to put the word out, to see if you could get back to me
still waiting on a sign from heaven to convince me
it's just a wishful thought, like believing in a santa claus
cause this life is all there is and then we wind up in death's jaws

speaking of jaws, i watched it again, just for old times sake
trying to get back a piece of 1975, like a dream when your awake
and while it's awesome looking back, you can't live in a time capsule
well, you can, but trust me, it becomes a whole lot more like hell

thinking of you makes me want to spend a day in eternity
i'm just having a hard time grasping it conceptually
i think if i could hear your voice or see your face one more time
i could finish out these days of mine without this constant crying

some days I wished would never end
other days I wish would never begin
lonely days wishing for my friend
to just come back, come back to me again

i questioned why it was you had to get ill in the first place
all this bullshit about karma or heaven or god's grace
can't find a single reason why a flower has to die
except for that's just the way it works and don't bother asking why

Life going on

Life goes on, or it appears to, on the surface. But for whom does it go on? Life is for the living, so what does that say about each and every one of us, who will die someday? Life is for you, but only temporarily?

I know that bodies age and decay in this world. Great, no insight there. But what of the essence of a person's consciousness? Is it transient as well? A mere energy field generated from a bunch of matter molecules, ready to dissipate into the ether?

What of all those treasured, meaningful experiences encapsulated in the being that resides inside a flesh body? Are they still stored somewhere? Can they exist when the brain, the so-called memory storage device is no longer physically alive?

I'm going mad with the notion that my wife, Sharon's spirit is either existing somewhere or it is not, and I need to know. Because if we just exist for as long as our bodies retain breath, then this is a shallow existence. And I'm mad at it.

If we somehow continue or transform or merge with some greater consciousness, fine, I guess. But why did we become individuals in the first place? Did we really just sign up to go on a ride? A tunnel of confusion? I promise it wouldn't spoil the ride if I could just get a look at some of the machinery behind it.

I'd feel a whole lot safer if I could get a clue about where I was headed. I could go on and on bitching about it, but it will be over soon enough, and I'll be where everyone else goes.

I caught a fish today. I really only am going fishing to keep my end of the deal that the psychic said that Sharon was making with me: "If you would go fishing, she will show herself to you." I don't think Sharon became a 20" Western Sucker for my entertainment, so I'm still not satisfied that she's kept her part of the deal.

It was a pretty awesome fish, though. I got assistance from a random stranger to net it. He said it was the biggest sucker fish he's ever seen in this river. Everyone else was fly fishing for steelhead, and here I was flinging a rubber lure and not really knowing what would actually bite it. I let it go, as they aren't really table fare like trout or salmon. I was surprised he even stayed on, since I was using a barbless jig.

Keeps coming back to this

I see something beautiful, it makes me sad. I watch a movie with a happy ending, it makes me sad. I hear positive, life affirming quotes, they make me sad (if they don't make me mad first).  I see political memes, stories or opinions expressed, I hit the snooze button.

I've really been trying to get out of this funk. According to the latest psychic, Sharon is really trying to get through to me, but I'm making it impossible because I'm so depressed. I've been fishing 3 or 4 times this week because of that stupid psychic's advice. All I'm doing is toting my sorry ass down to the creek and lazily not catching fish. It's a half hour's walk from the house, so I'm not being entirely lazy.

But at the end of the day, I'm faced with another early night, meaning nothing to do, no one to do it with, just me and my stupid brain which won't stop filtering everything through the sadness lens. Nothing to get excited over, just me and the same routine of tv, dinner, sleep.

This week I attended the last grief art therapy class. Time went by and I made it to graduation day. The had a pot luck and made everyone get up and share their (mostly positive) feelings about the class. I hated to disappoint everyone, but I didn't feel I turned any corner in my grief process. I gave myself credit for showing up, I guess that counts for something.

Now I have one more thing in my life that has ended, leaving my schedule with another empty evening to try to get through.

Dogs and more dogs and humans

So, maybe the animal connections I seem to enjoy and accept are acting as a gateway back into human interaction. I can't live in a vacuum when it comes to some things. I recently saw on Facebook that one of my neighbors was re-homing his great Pyrenees dog, Sheila. This is that lovely white dog that has paid me a couple of visits in the past. The one of whom Sharon said, "If she comes back over again, I say we keep her."

Well, I couldn't bear the thought of this dog going away to an unknown and distant place. I considered adopting her, but my common sense kicked in. This is a long haired white dog and I have mostly unirrigated, unmanaged property with lots of stickers. I barely wash or groom the two dogs I already have. It would be selfish to take her and not provide the extra attention that she'd need.

And so I thought of my neighbor, Bob. Has irrigated property. Has other animals that he treats very well. Needs a guard for his livestock. Check, check, check. I inserted myself into the conversation and decided to ask Bob if he'd like a dog. It turned out to be the perfect match. The dog is happy in her new environment and the old owners can visit because it's just down the street. And I can visit, too.

This whole matchmaking event had the side benefit of making me interact with other human beings. I got a feeling of being valuable, making some difference in the lives of two sets of people and a dog. In other words, I did some good in the world. My life has meaning. And it wasn't a purely selfish act. I actually was thinking of the dog's best interest, and of helping my friend, Bob.

Another dog-related event happened today which involved the little escapee from last week. I was walking past the house from which the puppies had followed me before and, yep...

...this little guy came after me again. This time I kept walking til I got to the end of the street, where I saw a neighbor and his family outside. I knew the puppy would be distracted by the two dogs that these people had and I could make my get away at some point. I asked them if they minded distracting the little guy for a minute and I told them the little fellow's history. Sure enough, the grandpa offered to drive the pup back down the road and deposit him over the fence.

That's just another incident where a puppy was an interface to human interaction, which I normally would have avoided.

The little LED light has been doing it's best to get my attention during the process, as if to say, "Yeah, more stuff like that."

Meanwhile my farts are communicating to me that I need to be done blogging. And the LED concurs. Man, I must be losing my mind, talking to light bulb and listening to farts for advice. I don't think I will miss it all that much, though. (My mind, that is.) "Don't think, just do," was a favorite Yoda-like saying of Sharon's. I'm finally putting it to use and giving my mind a rest.

Killing Brain Cells and the Case of the Intermittent LED

 

Isn't that what they say you are doing when you use drugs? (And by they, I mean the people who are right there with you engaging in the same said behavior.) He said, drinking his coffee and watching the flickering LED bulb on the Christmas strand draped around the TV, adorned by a fishnet and some dangly fish ornaments.

So, my response to that would be, "Yeah, but them were the ones that needed killin', seein' as they were the problem ones. It left my happy, good-time ones alone, see? Just killed off enough of those bad-time, feel bad ones to let me get to the other ones, which were gettin' crowded out, ya know."

The LED is my latest afterlife communication device. It will occasionally blink on, after seemingly being burned out. I always take note of the circumstances occurring at the time. Thoughts, things I'm looking at on the internet, ideas on the guitar that I'm working on, anything that could be a reason for Sharon to try to get my attention.

I've been trying everything to get a clear channel with her ever since the psychic told me that I needed to get out of my current frame of mind in order for Sharon to get through. She said that Sharon wanted me to go fishing, and then she would show herself to me. But the fishing was just a way for me to get out of my headspace and get into the "zone." But this same psychic said she saw Sharon riding a unicycle and acting like a clown (to try to make me laugh). Still trying to picture it, but I just can't.

So, now I have a fishing license and have gone fishing a couple of times. So far, no apparitions. I did get chased by a cow, but I'm not going to go there. But I'd buy that one more than the unicycle idea. For now the intermittent LED will have to suffice. It's no more ridiculously unscientific than seeking guidance from a star, or tea leaves or a crystal ball.

A day without sadness

Haven't had one yet. But I'm getting close, some days. Sorry to anyone who is cheering for me at this point--not so fast.

A day without sadness is for me a day of empty, joyless existence. It frightens me to be heartless like that, to not be moved by anything. All of my emotional buttons have been non-functional for a long time, with the exception of sadness (and intermittently, anger).

I don't get irrational bursts of happiness, or things of that nature. I do get easily triggered by the the negative things I perceive. I seem to lack the ability to recognize and react appropriately to the good things that surely must exist in my life. I am just unable to see them or feel them. So, in order to feel anything at all, I resort to the easiest, nearest emotional triggers--sadness and anger.

If awareness is so aware, why can't I be aware of what others find in life to be worth living for? I have awareness of my numbness, awareness of my sorrow, awareness of my low frustration tolerance, but what about awareness of something else? This love, beauty, joy, etc. that everyone else is raving about? How do I become aware of something that I can't see or feel?

Can someone make me feel these things? Tickle my funny bone? Make me experience love? I'm like a cold dog, shivering. I may take extra long to warm up, even after throwing the blanket on me. I may resist the blanket and be suspicious. My mind isn't working right, and I might not be trusting of anyone coming near me. How can they help? Just leave me alone.

I'm guessing most people don't wake up with these thoughts in their heads. "I hope I can feel something today, even if it's just more sorrow."

later~
awareness is aware of what? (assmunch says what?)

i think one can double or even triple their pain simply by being aware of it. what do drugs do but try to trick your brain into not being aware of pain? This trick can work by interrupting the pain receptors message to the brain or by shutting them off at the source. if one can practice shifting ones attention manually to something else, whatever you focus on becomes your reality. people can defy all kinds of things by just getting really intensely interested in something else. distract your way to a better tomorrow.


 Later, later~


After spending the afternoon obsessively involved in cleaning the one the small corner of my desk where my new audio interface will reside, I found it to be already 3:30 and myself needing to go for my walk. I dropped my project and shuffled myself out the door and down the street on my usual route.

It was progressing as usual: boring. Then a song came on my iPod which began to evoke sadness (yay, can't do without that in a day). It was Emma's Song by Sinead O'Connor. Yeah, that'll do. After it played once, another version came on of the same track. Sadness buttons, activate!

I was just about to settle in for my regularly scheduled walking cry when, suddenly, out of nowhere I was waylaid by two pretty much irresistible puppy dogs, who had escaped from a neighbor's fence and began following me on my walk.

 

This would not do. I escorted them back to their property, but found the gate to have a giant gap, from which they could easily escape again. I placed the neighbor's trash bin in front of it and proceeded on my way. I put the song back on and...two seconds later, there they were again. This time under the gate. Oh, good grief.

I found some cut tree limbs and placed them under the opening. Then more tree limbs. Then rocks and tree limbs. Then a frickin' log. I went vertical, horizontal, back and front. I must have made 10 attempts to reincarcerate those escapees but each time they found a new way around my obstacles and followed me down the street.  Finally, after completely sealing off the gate and making it an impassable roadblock, I  knew they couldn't get past it.

Wrong. Ten seconds later they were at my feet, proud to show me that they could easily get out somewhere else on the property. I marched them all around, looking for the neighbors (who were home, but inside the house playing loud music). I called for them whenever the music stopped, but inevitably, just as I would think that for sure they heard me that time, they'd start up the music again each time. No dice. I was stuck with these little guys.

I walked home and, of course, they followed.

I put them in my back dog pen, a very secure yard. I had to double latch the gate, as they immediately attempted to escape by pushing through at the bottom. Persistent little buggers. But security prevailed and they grew desperate. Crying and whining and sounding like they were being tortured, I left them to go call animal control. Again, no dice. Not open after 5pm.

"911 what is your emergency?"

"No, it's not an emergency, it's just, well, I need to get someone over here to go in and talk to my neighbors. They have 2 big dogs and 2 small puppies and..." Their response was confusing. No, they couldn't send an officer to do that. But when I said, "Fine, so you won't be sending anyone out, then?" they told me, "Oh, we will send an officer. We have to, any time 911 is called."

It got dark. I walked the little guys home for the 15th time and this time it stuck. The owner was whistling for them and they went in the gate for good (for now). One of them did give me a pretty forlorn look and wavered, as if torn by the decision. The neighbor apologized, using one of his very few English vocabulary words, "Sorry."

I am still waiting for the Sheriff's officer to show up and give me my lecture on the proper use of 911.

I must be in some pretty dire straits for the universe to send in the puppy dogs in an attempt to pull me from my funk. I did work, though, if only temporarily.

I'm hiding

Not publishing these for a while. Or ever. I just don't know. I guess don't feel like being looked in on by my one or two readers. I am still borderline miffed at the idea that someone (ahmn) would read these out of some kind of concern, but not do the least bit to reach out. As in CALL ME, DAD! So, if you're going to be silent, then I will, too. This blog was never meant for your or anyone else's consumption.

It's stifling my voice having an audience of even one or two. I feel like I have to address the room. And the room is deathly quiet. So why say anything? Or I could scream and curse and have the room silently judge me.

So, in other news. I'm setting something up with yet another amateur psychic. They are only going to charge $30, so I won't be too disappointed if it's not a life changing event. I'm simply looking for convincing proof of after death  communication. It wouldn't take much more than the psychic revealing to me some kind of insider information that is unknown to the public (another good reason to not publish any blog posts at the moment).

So, my secret word is the name of a pro golfer, __________. She was asking me to tell her if he was winning and it was difficult for her to get her words out. After a bunch of faint, whispered attempts she managed to belt out his name like an air horn. We both laughed. It was sooooo over the top. It was her making the greatest effort, and finally succeeding, at getting her words out. So, if she gets this across to the psychic and then to me, I will be convinced.

I realize that the psychic could just be reading me, and it not have anything to do with Sharon. Remote viewing is in the same realm of woo-woo that mediumship is, and one doesn't necessarily validate the other. But it weighs in on the side of the scale that I want to tip in favor of believing any of it. So, I've written it on a whiteboard on the door to the bedroom. And I'm begging for Sharon to have a look at it and relay it to the psychic. That kind of specific message would do it for me.

I'm sure there are other things that the psychic could come up with, too, that would knock my socks off. Un-googleable stuff, personal things that never made it outside of our bedroom conversation. Unless this $30 psychic is tapping into NSA level intel, in which case we're all screwed as far as privacy is concerned. There were no open mics in our room to my knowledge, but today's tech could include a whole bunch of unsolicited spying devices. Tinfoil, ON.

I do still have dreams of Sharon, not all as memorable. In my last one, I only recall speaking to her and the subject was "things I'm sorry for." It was all too common of a topic when she was alive, so it probably didn't impress her much now, either.

"Get your head out of your ass" was probably still the clearest and most authentic communication to ever reach me through an unwitting medium. Thanks, Lori, for the truly spiritual communique. While the other psychics were telling me nicey-nice stuff, like "she's giving you a hug" or "she just wants to hold you," the directness of those seven little words (which had been spoken by her to me often) actually give me more comfort. Because if she were here, listening to me or watching my daily routine, that would be exactly what she would say.

And in other, other news. I ordered an audio interface with recording software, so I can try to begin recording music again. I had to stop when my MBox and version of ProTools became unsupported, and drivers were unavailable. I had spent enough money on the equipment at the time to feel cheated by this obsolescence, so this time around I went with a different device and platform. Presonus and Studio One Artist got good enough reviews, and the sound quality will probably be better than my 2005 setup.

Still to be determined is if I can master the learning curve of new software. And also unknown is whether I will ever be inspired to record anything worthwhile. But at least if I ever am, I will have the capability, even if the talent is lacking. I will sound like a professional cat with a hairball, vs some hack with a Mr. Microphone.

Sharon had suggested I upgrade my equipment years ago, but, being cheap, I never felt I could justify any expense on something that wasn't a necessity. I believe having some kind of creative outlet is, at this point, a necessity.

This blog isn't doing it for me.

Is there chocolate cake in the afterlife?

 

I don't think I'm ever going to stop pondering the nature of what we call life and death. At least not in any foreseeable time frame.

I have another routine or ritual which I can't say works 100% but since I started doing it, I've noticed a difference, so I have to give it partial credit. Before going to bed I put on my wedding ring. When falling asleep I beg and plead for Sharon to visit me in my dreams. I don't always remember if I dream, but since I started doing this, maybe I have one dream or so a week where I see Sharon's face or talk to her.

Last night I dreamed we were attending a type of event put on by some fashion designer type people. It's not my usual scene, so I don't even know how to describe it. They were selling a whole couture package: clothing, accessories, but mostly, an image. It was very hoity-toity, but in a modern boho/glam rock/indie/punk/goth kind of fusion. Lots of basic blacks, nothing over the top, but nothing off limits as far as elements.

It was a big ball, with dancing, a stage/runway, with announcing of things going on and refreshments being served. Among the items being dispensed in quantity was, of all things, chocolate cake. Among the mostly grey, black and otherwise darkly clad guests was Sharon, in her wedding dress, not the least bit out of place. She was kind of running around like the belle of the ball and mostly wanting to get at the chocolate cake.

I followed her around, enjoying seeing her having a good time. At one point she made her way to the chocolate cake table and carved out two huge slices, one for me and one for her. Someone made a comment as to, "Is she going to eat both of them?"

"No," I said, "I think one's for me."

We sat down together and I couldn't help noticing that she had chocolate cake smeared head to toe on her hair, face and dress. She seemed rather proud of that fact and wanted me to take her picture. I pulled out my digital camera, the one I use in my real every day life, and took a picture. I know it was the same camera because the first picture was without a flash. I have to manually set it to "autoflash," which I did.

I woke up soon afterward with my familiar constellation of body ailments, back in this world. But for a time my heart carried a little of the fullness from the dream state. Feeling somewhat tethered to that place and emotional state (and even the chocolate cake), I wanted to get back. I had no luck, my sleep allocation had run out.

---

For some reason, when I sleep more than a couple of hours, my body stops maintaining certain autonomic functions. My blood pressure is so low that peripheral things such as eye lubrication ceases, along with skin hydration. Maybe my body is thinking, "This is it, turn off the lights and the water, there's nobody home."

So, in the afterlife, can one still enjoy chocolate cake? Is it one of those pleasures, like sex, that requires a physical body? Which begs the question: if not, then what the hell kind of heaven would it be? Two things Sharon would not be happy without, in any kind of heaven, would be sex and chocolate cake.

So, I find myself living more in my dreams than I do my daily life. Or at least finding them more enjoyable. Whether you can call it life or not, I don't know. But is the Sharon that I am encountering in my dreams an actual conscious entity or just a fabrication of my own mind? I'd love it if she could tell me or show me something new that would indicate that she's still thinking for herself and isn't just some robotic projection from my memory.

So I'm going to keep begging and pleading and wearing the wedding ring for the time being.

One thing I can cross of my list

 

I finally got a response from Diane. She said she had simply overlooked her messages and didn't find anything creepy or offensive in what I wrote. I guess that lowers my overall anxiety level a bit.

I don't know why something like that would make me so unbearably uncomfortable. I used to not care what anyone thought, or so I told myself. A perfect sociopath. Now I guess I feel vulnerable to have the slightest sense that I've created a poor opinion of me in someone.

It doesn't help that I make up scenarios, completely out of nothing, in which I am the bad guy. If other people were actually bullying me or ostracizing me, that would be one thing. But I'm doing it to myself and blaming, well, ultimately myself. But I'm imputing guilt and negativity to others in the process.

I feel like I need to be kept in isolation to protect the world from my deranged thinking process. I don't know what kind of rehabilitation is possible to untangle all the mess my mind has gotten into. At least I "fixed" a problem with someone which apparently never existed, except in my head.

"Cause of death?"

 

"Undetermined."

"It appears that this person just gave up on life. His body shows signs of accelerated degeneration starting with his internal organs. All systems seem to have been affected. It seems like he was just shutting down little by little. Then, one day--dead."

"Why would that happen? I mean, he was 53 years old, had a decent diet, got at least some physical activity each day, wasn't broke or homeless...what gives?"

"I don't know the exact mechanism, other than possibly his own isolation cascaded into a deep depression that actually affected his entire body."

"Interesting theory. So you're saying that if a person has a few bad days they can just keel over?"

"Not exactly. It's a process. It takes years in some cases. Other times it can develop quite quickly, such as after the death of a spouse. It all depends on the individual and their mindset."

"Well, this guy fits the bill. His wife died. He spent years as a begrudging caregiver. Never developed close ties with family or friends. Textbook case of all kinds of psychopathy from clinical depression to narcissistic personality disorder. One fucked up individual. Maybe he's better off now."

"No telling what was going through his head. Pity he didn't try to get help."

"Maybe he did. Or maybe he just thought no one cared. Did anyone try to reach out to him?"

"It's possible, but in these cases most attempts are ineffectual if not done in an concerted, strategic manner."

"You mean like an intervention?"

"Precisely. Unfortunately, some interventions backfire. The individual may feel ambushed or like his rights are being violated."

"How would his rights be violated by an intervention?"

"Well, in certain severe cases of clinical depression, sometimes hospitalization is the only option. This raises some legal issues as to level of competency and intent to self-harm. You can't lock someone up for being a self-loathing jerk. He would have to exhibit evidence of being unable to perform rudimentary self-care or show an active intent to harm himself or others."

"This guy seems to have flown below the radar on all counts. Too bad he let things get that bad without letting anyone know."

"Oh, I think that someone always knows. This guy had family. Had a Facebook account with a number of friends with whom he apparently interacted occasionally. He even had a blog with one or two regular readers."

"I tried to read the blog. Pretty bleak stuff. Surprised he had any readers."

"Not really, you'd be amazed at what people find entertainment in these days."

"I suppose. What's for lunch?"

Keep waking up me

 

I wish there was a way I could wake up not me. In someone else's skin, with their thoughts and life. Don't give me that fucking BS about "appreciating what you have" or "counting your blessings." Oh, or how about the old "consider the plight of other people, who suffer far more." Freaking great argument. Let's add guilt to my already fucked up sense of identity.

I can't do it. I need a brain transplant or blow to the head to get me to think differently. Oh, sure, a cool crisis on which to focus my attention might do the trick. Rally 'round the old sink project. Engage in some kind of activity get myself out of my head. Won't work. The head comes with me wherever I go.

This little stunted flower's manifestation into existence is bringing joy to no one and will soon pass into non-existence without notice. Do the leaves on the trees hang on for dear life as fall approaches? Surely, they don't bitch nearly as much about the transitory nature of their existence or the daily tribulations of life on the tree.

Every day inches closer. Not fast enough. Not nearly. The cats and dogs would probably adapt to their new homes. They might enjoy life more, not being around my dark cloud. I've seen the effect my caregiving has on people. These poor little animals are probably wishing someone else would take over and rescue them from me.

And....who cares? Just more whining as I contemplate another week of being me. Judge away, silent critics. It's nothing I haven't thought of already.

FML

 

Can't sleep, nothing new.

Fuck my life. And fuck Google, Microsoft and Facebook while we're here in the middle of the night counting fucks. Fuck this stupid blog, too.

I guess my ego is still alive because I'm sitting awake, squirming and thinking how stupid I must look to the few people who read anything I write or hear anything that comes out of my mouth. I guess I care that much about an image or perception of me that I seemingly have no control of. Oh, no! My optics! Where's my press secretary? Fire him!

I'm never going to be understood. Probably a good thing. The pathology is too grotesque. I guess my attempt to un-creepify myself with Diane had the exact opposite effect. I'm such a fool. I should have known better. I do, now.

Stop caring. Give up on ever thinking you can have normal human relationships. Stick to baby talking with cats. Keep human interactions to a minimum. And don't bother answering the phone, it's just a telemarketer, anyway.

Suck it, world.

You fix some things, other's not so much

 

"Never assume," Sharon always told me. It was a catch-all bit of advice that usually meant things could be worse than you might assume, so always make certain before giving something the stamp of approval.

It works in reverse, too. Sometimes you are certain something is going to be terrible, and it turns out to only be so-so.

Like this sink project. I assumed it was the shutoff valve because it only became wet after turning it off and then back on. When I put a camera in the back of it and blindly shot a photo, I could see that the problem was starting at the hose fitting and leaking onto the valve. I replaced the hose and the faucet washer and am doing an extensive leak test while drying out the area for the next few days. So far, it is a successful fix.

People are a bit harder to figure out. I guess I usually assume that people are thinking the worst about me. The case of Diane has been bugging me for several months, so I decided to not just assume anymore and bit the bullet by messaging her and asking her directly.

Unfortunately, as well crafted as I thought my inquiry was (I type these things out in Word first before committing to Facebook Messenger) I think I may have made things worse, which was my fear going into it. I accidentally copy/pasted twice what was already bordering on an embarrassingly long message and the result was a mangled wall of text.  She probably read part way through and is thinking, "Holy fuck, what a nutjob!" If I never hear back from her this time around, that is what I'm going to assume. 

I am now sitting here, pissed off at myself and ashamed that my social and critical thinking skills are so lacking. Back to withdrawing from the world. I was gonna attempt a better version of myself for the new year and this is how I start off? I'm certain that if I go ahead and try to tackle my other gnawing issue (the one requiring nuclear codes) I will fuck that up, too. Why bother?

Enjoy the uneasy peace while my defenses are at an all time low. I assume my petty problems and little tantrums are providing some minimal entertainment value to my silent readers.

Puddle on the floor postpones nuclear threat

Today Andrew was forced to momentarily delay his plans for a first strike nuclear action and focus on domestic issues, as a previously monitored leak in the guest bathroom became the focus of more urgent attention.

The leak under the sink was traced to a faulty cold water hose and shutoff valve assembly. Several months ago, when beginning a related repair on a leaky tap topside, the under sink shutoff valve proved to be leaky in all positions except fully open and fully closed. This was thought to be acceptable in light of the fact that it is usually only required to be in either of those two positions.  Both the faucet washer and valve repair were postponed at that time. However, evidence on the floor today indicated that something was amiss under there, despite it having previously passed the fully open position test.

The particle board subsink material is waterlogged, as is a portion of the floor tile grout and some drywall. Partial disassembly of the undersink cabinet revealed that damage wasn't severe enough to warrant an entire sink replacement. After a cursory mop up with paper towels,  a heater fan was placed in the area and Lysol and Clorox wipes were used to prevent a large scale mold infestation.

Meanwhile, preparations are being made to replace the upper faucet washers and the cold water intake hose and valve. Due to current "not giving a shit" constraints, no other repairs are being considered at this time.

In order to conserve energy, Andrew had to postpone his plans to launch any attack on persons outside of his immediate sphere of influence, leaving foreign affairs in an uneasy, temporary state of detente. Although theories of karma or synchronicity abound, they are being dismissed by Andrew as "hogwash" and "a load of rubbish."

I prefer nice dreams

Another stupid Jeff Foster post on the subject of grief (link)

So, I don't know why I torture myself reading stuff on this topic. I keep hoping I'll "wake up," or some such business, from the misery of my current experience. Once again, Jeff recommends to stay with the experience in a all its messiness and look for a hidden gem. Life, being the totality of every experience, is supposed to somehow be allowed to include millennia of suffering but gets a pass because it also includes baby goats and ice cream? Death and loss are to be accepted because there's always new grass in the spring?

I really prefer the dream, provided we can stick to the elements that make you feel good. I've seen enough of this side of the coin. Can't we just make a coin with two identical sides? Y'all can live in this dualistic craphole and embrace whatever messiness you like. Someone order me up a nice fairytale heaven, with shiny polished everything and no poop. I'll let you know when I get tired of 24/7 joy and bliss and we can watch a 5 min video of my current life. Then I'll go back to the eternal happiness, please, thank you.

And no, I haven't pushed the button yet. Kinda hoping Khrushchev will call first.

Harsh words

Hey. Dad. Why don't you just call me?

My email still works, too. I'm a little put off by this monitoring of my blog. If you want to know how I'm doing, if you're concerned for my well being, that would be a great way to express it. I'm doing this blog for my own personal reasons (I was told it would be therapeutic, but that's debatable). I feel like I'm a sick dog in a kennel, being looked in upon with pity once in a while and then backed away from because no one wants to get too close. Maybe it will die soon. Who's going to check today?

Maybe you feel you have nothing to talk to me about. Maybe you feel I'm not worth the effort it takes to communicate. Possibly there could be some regret or guilt, I don't know. For much of my life I've been intimidated by your intellect, afraid of the judgements that would make me feel inferior. I may have my own voice and ideas, but when faced with your scrutiny, I always feel like I don't measure up.

A few years back, I thought you were softening and that somehow we'd be able to talk without it being uncomfortable. But I must have a quality that is cringe-worthy, because our few conversations left me with the impression that you would rather have a root canal than speak to me. When you commented on my Facebook after Sharon's death, it was the most words I'd seen from you in my entire adult life. Maybe it's easier to have a conversation via electronic text because one can take their time and craft their words to perfection before hitting the send button.

I suppose that all is well and good from your perspective? You've made up for any shortcomings, real or perceived with a couple of heartfelt stories? I'm not holding all the years of absence against you. I never made myself all that available, either. I'm really not even thinking about the years of bitterness I had during my childhood. I let that go a long time ago and considered my own part in the failure we had in bonding. But what's bugging me, is now. When I need someone's wizened perspective the most, literally crying out for someone to care, what do I get?

Silence.

It's been a couple of years since the "Soon, I promise" response to my asking for a little catch up time. I'm not holding out any hope that soon is going to be ever.

So, I guess, while I'm at it, I'll give you another reason to cringe. Remember Sharon's and my wedding in 2003? Of course not, because you weren't there, having elected to attend a symphony instead. Neither Sharon nor I could believe you were actually telling us this. You said you had the means to get there, private airplane or something, and that it would be no problem, but that you had season tickets to the philharmonic, and, well, I must understand.

No, I didn't understand. It did not compute. Were your priorities that far out of whack? It seems pretty clear that you were avoiding any (potentially uncomfortable) interaction with me. I can assume some of the blame for being the type of person one would want to avoid. Or maybe it was my mom you were trying to avoid, I don't know. But would it have killed you to play nice and step out of your comfort zone to attend your son's one and only wedding? In hindsight, maybe?

I wasn't that surprised that you wouldn't attend, but it was the reason you gave which I still have a hard time with. Concert tickets? Really? While that may have been the honest truth, I would have appreciated a well crafted lie. "I broke my leg"  or "My friend's plane is in the shop." Anything.

There. That's only been bugging me for 15 years. How about you? Are there any wrongs you feel I've done to you that need to be addressed? Do you feel slighted or ignored on birthdays or father's day? I don't know how long either of us will be alive, but wouldn't it be nice to feel you've done what you could to make peace with your remaining family?

I'm not expecting an apology from you. Hell, I'm not expecting anything. I'm just asking for a conversation. One that I'm not going to guarantee won't be uncomfortable for both of us, but one that is necessary. I'm not going to beg you to talk to me. If you're satisfied to just peep from the perimeter, analyzing my blog from afar, I guess that's up to you. I may not make it available for public viewing, though. I get a little clammed up being observed.

Hey, you might get lucky and call when I'm not in the house. It happens from time to time. Then you could just leave a message and feel like you did your part and now it's on me to call you.  Then we could play phone tag while you are conveniently out when I call. In that way, we never have to talk at all, and you can avoid all the unpleasantness, while not feeling like you ignored my plea completely.

"Way to go, Dad."

Sorry, I couldn't help that sarcastic little jab. I find Mr. Watchmaker God to be as uncommunicative as any earthly father figure. Out there, lurking, judging, observing but never interacting. Sure, He created the heavens and the earth and all that inhabit them, if that sort of notion appeals to you. He just doesn't want to have anything to do with them after the big bang. He's off smoking a cigarette and scheming his next cosmic copulation in some other multiverse.

Yeah, I can see why you might not want to call.  And you may just want to tune out from reading this blog in the future. I'm just a mean and nasty old dog, and that's why everyone is keeping their distance. I guess I may never know what's really going on inside of you. Maybe I couldn't handle it. Perhaps you are just like me, with a more carefully painted veneer. If that's the case, you may be thinking you are doing me a favor by sparing me the pain of having an honest conversation with you.

And you might be right, at that. But can you see how I might feel a little abandoned and rejected by you at the moment? And a little hurt that you wouldn't at least try to reach out, when I'm making it so obvious that I need reaching out to? And does it seem understandable that I might be irked to know that you are reading this blog, monitoring my pathetic status and just hoping the problem will go away? Time will go by, eventually we'll both be dead. Problem solved. No need for all that messy human interaction, right?

One thing I know is that I'll never win an argument with you. It's something indelibly etched in my memory, growing up. That's not my intention. I've said my piece. Judge away. Plenty of stuff here to tisk at. 

One of these days

 

Things are gonna have to be said that can't be unsaid. I'm just that way. I can let some things go for years, a lifetime it seems, but there comes a time when shit bugs me too much and I can't keep my big mouth shut. I need to focus my laser, so as to be as precise as possible and avoid doing too much damage. But it's not going to be without pain. I've never been able to deliver a diatribe in a likeable manner.

I just feel like biting my tongue for the moment, postpone the inevitable a bit longer. Play nice. Take a measured approach. Maybe rethink my position before unleashing.

It's not pretty. It's kind of like the nuclear option. Stuff gets irretrievable once the button is pushed. I guess feelings might get hurt, but that's only a guess. I'm operating with very little intel about the target of my hostility.

Feeling uneasy? I am. It's the calm before the storm. The night before surgery. I just know I won't be able to die properly having not given this the attention it deserves. I can die with unpaid taxes, or a few household repairs unfinished. Or a lot of household repairs. But this has been bugging me for a while, just under the radar is all.

Well, my radar has been blipped.

Maybe I should consider therapy. It's what most people do in these cases. If they can afford it. I don't have enough confidence in the process to invest the time or money that I'm sure it will require to excise this rot from my psyche. So, if I just yell at the individual maybe that would be therapy enough. It may not do so much good for the person in question or whatever relationship they might think we have. But holding things inside is definitely unhealthy, so it can't be avoided.

At least with Sharon, she was able to get a lot of her anger with me out early on. It hurt like hell at the time, but I'm guessing it did her good to not internalize it. I deserved some of it, perhaps not all, but I'll accept that it was what she needed to do at the time. And I hope that when she did tell me, days before dying, "You know I love you, right?" that it was with a clear heart and that she meant it. We had fought our last battle, her and I.

I want to leave this earth saying those things to people and meaning it. But I'm not there yet. The bad stuff has to come out first. Then, if there's any healing from that, perhaps there will be enough time in this life to rebuild, or shall I say build a relationship. Here's to hoping.

Let's make it an early night

She would say this to me on occasions when we were both tired, it was cold or if there was nothing good on TV. Or if I had to go to work the next day. It was a treat to just pack it in early and go to sleep. I say this to myself most nights these days and, of course, it brings the sadness of remembering those times.

Every night is an early night now, with nothing to look forward to in the morning. Just another day to try to get through so I can make it an early night again.

Sleep isn't as fulfilling or as deep when one has done very little during the day. She used to try to tire herself out during the day, so as to sleep during the boring infomercial hours of the middle of the night. I used to have no problem sleeping straight through to the alarm clock at 5:15 on work days and much later on weekends.

Every day is the same now, except for the TV programs that I wake up to in the middle of the night. Those are worse on the weekends, so I occasionally won't leave the TV on all night. I can't sleep more than a couple hours at a time, anyway, and I can't stand waking up to a show with blaring audio. Those old '50s shows are the worst, with their obnoxious film noir dialogue or even more annoying early hipster jazz soundtracks.

I've gotten to where I can't stand to hear anything like "what a gas" or "listen here, see." And don't even get me started on "daddy-o." I think it's because I saw a movie called "Brick" where the entire script was written in over the top, cheesy hipster speak. Like, fuckin' talk normal, already, geez. I feel my stomach tighten when I'm watching something, and it starts to sway towards that type of lingo. Yeah, even the work "lingo" is drifting too far in that direction.

So, back to my early night. I have a routine which keeps me minimally distracted, but not really enough to get that satisfied, end of the day feeling. Mostly, my day revolves around my 2 meals and one snack, an hour long walk and the TV lineup on METV, the only station that comes in pretty consistently over the air. Little rituals like making tea or seeing to it that the cats and dogs are fed at a certain time each day are what keep me from sinking into a completely sedentary life of television watching.

I intersperse a few activities such as bi-weekly grocery shopping and weekly house cleaning. But there can be days that go by with nothing much to show for me being alive. These are days that never really begin, so getting to the end of them is difficult.

End of the day was another term she would use a lot, in her case meaning, "I am not functioning at my best because it's the end of the day." As time went on, the end of the day got earlier and earlier, to the point where it was too early to even use that term. Then it became, "I didn't get good sleep last night." If you are bedridden and can't get good sleep, it must be hell, sleep being one of the only activities available to a bedridden person.

I'm having a really hard time keeping myself active enough to avoid the health problems that lead to one becoming disabled for real. Like, if you sit on your ass long enough, you will become unable to get up out of that chair. Bones and muscles ache, and things don't work right. I think, whereas before most of my problems were due to overwork and stress, now I suffer from inactivity and lethargy.

And still by far my most rewarding activity in a day is a good cry.  Fuck me!

Instant Pot disclaimer and possession by a crash test dummy

 

In the spirit of doing something different, I thought I'd give the Instant Pot I got for Christmas a whirl. I bought the ingredients for a beef stew, which in this case included pork, beef bones and some leftover chicken. Already, you can see I'm not following a recipe.

I'm used to making soup in a large pot on the stove top. This has always worked out well enough for me. I put the stove on high, boiling the water as I cut up the vegetables and meat, adding them as I go. By the time I've finished cutting everything up, it is going pretty good, and I can turn it down and add the spices. Then I leave it simmer for a couple of hours, stirring it and tasting it occasionally. If I need to add something, I will.

Instant Pot shouldn't be billed as Instant. It took the same amount of time to prep the food, and then there is an unknown amount of time before the timer starts while the pot builds pressure and temperature. Because I was making soup from beef bones, the recommendation was to pre-brown them in an oven for nearly an hour. You see where this is going?

The cook time was 75 mins. After an annoyingly messy venting process (that's not just steam, but vaporized fat and soup) I had to clean the cabinets above the pot. The warning should be "use only in a clear space about 4 feet in diameter." Alternatively, you could use the natural venting process, which could take an hour or so as the contents cool enough to reduce pressure.

Since I was making soup from bones, they also recommended to let the whole thing cool down enough to solidify the fat which would be scraped off the top. This meant it had to go into the fridge. For a long time. Like overnight. Next morning, there was still no layer of solidified fat, though the contents looked like they had cooled enough. I'm guessing the fat got vented out the top, or pressure may have infused it into the rest of the stew.

It came out rather bland. I wasn't able to adjust the seasoning as it cooked. It's a one shot deal. Maybe that's where the recipe would have come in handy.

There were some frozen chili leftovers from another time, which I microwaved, since I wasn't going to be eating the bland, allegedly fat-laden soup that night. I attempted to drink an Imperial Russian Stout with the chili, but I think I'm losing my ability to handle stouts. This one started making me ill, and I eventually gave up the idea in favor of a good old can of Coors. I never fully recovered from the nausea, though, and went to bed feeling poorly.

To lull myself to sleep I put on an audio book recording of Adyashanti's "Death: The Essential Teachings." It is a collection of various lectures on the subject from his semi-buddhist, non-dual perspective. Occasionally, when I listen to brainwash material such as this while I sleep, my brain will incorporate it into a dream, which I find very entertaining.

Enter the crash test dummy. I managed to glean from my dream that I somehow recognized Sharon's face, very much alive and in the form of a teenage heartbreaker, complete with big '80s hair and a devious smile. My heart leapt in my dream. Due to the programming going on subconsciously, I guess I asked her a question related to death and the survival of the individual.

By way of an answer, instead of words, I saw her face disappear and turn into a featureless anthropomorphic dummy with X's for eyes. I was disheartened for a moment, but I felt her saying, "Hold on, let's try this." 

And then the dummy kind of merged with me. It went from being in front of me to being absorbed into my entire body. I could feel it, or her, incorporating into my being. It was a feeling of fullness, and it made my heart and whole body thrill.

Unfortunately, I awoke at that point to the sound of Adya droning on about "ext-istential" this or that, and I was never able to re-enter the same dream state.

I'm not sure what essential teaching I was getting, exactly. That Sharon can actually exist in some form inside of my own consciousness or memory? But in a real, visceral way, not the Hallmark "They live on in our hearts as long as we remember them" kind of way. At least it felt real in the dream.

Or it could have been the chili.

Let it Snow

On a rainy afternoon, chores done, besides the random gunshots from my neighbors across the street, nothing better to listen to than some ancient recordings. I used play these two songs from Gracie's personal collection of 45 rpm singles on a compact portable record player. It played 33's, 45's and 78's. I thought I remembered it being an RCA, but it looked a lot like this General Electric model, minus the red plastic deck.

Hobo Bill's Last Ride by Hank Snow
The Wreck of Old '97 by Hank Snow

Basic stuff

 

"Um" and "Uh." Two of my favorite words. So expressive. Expansive? Exasperating? Excruciating? You fill in the blank. Pick a word that starts with the letter "E."

Um means, "I'm thinking, wait a minute, I have to google it, I don't have the answer yet. Hold on, it's still ringing." While uh is a sound which signifies, "It's not coming to me. Nope. Still don't got it. Still don't got it. Dial tone. The caller has left the line. The address at that server could not be found. Error 404."

I'm living my life between Um and Uh. I still don't get it yet. Whatever "it" is, isn't coming to me. But I haven't yet hung up the phone. I'm still listening. The silence is getting hard to strain through, though. No answer.

So I'm just waiting my turn. In between Um and Uh. Getting closer to Uh.

I'm trying to envision something meaningful and fun. Not necessarily, but hopefully, making them one and the same. As in, "Do something meaningful today. And while you're at it, have some fun." I have to train my brain to think this way. The benefits are undeniable. Dopamine awaits the successful conclusion to any positively viewed endeavor. Natures little reward system.

Drugs could be used to kickstart the process, I suppose, but they will more than likely circumvent the whole achievement based reward system. No achievement, but still the reward. Not to be bypassed, karma seems to punish the individual who self-rewards too often. Hangovers, withdrawal, craving. Whereas, "Kindness is its own reward." Or is it cleanliness that is it's own reward? No matter. Same idea. Do good and you will not only feel good, but there's no apparent downside.

Still trying to work that into my routine.

Doing the same old thing day in and day out is not having its own reward for me.  Thinking the same thoughts, going through the same motions, feeling the same feelings. Breaking out isn't as easy as it seems. But I guess it starts in the same place as the problem starts: in the brain. Think of good things, do good things, feel good things. Don't get the cart before the horse. Unless you happen to be wired that way.

Is that it? I'm wired backward? How easy would it be to switch everything over to running on positive current? What would that even look like in my life? Me thinking what? Doing what? Feeling...anything?

Um.

I'm working on my apology to the world

 

This is meant to be an apology, so I'll get that out right away. I tend to ramble and not get to the point. For those of you who know a little about me, you probably know, I've never been the most outgoing person. "Socially inept," "awkward," even "reclusive xenophobe" might be accurate characterizations. So, basically, I don't know how to act like, or be, a decent human being. I don't feel I've ever really fit in well with any particular group, even my own family. I'm not blaming anyone but myself for not making stronger connections.

So, what I'm saying, for those still reading is this: I'm sorry I've taken you all for granted.  I'm sorry if my silence has made you feel ignored or unimportant. I'm sorry if I have said anything in the past, or even as I'm writing this, that made you feel uncomfortable or bad. If the impression that I've left is that I don't care about you, or that I am somehow judging you poorly, I'm sorry. I wish I had done a lot of things differently.

2018 was the most difficult year of my life and I've tried very hard to spare most of you from my agony. Those closest to me have been unfortunate enough to see my dark side, and I regret that I wasn't able to muster up more positivity for you. Those that know me really well are probably saying, "Dark side? Do you mean there's another side? I thought it was all dark." That was a faint attempt at humor.

I've let a lot of time go by and have been isolating myself more and more, but things aren't getting any better. I don't know how long a person can function without a heart or a soul. I don't know what 2019 is going to bring so I figured I'd better say what I have to say before my entire life slips by unnoticed. I don't see a whole lot changing, which means, let's be honest, I'll probably never see most of you again. That isn't meant to be a veiled threat or spooky premonition. It's just probably true, is all.

I suppose I'm reaping what I've sown. It may be too late to cultivate the kinds of bonds that take years to develop. I feel awkward trying to insert myself into the lives of those from whom I've been absent all these years. For that, too, I'm sorry. And if this was a downer to read, well, that's why I've been away so long. And that's why I'll probably be even less visible on Facebook in the foreseeable future.

Again, sorry. And you all have a great 2019, ok?


**How's that? Too passive-aggressive? More narcissistic, self-indulgent drivel? I'll keep working on it.