Venganza by Ruben Blades

 

Sufriendo eternamente tu venganza
la vida cruzaré buscando tu querer
Perdóname si alguna vez sin quererlo te engañé
pues no hay nadie como tu, vida de mi alma
apiádate de mi sufrir, no me guardes más rencor
la maldad y el desamor fueron tu venganza
Inútil es llorar si ya no tengo llanto
lo he gastado por el dolor de mi pena
Perdóname si alguna vez sin quererlo te engañé
pues no hay nadie como tu, vida de mi alma
Inútil es llorar si ya no tengo llanto
lo he gastado por el dolor de mi pena
Perdóname si alguna vez sin quererlo te engañé
pues no hay nadie como tu, vida de mi alma

https://chordu.com/chords-tabs-willie-colon-ruben-blades-venganza-id__D7The5jUbQ

This song haunts me. I heard it first in my '80s cult days, when my Panamanian roommate Ronaldo would play it. I never would have thought I'd become a fan of Afro-cuban salsa music, but I give credit where credit is due. This guy has very clear, understandable enunciation when he sings. And the music is a lot more subtle than the banda stuff, with the boom-boom polka beat, that these kids today are infatuated with.

I don't actually understand or speak Spanish in real-time, but on some level I do. It isn't like my brain can translate it fast enough to keep up, but I can hear it and get it. I can be in a room with a bunch of people speaking Spanish really fast, and most of it will be unintelligible to me, like birds singing. If I tune in real intensely I can catch about one fifth of it.

But in cases like this song, I feel it before I even need to translate it. It's like it goes directly into my heart, bypassing the intellect. I look up the words later and go, "Yeah, that's what I was feeling." But words aren't adequate conveyors of emotion. They are helpful, and are sometimes necessary to make sure the meaning doesn't get lost. But in some cases feelings can come through so purely that words are completely unnecessary.

I found a nifty site that will analyze any song on YouTube and show you the chords, karaoke style, while it plays. I'm trying to use it in Guitar Hero fashion, to improve my playing. This lovely little song is kicking my ass, though. Tempo and chord changes are not straightforward. Well, maybe they are, but I'm just not as familiar with them. I feel as awkward as when Sharon was trying to teach me to waltz. Or two-step. Or mambo...

Uncle Steve, Jere, Vivianne, Dad and the bicycle salmon motorcycle trip

 

Last night's dreaming was all over the map with regard to the people I interacted with. First, I dreamed I was in a situation where I was having to decide between whether to work for my uncle Steve doing screen-printing or to try some kind of editor job with my step mom from long ago, Jere. The editor job seemed more interesting; it involved photography and provided more steady hours.

Uncle Steve was once again upset with me. He was expecting to be able to just call me up out of the blue and say, "We got screen-printing to do. Come on, dude, let's knock it out." I was non-committal and told him about my other options. We were in some long, narrow storage closet, and he was pointing out a yellow outdoor wireless camera still in its packaging. 

"You're just jealous of that, aren't you? Well, you'd better not touch it!" he said, in his tit-for-tat, sour grapes type of fashion.

Then, in another dream section, I was talking to Vivianne Van Asperen, a friend from Sharon's past, who I mainly know these days on Facebook. We were talking about some particular kind of salmon. We decided to ride motorcycles up to some creek in the Santa Monica mountains to observe them in the wild.

The ride was kind of disjointed. At one point it was a bicycle and not a motorcycle. I was pretty nervous and lagging behind. Going downhill, I felt like I was traveling way too fast, and I was unaware of  any brakes, so I kept putting my feet down on the ground. Wearing only flip-flops, I was worried that I'd scrape my toes. Going uphill, I got tired and had trouble switching gears. Old people were pedaling faster than I was.

I kept getting separated from Vivianne. At some point, the bike had become a motorcycle, my usual Yamaha V-Star to be exact (the bike Uncle Steve left me). I was having trouble operating this thing, too. I was worried about the extreme amount of gravel on the road, so I pulled off to the side and took a detour through an apartment complex. It got narrower and narrower until I was just kind of funneled into a courtyard between two apartments.

As I was walking the bike past one of the apartments, I could swear I heard my father's voice coming from inside. I stopped for minute. I remembered that I had a previous dinner engagement with him, which I had flaked on to go riding with Vivianne, who was now long gone.

I thought how strange that I should coincidentally wind up at what I presumed must be my dad's apartment. I remember looking at the address and comparing it to a mental picture that I had and they were identical. I debated whether or not to knock on the door. It was going to be dark soon and I had to consider how I was going to get back home. I didn't trust myself to ride the motorcycle at night.

I turned around, parked the motorcycle and began looking it over. All kinds of things were wrong with it. The brake handle pivot pin kept falling out, and the faring looked like it had shrunk, but it had actually just come loose and was tilted to an unusable angle. The saddle bags were missing and, of course, the gas tank was still dented. Yep, same old bike.

I had no tools, but I began trying to work on it with a small pocket knife. A little kid with a toolbox full of new tools asked me if I needed to use anything. I began using his tools and thanked him.

His mother showed up. I thought to ask her, "Hey, does Paul Golding live there?"

"No," she said, "That's the actor, David Paul."

"Oh, he's in that one show, not Ally McBeal, but a similar one," I said. 

I knew the show in the dream, but I can't recall it now. It sounded logical at the time, as their voices had a similar quality. Kind of back East-y and almost Jewish relative sounding but without too much of an affectation. Anyway, I was kind of relieved, as it settled the dinner debate I was having with myself.

It was a pleasant conversation, and I was just enjoying the moment with the mother and her little boy. My plans for catching up with Vivianne were abandoned, but I was content just going with this new situation.

That's about it. I woke up at this point. Now here I am, writing down little bits and pieces of my odd, rambling dream narrative. Oh, I should add that I also woke up to pee between the Steve and Jere job show and the Vivianne salmon motorcycle odyssey.

During the intermission, I put on an audio book,"the Tibetan Book of the Dead," narrated by Patrick Horgan. I find the cadence of the reading and his stuffy English accent to be quite sleep inducing, when played at low volume. I can usually count on some strange dialogue in my dreams, where people I'm interacting with will be speaking in the exact verbiage of this ancient text.

Well, the birds are going to town, and it's not expected to rain today. I might as well join the real world.

Consolidating

 

I've been busy transcribing what little of a paper journal I have kept over the last few years into this blog. There will be some redundancy of thoughts, as I may have also entered a similar note in here. (What am I saying. This whole blog is one long, repetitively redundant thought.) The posts will be back dated and appear as journal entries for the dates on which they were originally penned.

Just trying to collect my thoughts, so to speak. Not that there's anything really brilliant to preserve. I'm just vain that way, and I have the hoarder gene. I may import other crap from my paper archives if I find the energy to do so. I'm not writing a book, but I am casually documenting my story. Whether it ever gets read by more than 2 or 3 people, I don't really care. I just need to get the words out of my head.

Another Bill dream

 

This is getting weird.

I dreamed of Uncle Bill again last night. This time he was here at my place, although it was a slightly different version of my place. The property seemed larger, and it was being farmed and tended by a whole team of Mexicans. They were very involved in keeping things maintained, whereas I was doing very little, to the dismay of Uncle Bill.

I remember him showing me how, if I picked up a rag and some spray cleaner, I could really make a doorway's rubber threshold shiny and new. I tried it, and it was kind of satisfying. It was in a building which doesn't exist in real life, and I told him as much:

"I really don't remember this building being here. Did you make it yourself?"

"Yeah, me and the others made it, but it needs a little work," he said.

I could see the sub-standard construction techniques very easily. It looked like someone had converted a portable mare motel into a three bedroom apartment. So the frame was galvanized steel piping with a layer of drywall and insulation and siding sandwiching it. There were gaps where the ceiling and wall were supposed to connect that were papered over. When I poked at the paper, I could see that it had been water damaged because the tin roof didn't even extend out far enough to cover the gaps.

"This whole thing has to be torn down," he said.

I got the impression, though, that we weren't going to do that and were most likely just going to live with it as it was for a while.

In another dream, far, far from this one, I met with Jay Herbert. (I sure hope he's not dead, given my track record this week.) Jay was a guy who I worked for part time in the early '90s. I was the  receptionist/VCR cleaning tech at his tiny TV, VCR and camcorder repair shop. I spent most of my time talking on a CB radio which he had set up on my workbench.

That's all background, and really not relevant to the dream. In the dream he was still Jay the TV repairman, still struggling to make ends meet, and I don't really recall anything other than the vibe I was getting from him.

"It's the great Jay Herbert," I said upon seeing him.

"Not that great. I need to find another place," he told me, "Maybe I'll go to work for a big conglomerate."

---

Well, that's about all I can pull out of my memory banks at the moment. Pretty fragmented and sketchy. I was told that if you write your dreams down you will have more of them and remember them better. Hey, I'm all for it. With TV programming being what it is, I could use some decent entertainment.

Dreams: the week in review

 

In the last week I have had dreams that included my uncle Steve, Grandpa Buckwitz, Bill Helton (aka Uncle Bill) and Sharon. Like most dreams they were fragmented and not easily retrievable. For the most part, they were not that earth-shattering, but the fact that I've been visited in my dreams by this many dead people in a week seems significant, if not downright alarming.
 

Steve was talking to me about something, and it seemed as if he maybe felt a little hurt that I wasn't seeing it his way. In the dream, I remember thinking how that was just like him, getting butthurt over something or other. Nice. I can still be a judgemental little snot in my dreams.

Grandpa was in his house and being evacuated (twice) for a threat of fire nearby. I witnessed a flaming 300 foot pine tree crashing onto several houses on the block. The sound it made when it hit the houses was like a bomb. I recall saying, "Oh, shit! This is it, guys, we gotta get outta here!"

The dream with Bill was some scene at Lake Isabella, in the garage of their place up there. I saw him and wanted to shake his hand as he was trying to give me a hug. It was a bit awkward, as I didn't let go of his hand while he kept trying to hug me. 

He asked me if I was still "riding that motorcycle," and he pointed to the Yamaha V-Star, which I own in real life. He smiled but looked a bit like he disapproved. He died from injuries sustained in a motorcycle accident in 1980, so I suppose that's to be expected.

I saw Sharon from a distance, in some long line of people, on the other side of a doorway or checkpoint. I surmised that I was supposed to stay on the other side of it.  She was destined to get to me eventually, but I was impatient and jumped past the checkpoint. 

"I hope that's not against the rules," I was thinking, but concluded, "Screw the rules, I wanna see her now!" Of course my dream was cut off before I could have my happy reunion.

I have been feeling like my earthly body is wearing a bit thin due to physical and mental exhaustion. If this is death's calling card, I suppose it won't be so bad after all. I'd really love to see these people again.

What does the fox say?

I should have known something was up a few weeks ago, when my older dog, Shadow began spending more time on the front deck. And when he developed the unfortunate new habit of pooping in close proximity to the house I could have picked up on the clue that something wasn't right in his world.

It was only when I noticed the dog food was being consumed at a much faster than normal rate (and the food bill going up commensurately) that Inspector Clouseau started putting the pieces together. Somebody vaz eating zee dog food, oui? So, I placed a trap on the back deck, near the dog food bowls and waited for my first customer. I wasn't sure what it would be. Racoon? Possum? Skunk? (eeew!)

Upon hear the trap door spring, I went out to check it. It turned out to be a small, but feisty grey fox. Feeling bad for the little guy struggling angrily in the cage, and not really having much of a strategy for after the actual trapping, I took the trap to the edge of my property and released him. 

"Now let that be a lesson to you," I yelled at him as he scurried out of the cage and down the road into the darkness.

I started bringing in the dog food at night to avoid attracting any new visitors. The next day, as if to say to the fox, "And don't come back," Shadow pooped on the deck for good measure. That ought to discourage any future dinner guests, must have been the logic. This is mine, I crapped on it, see?

It was the very next day that I spotted the little fellow on my property again, out near the barn in the early morning hours. He wasn't going to be driven off that easily. I wondered if he'd at least stay off the deck, seeing as there would be no food for him.

That night the little guy left his answer on the back deck, in the form of a little pile of fox poo which seemed to say:

 "This is what I think of you, you uncouth human scum, for trapping me and bringing in the food at night. Coward! And you, too, mangy pig-dog. You cannot frighten me away with your pathetic defecation tactics. I poop on your poop. Now go away, or I will taunt you a second time!" 

We were being heckled by a diminutive woodland creature with a shrill, French accent. I'm not going to say that he won or I won. He did get the last word in, though.

The spotted towhee is a lovely little bird that overwinters in my back yard shrubbery. It was nice to see them at first, with their happy little trills and striking coloration. But like Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds," it began to get a little spooky when their numbers began creeping up into the hundreds. Not the least of my concerns was their tendency to raid my dog's food in the daytime.

And like just about everyone else in this story, they seemed to have an affinity for pooping on the deck.

Between these winged scavengers by day and the fox at night, my poor guys weren't catching a break. My dogs now have about 20 minutes in the evening in which to consume their entire food for the day, prison style, looking over their shoulders for birds and foxes.

But unlike the fox, I decided I'd compromise with the birds by buying a $2 bird feeder and some birdseed. It took a while for them to find it, but they are reluctantly utilizing it. They still look around longingly for the dog's food bowls because they obviously prefer Purina One to wild bird seed.

So, to sum up, don't shit where you eat (unless you really feel the need to make a statement) and, "If you can't beat 'em, feed 'em."

If Buddha had an Ipad

I wonder how many more wise sayings we'd have gotten out of him? Or would it have cheapened the currency of the enlightened one for us to see his grocery list, personal itinerary and "notes to self" journal?

I don't have anything wise to contribute at the moment, except for this:

"Mindfulness is checking your pockets for dog biscuits before throwing your hoodie in the washing machine."  -- the sixteenth Karmapa, Rangjung Rigpe Dorje of Loma Rica

Oh, and scrubber sponges. Who knew?

Had a talk with my Dad today

 

It wasn't the heartfelt, cathartic Hallmark moment of reconciliation that I may have hoped for. One always wants things to go like they do in the movies, with tear-jerking orchestration and lost puppies  finding their way home to grateful, open arms. It was more like a call from an old high school football coach, several years after graduation, trying to persuade his old student to pickup the pigskin again. 

"Don't waste your talent, son. Why are you pushing a mop at the 7-11 when you got that golden arm? Whaddaya say, you and I meet down at the field? We can work on some plays. Come on!"

OK, it was less of a gritty "Rocky, get your ass in training" kind of call and more like an evening telemarketer's sales pitch for the You Be A Writer, Dammit Association. I have to give him credit for staying on topic. Try as I might, I couldn't really engage him much on any other avenue of discourse that didn't get snapped back to the framework of the message. Not quite a "Press one for English, two for Spanish" limited options menu, but not exactly like a live operator, either.

I suppose that's the second of these type of calls I've had in the last couple days. My mom hammered home the same idea during our lengthy conversation a couple of days ago. The difference is that she spent far more time indulging my pathetic rambling and really does try to engage with me, despite the draining effect that my negativity has on other humans. We do also share some common thoughts on the subject of my Dad.

I always get an bit of anxiety when I hear my father's voice. Too much nervous tension exists between us. I was not the ideal son. He was not the ideal father. No amount of revisionism can paint a different past than the one we had. I'm sure we both decided long ago that it was best to not maintain an aura of hostility, but I am not quite able to edit our story to the point where I can convince myself that my memories of him are fond ones. Although bridges were built, I feel we are both standing on opposite sides, very hesitant to step out onto them and actually meet in the middle.

He may see it differently. That is fine. I know I was not a planned conception. Having grown up mostly with my mom, I tend to believe her side of things. "You must have put holes in the condom," was his reaction as she remembered it, to news of my imminent appearance into the world. I tend to believe her because, like me, she is a master grudge keeper and storer-up of evidence to support and sustain those grudges over the years. To her credit, she is never one to be fooled twice.

I'm not mad. I'm not really afraid anymore, either. The authority figures in my life have turned into sideline coaches since I don't have the threat of punishment hanging over my head. "You be a writer! Or I'll...." You'll what? Be disappointed in me? Welcome to the club. I'm disappointed, too. In me, in you, in life and the whole rotten ball of it. I'm sorry for that. But being sorry about it doesn't make it less true.

I may continue to write, because I can't seem to shut up. I just probably won't write anything palatable for general readers. My perspective is highly introverted and distorted. Why would I expect to find an audience? No, I will write because it is in my nature, but it won't be the great American novel. Just as a little scrub oak isn't going to grow into a majestic redwood, no matter how much cajoling it receives from the forest community. I'm no Vonnegut, Orwell or Faulkner, though I may, in actual fact, be a Golding.

I tend to lack, or refuse to regularly employ, some basic writing skills.  For one, I prefer to use incomplete sentences. They represent my thought process. Incomplete. And grammar, well, I look at that as free form expressionism, to be utilized as I see fit on any given occasion. Staying on topic is another area of concern. As much as I might want to keep the train on the tracks, I find the side tracks to be unavoidable and more interesting than sticking to the rigid, point A to point B, story structure. Some of my errors are intentional, others I am blissfully ignorant of or simply do not give a damn about.

Then there is the problem of my audience. If I'm at home alone dancing in front of a mirror, that is embarrassing enough. Some thoughts never even leave my head. When I contemplate who might read something I've written, and their reaction or non-reaction, I get all stifled and verbally constipated. Am I writing for the Queen? Is someone's grandma going to run across this? I dread the mental judgements of others, so I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about how not to offend any living creature. I guess that's not so apparent from the earlier part of this post where I casually and callously caricaturized my parents with my blunt, reductive descriptions. (Oops, did that make it to the final draft?)

Maybe if I had a gun to my head and was given a list of things to write about, and a specific set of guidelines to adhere to, I could manage to avoid getting a shot for a while. But I suspect my insidious inner rebel would find a way to write with such an antagonistic tone as to be insubordinate or would just flat out refuse to write anything. Either way I'd get the bullet. Just shoot me now and we can avoid all the paperwork.

Finally, there's the issue of steam. I run out of it. Like now. I'm tired and I feel like quitting. So, I will. And the next time I write it will be on a different topic. Well, hopefully. But like the majority of things in our throw away culture, I will not revisit this little scrap of writing. Like toilet paper, it is single use only. And not some Smithsonian Institute, George Washington wiped his ass with this, kind of toilet paper. Just regular old toilet paper. Maybe two-ply, if I'm feeling generous.

Feel like I'm fixin' to die...again

I don't know what's going on, it feels like my guts aren't in their proper place. I have a pain in the center of my abdomen and feel the familiar bloating or fluid accumulating there. I'm weak and sort of nauseous and feel like I have low blood sugar and low oxygen.

I went to the store and it just about killed me to get all the groceries in the cart, then on the counter, then back in the cart, then in the car, then out of the car, then in the fridge...I had to pick today to go shopping for dog food and kitty litter. 40 and 50 lb bags. I'm just stubborn with my routines is all. Every other Wednesday is shopping day and that's that. I buy enough food to get by eating the same stuff every day. I have a few days of odd things and frozen foods for desperate situations, but today didn't seem like one of them.

Until it did.

Now, I'm sitting here wondering what am I going to do? Sadness trigger No. 42: "What do I do?" Sharon asked me, only a day or so before she died. It was one the last things she ever said, and I truly believe she just wanted to feel better. Like I do now. And for me, right now, I guess that means drenching my cheeks in tears.

I managed ok in the store, which is also a trigger. I shopped there so many times over the years, always for both of us. So now, when I pass certain items, I will be reminded of the last time I bought this or that product. And the whole time period comes back into focus. What she asked me to buy, what may or may not have been going through her mind at the time, whether or not I balked or gave her a hard time about it.

But mainly, that buying this item for her, in her condition where she could really only enjoy a few things, was somehow going to keep her going. If I just brought her the maple bar, the big chocolate Easter bunny, the Oreo cookies, the chocolate cake...it would somehow make her feel better, and I would be an ok guy, despite all my other shortcomings. She never really asked for anything unreasonable and was always grateful for whatever I got her.

I found the promise of products to produce happiness to be temporary, though. She'd still get worse, and maybe not enjoy the maple bar or the pizza or the occasional beer that she'd ask for. She really wanted to keep things going and still be the same, but even that couldn't happen. No matter how bad she got, there was always a lower, yet unforeseen level of disability that she would have to endure.

I asked her what kept her going. For a while it was food, sex and TV shows. She was still bedridden, but I guess I can call those the good ol' days. She could talk, even scream at me, very clearly and feed herself and oh, you know, the usual stuff we all take for granted. Showering with assistance, rolling over on her own in bed. I guess the milestones added up, because when sex was no longer possible (and believe me, we kept that going right up to the point of failure and beyond) it put a nail in the coffin that was pretty much the death of her.

But she kept on going. It was food and TV shows for a while, but then she couldn't feed herself, or stay awake through much of anything. So I would feed her and she would re-watch shows a couple of times until she had gotten the gist of it. Then she just gave up trying to watch and let them play as a way of inducing sleep. She couldn't even click with her one mouse finger or see much of anything on the computer screen, so I'd set up 4 hours or so worth of downloaded shows, and she'd drift in and out of sleep. I did my chores or tried to find an activity to do during those hours.

As fucked up as those days were, I still miss them and wish I could rewind my life to that point, in order to take in as much of the good and erase all the bad that I did. I don't know if I could be a better caregiver now, but I sure would realize what was at stake. I would find a way to show her the love that I felt so devoid of at the time, but now realize mattered more than anything else that I did for her.

Right now, as crappy as I feel, I can still type. I can sit in a chair. I feel like lying down and just sleeping, but it's too early. I should probably eat something. I went shopping, but nothing sounds good. I may just skip dinner and lie down and listen to Enya. It was her death music. I played it to soothe her when she was in her final end stage. I knew they were her final days, and I didn't know what else to do. I feel like it's my end days, too. And I don't know what to do.

Going shopping didn't help. Doing my sit ups and pushups this morning didn't help, either. Sitting here writing is keeping my mind off of my pain, but it is also making me weaker to spend so much time in this chair. I went for a walk yesterday and the fresh air seemed to help. I stopped and talked to a neighbor up the road and was completely unaware of any pain or fatigue for the moment. But trudging back home, I got heavier and heavier.

I'd finished out my afternoon stuff and wasn't feeling too terrible, so I ate dinner and wrote an email. These emails have been keeping my mind and spirit more alert. I have to focus a bit and consider that there is a person at the other end of the email with whom I wish to communicate. I must be tidy and thoughtful, not random and off the cuff like this blog. I have to care about something, someone else for a change.

People are being too nice to me, and it's forcing me to try to live up to their expectations. It's easier being alone and not dealing with anyone, but it's also pretty damn lonely. And boring. And hellish. I can only take so much of that, and then I break. I'll be a good boy; don't put me back in the box. But I'm still ready to hide out at the drop of a hat, kind of like when my cats scamper under the bed when I turn on the vacuum cleaner. Or drop anything on the floor. Or make an extra loud crinkle sound with a paper bag.

Well, that's it for now. I've exhausted myself  for the day. I'll have to wait to see what tomorrow brings.

Thought I'd rewrite the 12 steps to make them easier

 

I had a thought that maybe a 12 step program would be helpful to someone like me. However, upon glancing at the actual 12 steps I found them to be outdated, inapplicable and well, just too darn hard. So I rewrote them to make them more convenient and easily achievable.


I've included both original and extra-crispy recipes.

1. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable.

1. Continue to tell myself that alcohol really has no bearing on my unmanageable life (because it doesn't). I can quit any time. See, I already have! Sure, I'll miss it like a friend, but it wasn't really my best friend anyway. More of an associate.

 

2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

2. Continue to be skeptical as to the existence of any higher Power or their ability/desire to assist me in any way with my sanity, or anything else for that matter.

3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.

3. Skip this step. See step 2.

4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.

4. Make a selective and highly redacted moral inventory of myself, skipping over the bad points and heaping credit on myself for the character that I've created in my mind.

5. Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.

5. Skip this step. Too hard and entirely unnecessary as predicated in steps 2 and 4.
 

6. Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.

6. Sure, why not? As long as I don't have to admit any of these alleged defects to this fictional being or do any actual work to change anything. Go ahead, God, do your worst. Zap away!


7. Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.

7. I'm not going to humbly do anything. Next.

8. Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.

8. Making a list of all the people I've wronged and addressing them all individually would mean having to admit to the defects that I've clearly avoided in step 4, so...Next.


9. Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.


9. Unnecessary step. No defects, no list, therefore, no amends. Continue to treat people in the manner to which they have become accustomed.

10. Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.

10. Continue to insist on my own blamelessness and never admit to anything, even if shown evidence.

11. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.

11. Blah, blah, blah. God, prayer, "His will." Please! We've been over this in the previously skipped steps. No.

12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.

12. Continue to wait for the the never to be achieved, fabled "spiritual awakening" until hell freezes over while living my life exactly as I always have. The end. Tell a friend.

While I still can (unposted draft to my Facebook friends)

While I still can, I’d like to say to my friends out there…well, it’s hard to generalize and make a one size fits all statement, but here goes:

Sorry for all the shit I’ve pulled. I hope I didn’t leave too bad of an impression on this world or hurt anyone too badly. Regret is something I’m living with for my failings with Sharon, but I’m sure it doesn’t stop there.

I’ve been neglectful, selfish and cold towards just about everyone. Even this apology seems contrived. A conniving way to make myself feel better, in a time when I’m reaping the results of my choices. I should probably just stop behaving poorly and start acting like a member of the human race again. My longtime excuse of, “I don’t know how!” never garnered me much sympathy when I’d use it with Sharon, so I’ll have to retire it.

Being concise was also never my strong point, but once again, I’ll do my best to not ramble on and on.

I’ve been telling myself that I’m avoiding interaction on Facebook because I want to spare the world of my “dark cloud.” There are very few people that I feel would tolerate much of that kind of crap, and even the closest of friends have limits. So, to not wear out my welcome, I’ve been hiding out. Waiting for the day when the sun would shine again, and I could come back outside. But I fear I have just gotten further and further away from any ability to return from this.

So, as I sit here, in a fair amount of physical and an extreme amount of emotional pain, I figured I would reach out while I still can. I hope I can recover and be a part of things again. But right now, I’m tired. I’m losing the will to keep going. Whatever will happen, will happen. I just don’t want to leave this earth with people thinking I didn’t care enough to say, “Thanks for being in my life.”

Sorry for the drama, people. I guess it’s just who I am. I hope everyone is doing OK on their journey. Everyone has their own struggle to get through. If there’s anything I can do for anyone, let me know. I’m still here.

The drama queen who cried wolf

I don't feel well today. I have a pain in my right lower rib and side. I may have pulled something, I may have slept wrong or it may be something worse. I feel sick. Kind of a washed up, toxic sick, but with the added business of my rib hurting. Whatever. Who cares what the specifics are. I'm not going to the doctor. Not yet, or ever if I can maintain my stubbornness. If I do die, I'm hoping it will be quicker than this.

I've felt worse, but I always get alarmed when my overall bad feeling lasts more than a couple of days. I really feel bad. So much so that I worked on my will today. In the event of my death, I have a notification letter that will auto-email if I don't constantly reset the send date. This will go out to 2 people, mainly to give them a heads up to come take care of my pets. But they will also be instructed to call my mom and father-in-law. The information about my will is on the computer, not really notarized or particularly well thought-out, even.

Not sure why I'm writing this. I just feel like I may not get better, and so I should say something. What that is, I have no idea. Goodbye? It's been nice decomposing with you?

No, I haven't

 

Check back in a month or two. Or don't. I don't see that it will make much difference. Anyone would be hard pressed to glean anything useful from reading any further, so you're welcome. I've answered your question already and saved you all that time. And the answer is "no."  Just...no. Happy Valentine's Day.

fucks for the day

 

A tree fell on the fence, I burnt the toast and Boomerang accidentally sent out my stupid "Death notification" email all in an hour's time. I threw the toast on the floor, scared the cats and made a further mess. I can't cope with life at all. Why can't I just....FUCK! NEVER FUCKING MIND.

I can hear the goddamn tsks of the righteously patient, non-petty minds at work right now. "You know what your problem is? Entitlement. You think you have it so bad. Oh, poor baby! Look around, there are so many others in the world whose lot is far worse than yours. And do you hear them complaining about it? No, they are among the most grateful people in the world. Happy for a scrap of bread. Happy for a roof over their head. Look at the Campfire refugees. Happy to be alive or find their lost cat while living in a tent. Why can't you be more like that?"

Is that where you are all going with your SMHs? I guess you wouldn't know, being you. But I'm never going to accept the argument that because other people's lives suck worse than mine, and they are happier, that I should get on board, smile and say, "Thank you, God, may I have another?" That's real good advertising, "Our product doesn't suck nearly as much as the other brand!" Aren't ya proud, then? Good on ya, lad.

Be inside my miserable fucking head for minute and feel free to rearrange the furniture. See how you like it. See if your experience would lead you to say, "Burn it down. Burn it all down. It's a total loss." Or do you think you could patiently, lovingly pick up the mess and keep what's still salvageable and untangle and remove all the junk?

I'm guilty because I'm sitting around in the wreck of what was my life and just quietly mourning it. And the only time I feel alive is when some new fucking problem rears up and stabs me, and I realize I can still be a reactive, angry asshole.

Hallelujah, I'm still alive. I'm still feeling shit. Oh, thank you, O, wondrous Creator of all that is, for this blessed experience of humanity. Now take your gift of life and shove it up your black hole. I never asked for it and it doesn't fit right. Oh, you thought I'd like it, why? Because that's what you'd like? You just give people shitty gifts because that's what you would like to get? How about letting us decide instead of forcing your own ideas on everyone?

Because we'd just pick something stupid and get ourselves into trouble? Nah, I couldn't imagine a universe with more fucked up possibilities than the one we are already in. If I could, I'm sure it already exists, thanks to your Quantum Geniusness.

There. I ran out of steam. Is that what you wanted? Let the baby throw a fit, he'll calm down. Maybe he'll sleep better tonight. Look, he's worn himself out.

Well, that went swimmingly (my disability evaluation)

 

Literally, from the drive down there on rain flooded roads to the interviewer eliciting tears from the very first question, everything went off like a programmable sprinkler timer. I was worried that I was going to be on trial and have to make a speech defending my status. I can come off like I'm confident, competent and together on account of I'm so self-aware and can string together two coherent sentences. I was worried that I would appear to be faking having a "disability." They can spot that sort of thing, you know.

But right from the get-go, I am asked the one big question, "What happened that you can't work?" And as I begin to tell my story, Sharon's and my story, I fall apart all over again. I recounted the years and events that led me to the state that I'm in and the damage was apparent. The interviewer concluded with his diagnosis. Drum roll...."Depression."

He was full of advice. I need therapy and have a lot to work through. He wasn't an anti-depressant pusher, which was refreshing. I told him those things frightened me, but that I would, however, consider participating in a trial where psilocybin is used to facilitate a life changing experience. He actually encouraged me to seek this out, despite the legalities. He's not the first psychologist that I've run into that was sympathetic to that avenue of therapy. But he also suggested that I do a "cleansing" of my home, as in spiritual cleansing, to rid the place of the energy from Sharon's illness.

I'm not poo-pooing the hippy dude's ideas. I'm just grateful that he wasn't an old guard conservative shrink that is just out to make lots of cuts for Trump. The Reagan era was very unkind to the mentally ill.

Anyway, I will see what happens in a few months. I am preparing mentally to be cut off, thinking I don't deserve benefits anyway. Now that I'm not taking care of Sharon, the universe will stop holding the umbrella over me. I'll get washed away by the rain, but it won't be unexpected. That's where negative thinking comes in handy. You're always expecting the worst, so you are never caught off guard and are rarely disappointed.

It may take a while for me to wind up homeless, but one never knows, what with karma and all.  I just look at it like my dental issues--I hope to not live long enough for it to matter. I just don't want to endure any more real hardship.

Oh, and I'll shut up when I'm dead. The cake's not done. Take that, you stick-poking freaks.

no way out

 

I was gonna say something to the effect of...
but then, why?

I look around my room at the possessions I have. I almost wish they'd been burned in the fire. I have nowhere to set my eyes that doesn't trigger my melancholy. But I guess even if I close my eyes, I still see things that upset me. It really only takes one simple thought. A word. And then images and stories result in my crying and wailing and wishing I could crawl into anything to escape this.

But when I am free from the pain, if I leave my mind blank or find some distraction for a spell, a creeping feeling of loss comes over me. Like, I've lost the only thing that means anything to me: my grief. Now, who am I? Post-caregiver, mechanic, suffering "sain't." Nobody. Nothing. Wanderer in my own bardo of grey, endless days and indistinguishable nights.

I'd rather be a defined sad-sack of misery than this nothingness that I feel taking over. Conscious emptiness. What a fucked  up matrix for reality. I just need a better character to play. I'm sure not going to enjoy nirvana.

the black fly

 

I'm here for just one reason: contrast. I figured it out. I'm only here because light needs darkness in order to feel like it is illuminating something.

I'm the black fly in your chardonnay. The stubbing of your toe on your beautiful nature hike. The ants in your picnic basket, the cancer diagnosis on your birthday. I'm the cop who gives you at ticket, the dog who bites. The one sock in your laundry. I'm the burnt on stain in your pristine cookware, the chipped china teacup. I'm the bad tooth, the rotten apple, the bad guy, the spoiler. I'm fungus, mosquitoes, potholes and pain.

I give everything good its status by virtue of my being bad. How would you know you were having a good day, unless you had something to compare it to?

And to make sure I don't get to feeling too self-important, I'm not really a perfect example, even in my role as evil incarnate. Because, I'm not pure enough. I have a few "flaws" that disqualify me from achieving archetypal Hitler status. I'm just me. Somewhere pretty far down the scale from decent human being but a few ticks up from demon.

This has all been said and philosophized before, by more articulate minds than myself, so why am I so persistent in my unoriginal ranting? I dunno. Why do people feel the need to remake perfectly good classic movies or songs every 10 to 20 years? What expression does a flower have that hasn't been seen a million times before? You've seen one redwood, you've seen them all, right?

I guess the same could be said of me. You've seen the tortured, self-critical sap show once and the rest are re-runs. Fire the writers or cancel the show. No one's tuning in. Can't even come up with original material. Stealing from Alanis Morissette and Ronald Reagan. Tsk tsk. I'm claiming the hip hop rule of thumb for sampling, if it's nine seconds or less it isn't copyright infringement, it's art. And if you cite the original source it's not plagiarism.

And what is it called when you rely on spell-checkers so much that you question every word, even those you are certain about? Weak. That's what it's called. One needs to stand firm in their own mind and not be swayed by consensus definitions, grammar or morality, for that matter. Someday, when this is all unearthed there will only be a reverence for the uniquely styled voices that did not conform. Everything else will be vats of stale vanilla pudding.

Planning a little trip

I recently took note of the date that I proposed to Sharon. I found it in the digital photo data "date taken." I guess we never really remembered that date, though we never forgot the place or circumstances.

We were beginning our 2002 summer vacation. It was to start in Crescent City and conclude in San Diego. On the way down the coast we would stop at as many lighthouses and breweries as we could cram in. The first night in Crescent city is when I popped the question, on the beach, all bundled up for the cold. I'll never forget her response, "No way!" That was her incredulity talking, not a rejection and she quickly said, "yes."

She had twisted her ankle only days before the trip so she hobbled everywhere we went, but it wasn't going to stop her. We even hobbled around Tijuana and haggled with the shopkeepers and returned with armfuls of souvenirs. That's how determined she was.

I think about that trip, and all of our coast excursions, and of course, it brings me to tears. At one point we considered moving to the coast for her health, and Crescent City was one place on our list. We had so many plans, so many possibilities. Then we moved to Loma Rica and never went on another vacation again. She was too ill to travel, and we were too caught up in things having to do with maintaining the house.

I just keep transporting to these different memories, and all I get is this sad nostalgia. The fact that I will never again do those things with her just keeps hitting me.

I am planning another trip to Crescent City and maybe a couple other places to continue my plan of scattering her ashes on all the beaches we went to. The difficult ones are going to be Bandon, Oregon and San Diego. I just don't know if I have another epic trip like that in me. I have the dogs and cats to think of. The cats would be ok, but I'd need to have someone look after the dogs. Make sure the birds didn't eat all their food.

I may go for 4 days though, because the day of the proposal is within a couple days of our wedding anniversary. I can't see making two trips in one week, but hotels aren't cheap in the summer, either. I'm still planning it. Either way, it's going to be tough. Just like the trip to Fort Bragg last summer.

I can't believe I'm saying last summer already. I will be 11 months on the 15th of Feb. Almost a year. And I am in no better shape than the first week. In many ways, I think I'm worse off.

Screw originality, I'll take this instead

When I find myself picking up the guitar, I realize now that I would be content to just play "Cause We've Ended as Lovers" even if it meant I never came up with an original musical idea of my own ever again.   

Jeff Beck's instrumental version of a Stevie Wonder song. 

 
Random YouTube guy's version with better visuals, but not faithful enough to the Jeff Beck version.

Mindful Nazis or Where Does the Poop Go?

 

Is it possible to be an enlightened asshole? A super-aware, conscious psychopath? The two aren't mutually exclusive. And does that mean you are for sure, absolutely "going to hell?" I mean, if you are aware of the full scope and intent of your uncompassionate, selfish acts and are OK with it, "letting all things be as they are," so to speak? Simple awareness of being aware (and what you are aware of is that you are a jerk). Ignorance cannot be pleaded, I'm guessing.

Is guilt imputed by a jury of one's peers? If so, how far out does one's peer group extend? I mean, are you just being judged by other Nazis? Can you select your own jury? Or is there another, higher entity that gets involved when one's conscience is inoperative, or operates outside of certain parameters? Maybe one is not really aware until one feels the results of their actions from every other viewpoint in the universe. Is that the life review we are told about in the big book of karmic fairy tales?

I'm not totally discrediting fairy tales. Someone, at some point may have seen some fairies and just had to tell about it. Show me the boot prints, I'll give them a look.

I'm going back to my vacuuming. This was an exercise in futility. For anyone waiting for me to have a single thought worth a damn, sorry. It wasn't today.

"And another thing," as my wife was fond of saying. You may be familiar with the new age-y saying that "we are all unique expressions of the divine"  or some such drivel. So, without getting into free will or any of that at the moment, let's just examine this statement. Does this mean that my idiotic ravings or the pathetic way I live my life is a manifestation of the infinite, majestic Source? And is he/she/it OK with it?

The Christian perspective would let God take the credit for all the good in the world and lay the blame for all the other unpleasantness on the sin of man. Glorious sunsets, rainbows and waterfalls, that's all Me. Poop and baby killing, well, you ate the apple, baby. Bad on you and that evil snake. If you hadn't done that, you could have lived forever in the garden, eaten the fruit of all the other trees, and there would magically be no poop to fuck up your idea of paradise.

(So, did God invent the asshole before or after the Fall? He's getting credit for it either way, in my book.)

The Buddhist would skirt the issue saying, well, none of it is real anyway. You were never born, and so, you never die. You, as a separate you, do not exist. No harm, no foul. It's just a dream, a nice interesting story, all parts are being played by the Infinite awareness. So, this is God hitting himself, then. Why are you hitting yourself, God, huh? Why? Do you like that? How 'bout that?

So, if we are all these unique expressions of God, then the Source has got some pretty messed up role playing fantasies going on. Such a voyeuristic, masturbatory entity, this All-that-is fellow. I declare this universe's experiment with infinite possibilities to be a failure. I would like it to conclude now, and I want the perpetrator to be held accountable.

Thank you,
The management.

 

 

Shut Up

 

That's the message I'm getting.




OK.

Are there no happy endings?

 

The dog story a couple of weeks ago made an ugly turn today. They little escape artists followed me again. I surmised that the people are not exactly nice pet owners from having seen them dragging one puppy by the ear and from the fact that they weren't even attempting to fix their fences to keep the puppies from running in the street. So I let them (didn't have much choice) follow me home. They hung around outside my house for several hours, exploring the property and being mischievous little rascals.

Having previously dealt with the owners, and having witnessed the ear dragging, this time I called animal control because I felt they were unfit owners. No telling where these pups might wind up, most likely in traffic on the main road. But seeing the poor little guys getting loaded up in the truck made my heart wrench. I had betrayed these little guys, who thought they were just paying me a fun visit. One minute fighting and tussling on the lawn, the next minute in the back of some truck, headed for a noisy shelter and a long, confusing process of impoundment.

So, maybe the owners will claim them. Not the happiest of endings, if nothing changes. Or maybe they get adopted out after the 2 week waiting period. Perhaps split up, never to see each other again. No more carefree playing or roaming. Maybe someone will adopt both of them and give them the perfect life--yeah, right, because this world is so fucking fair and everything always works out perfectly.

I feel bad either way. If I ignored the problem, well, I couldn't...they literally followed me home. But if I somehow managed to get them back to the owners and never walked by their house again, the problem of them escaping and maybe getting hit by a car would still exist. But I wouldn't feel like I betrayed two little pups who just wanted to have a fun day with an interesting human.

It's like sending a relative off to a nursing home because it's "for the best." Maybe it is, but it sure doesn't feel that way. And I'm guessing for the pups it doesn't feel too good, either.

here's what i'm gonna do

i'm gonna document all the crap that makes me cry, for whatever reason, and see where and how it gets to me. here's one:

I was scrolling along, reading random junk on Fakebook and saw this. I cruised through it til I got to the phrase "a year ago" and then I lost it. I didn't like who I was a year ago, but I guess I felt more worthwhile than I do right now. I had a purpose that kept me alive. I didn't enjoy it much, if at all, but it gave me a sense of worth. As long as I was taking care of Sharon, I meant something.

Sure, I had problems a year ago, different ones. And I hated life, was bitter and miserable. Two years ago I also hated life, had problems and was bitter and miserable. Looking back, I see that it's been a slow process of life taking things from me and me looking at what's left with so much disdain. I'm not a glass half-full guy. I'm a glass half-empty, and by the way, it's chipped and who knows how long that water has been sitting there, may as well chuck it kind of guy.

So, when I think of a year ago, as fucked up as it was for me and Sharon, I look at it and wail. Because it's gone forever, and I can never get it back. I have no purpose, and Sharon is gone--to who knows where.

I do try, daily, to find things that will make me happy. All are dead ends, so far.

Music, blah.

Fishing, whatever.

Bike ride, nah.

Grief group, why?

Contemplate going back to work, are you fucking kidding me?

Contemplate being cut off of disability, yeah, sure, probably happen. Is that supposed to make me happy?

Contemplate man with no arms and no legs (not named Bob or Art) and think of how goddamn lucky I am to have appendages, sure, add guilt to my awareness package, thanks!

Please don't anyone suggest anything, I'll just shoot holes in it and bum you out and make you wish you never entertained the idea of trying to cheer me up. It's what I do.

Who I was a year ago was a slightly better, less messed up version of me than today. Or at least there were still some illusions I could still entertain that were convincing enough to make life seem like it was still worth waking up for every day. I don't know if I'll be around next year to make these comparisons.

Here's another one. 1921 by the Who. How random, right?

I've got a feeling twenty one
Is going to be a good year.
Especially if you and me
See it in together.
So you think 21 is going to be a good year.
It could be for me and her,
But you and her-no never!
I have no reason to be over optimistic,
But somehow when you smile
I could brave bad weather

New Year's Day, a day to start anew. People look forward to ringing it in with those they love. Well, this year it was just me, looking back and realizing that I was never going to have that again. So, that bottle of champagne will sit there til hell freezes over. We were too tired to drink it last year or the year before. Old farts, we stopped staying up to listen to the gunfire at midnight or even watch the ball drop on the east coast at 9.

So, '21 or '20 or '19 aren't likely to be good years, and I don't have your smile to help me brave bad weather anymore. Just memories, which, of course will make me sad.