My shrink keeps canceling on me

 

I can't imagine why. Am I that difficult? I suppose if I can wear out my own mother with my negativity, there's a chance that even a paid professional would find dealing with me above their pay grade. 

Oh, well, I'm supposed to say, "It's not me, it's her. She really did get sick two times in the last month on the day of my appointment." 

When she called, though, she committed the faux pas of not using her "sick voice." Come on, if you're going to do the old calling in sick routine, at least work it. I've been around, I know how it's supposed to work.

That was going to be my distraction for the day. My one activity. Now what the hell am I supposed to do to while away the boring hours until I can go to sleep again?

Triggered by my asshole neighbor

 

I like to think of myself as level-headed, emotionally stable and non-reactive...said somebody other than myself about somebody other than myself. 

Yesterday, while out on my walk, I saw a car creeping slowly through the neighborhood. Either someone lost or up to no good, in my estimation. No one drives 2 miles per hour up the length of the whole street. I readied my camera to photograph his license number for future reference, in case any crimes wound up being reported. As I walked up the block, I could see his car stopped in front of my neighbor's house and heard loud voices.

I kept approaching and saw that my neighbor, Rocky, was engaged in an argument with the driver of a BMW convertible. They were arguing about what the guy was doing driving so slow, but apparently they also had some history. This guy was the neighbor who had called animal control on my friend, resulting in him having to get rid of his dog. 

The dog was a Great Pyrenees named Sheila, who was accused of excessive barking. To her credit, she was protecting livestock and keeping the area free from coyotes and foxes. After the complaint Rocky had to keep the dog indoors at night, resulting in the loss of about 24 chickens. He eventually gave the dog to someone else, because the dog was miserable, being unable to do her job of guarding the property.

I walked up to a full on shouting match between these two men. I admit, I already had a bias against the guy who'd complained to animal control. Shit, you live in the country. Dogs bark. Fucking get used to the idea. But this guy was one of those "I'm right and I'm never going to be convinced of any other possible viewpoints than my own" type of people. His voice oozed with contempt, condescension and smarminess. 

I wanted to be a neutral, voice of reason type of bystander, but found that I was seething at this guy's arrogance. Now I was in danger of getting riled up and calling the guy a jerkwad fucktard who ought to go die or at least move. But I kinda restrained myself. The few comments I attempted to make were shouted down by this bellowing idiot anyway.

So, I took out my camera and videotaped his obnoxious rant, along with my neighbor's attempt at reasoned discussion. Turning on a recording device can sometimes have the effect of making everyone more thoughtful and conscious of what they are saying. No one wants to be perceived as being an out of control asshole. But it didn't slow this guy's roll at all, no siree.

I began to think, man, we are in trouble. There are people in this world who are just unreachable with logic or common sense. It is evident in our political discourse. Even the side I normally would support is guilty of not seeing the other side as human, much less admitting to any errors in their own viewpoint.  If I can get triggered so easily, I imagine it's not going to be easy to heal the differences in this country.

We're gonna need that extra terrestrial threat to bring us all together after all, Ronnie.

Killing zombies in a riverfront apocalypse

 

I'd avoided the actual killing of zombies up until this point, but now I was face to face with an undead Rick Johnson, armed with only a flimsy steak knife. He was freshly dead, so all that tripe about stabbing them in the brain and them quickly going down was not applicable. His skull and sinews were very resilient, not some rotten eggshell that was easily penetrable. 

I stabbed him in the eye and kept trying to find that sweet spot in the back of the eye socket. But he kept on struggling full force as the knife bent and slid around, missing its target. The whole process was taking an unbearably long time and was making me squeamish. I finally got him to go down, after slowly, deliberately pushing the steak knife all the way through to the back of his skull.

Prior to that I had been in the river, which, in itself, was a bad idea. It was flowing too fast, and there was a raging meat grinder of a waterfall, that one would certainly get sucked into, just a quarter mile downstream. I was there wading in waist high water, attempting to talk my friend Rob Peavey out of going that way. 

In my attempt to dissuade him, as I described what would happen if he lingered in that part of the river, my exact description of events began to happen to me. I was inextricably sucked toward this class 5, unsurvivable funnel of churning death. 

Once again, as inevitable death approached, I found myself teleported to a different locale, within the same zombie infested reality, unaware of how I'd gotten there. I found myself holed up in a house with several other people, one of whom had left the door open just enough for Rick Johnson to gain entry.

I felt really bad after killing him. Being so freshly reanimated, it was like killing a normal human being. I didn't get that whole zombie killing emotional pass. It felt like I'd just killed my friend Rick with a steak knife, which was a pretty nauseating, guilty feeling.

I've been having terrible insomnia lately, waking up in the middle of the night for hours after getting to bed at the already late hour of 1:30 or 2. Last night Whiskey barked for the first time in more than 6 months. Longer, possibly, I don't know. 

I can't remember the last time he barked. But this was a deliberate, albeit raspy and out of practice bark of territorial invasion. He did this on 2 separate occasions, and I went outside both times with a flashlight to see what he was objecting to. All I found was a cat in some proximity to the backyard, but certainly nothing that he wasn't used to seeing every day. 

The guinea hens were all lined up, perched on the back fence. Whatever it was remains a mystery, although I did chase the cat away for good measure. I have to check on the guinea hens, since the cat is obviously going to persist at his attempts to hunt them down. I may have to take things up a level by repatriating him to his home next door and sealing off the perimeter.

Supermodels poop, too

 

For some reason that's the only gemstone I'm carrying with me from last night's dreaming. I was in a conversation with a scantily clad supermodel, when she seamlessly shed her clothes and announced: "I have to poop." 

Being a voyeur as always, I ran around to the other side of the room, where a mirror afforded me a close up view of all the anatomical details. 

I realized that supermodel poop was just as messy as normal people poop, and in this case, possibly more so. It was a sticky, chocolate pudding affair, with lots of smeary wiping going on. I had a moment of detached caregiver disgust, as I rated it up there with some of the worst bowl movement cleanups I had ever participated in. 

She was unperturbed and tried to keep up the conversation as if nothing were going on. I finally had enough of the puddingy image burned in my mind and found elsewhere to look. This was going to take a while, and the initial fascination had left me. I supposed that she would eventually clean herself up and regain her supermodel status, but the bloom had come off the rose.

I began to ponder why exactly it is that angels don't poop, when they are able to eat food as humans do. I thus began revisiting all my arguments and disagreements with this matter world's configuration and parameters. Is this kind of thing really necessary? I mean who thinks up this kind of an ecology, given an infinite range of possibilities for design, where poop is the universal constant?

The Anger in Our Dreams

 

I wonder where it comes from, the anger in our dreams? Is it left over, unspent anger from the day or is it freshly generated for the occasion? No matter. I'm just here to report, not editorialize. 

I dreamed about Sharon, Meaty, Dummy and a baby chick. Sharon was in bed, while I was up and surveying a mess in the living room, created by our two cats, Meaty and Dummy. They had gotten into some fresh eggs, and there was a mess of shells and yolks strewn about the tile floor. 

The disheveled furniture indicated that a great struggle had taken place. I spied a lone baby chick trying to hide its tiny yellow body from the predators. I scooped up the little creature and began to pet its feathers. I spoke soothingly to it as I brought it into the bedroom to show Sharon.

"It looks like I'm going to be in the chicken raising business sooner than I had expected," I said mentally making plans for a chicken wire enclosure in the house. "I'll need to set up a heat lamp, build a cage, etc..." Sharon was keen on the idea, but as usual was quick to add her knowledge and experience to the discussion, quelling my enthusiasm somewhat.

In the process of me grabbing for a roll of recently purchased chicken wire, I dropped the chick. It scurried off into the waiting maw of Meaty. 

I chased the cat around, cursing and screaming, "I hate you! Let it go! Let it go! I hate you! You evil, vile killer!"

It was no use. The chick was already eaten, only a few feathers protruding from the fat cat's smug mouth. I went in to the bedroom to report the sad event to Sharon and found her already crying.

"I heard you yelling at the cat," she said. 

I knew that she was just as upset at me for my anger as she was about the little chick's demise and not at all at Meaty, who was, after all, just being a cat. Some kind of discussion of blame and proper chicken handling procedures ensued, with me being the shamed student and her, the wise bedridden Buddha. 

It ended there, the anger still present, along with the adrenaline from the chasing of the cat, as I awoke.

I went outside to turn off the sprinklers before they came on at 6 o'clock and ruined my chances for mowing this Saturday morning. The guinea hens were all perched in a row on the back fence, unaware of my nocturnal chicken tragedy. 

Good, now on with the day, before I lose momentum.

Gonna plummet in the drink

 

I don't remember much of my dream due to constant having to get up in the middle of the night to pee. I probably have a bladder infection or am dehydrating myself trying to flush out some bacteria. 

But this much I remember: I was in some kind of desert canyon resort. There were others there, but they were not people I know. Except possibly a Hannelore Krueger type of person, who was not her, but reminded me of Sharon's cousin.

I was deciding to catch some rays and relax on a ledge near the river. It was one of those treacherously inaccessible spots, made more enticing by its difficult location. I climbed up from the river side, navigating the steep ascent and feeling pretty good about myself for the accomplishment. 

As I lay there, I saw a salmon swim by. Damn, and I'd forgotten my fishing pole. Down I went to fetch it. Only instead of making it back to the same spot, I found myself trapped in another area of the river canyon. 

This place was accessible only by climbing a poorly constructed but wonderfully ornate wooden trellis. What are trellises for, if not for climbing? And yet these resort owners had put all of their money into the nice wood stain and optics of this decorative structure and failed to secure it to anything. It wasn't even held together with much more than good thoughts.

I was in a desperate situation, swaying this way and that, and unable to go forward or back. I was dangling out over the river, destined to fall in if the structure gave way.

I called for help and Faux Hannelore tossed me a phone. The phone belonged to a guy I recognized from TV shows, who played Todd, the super-nice fat guy on "The Last Man on Earth." 

 

I thanked him but promptly dropped his phone in the river. I was sure it would be a goner, sunk to the bottom--but, lo and behold, when I reached down for it it, there it was. A floater. And waterproof, too, by the looks of it. 

I yelled to Todd and Hannelore, "It's OK!"

That still didn't solve my predicament. I was just going to have to hang and sway for a while, until I could think of something else. But I never did. By this time, I was ready to wake up anyway. I had to get up to pee, so that saved me.

It's a busy day, I have an early shrink appointment. And my blinking Sharon LED is letting me know, "It's time to walk Whiskey and get on with it already, Mr. Longwinded." God, I love that little LED.

Testing...one, two, three

Trying to add my other email as an author to this blog. That will save untold time and energy logging in and out. I'm not sure it will show up as goldingranch or as unknown. Regardless, I'm the only one here.

Horoscope: Don't read this if your name is Jenny Bennett

 

"Try to get as much sleep as you can tonight," was the generic advice of my newspaper horoscope yesterday. Duh, I think that's usually the plan. Well, this time I can appreciate the timeliness. 

Sue me if I like having porn dreams about my high school friends, I don't care. 

"We're going to have sex once per day," Jenny Bennett told me. "Somehow, somewhere." 

I believe it was at my parents house in Minnesota. We were both staying there as a kind of resort with all the amenities. She was letting me know that she was one of the luxuries that I'd be privy to. 

I liked the proposition, but of course I was going to try to finagle my way around the "only one time per day" rule. I found out that kissing didn't count, so I sampled a lot of those. Because I don't drink enough water at night, I found my lips parched, but it was still enjoyable. I found myself saying, "This is really happening," as I usually do in my dreams when I'm doing something I would like to do in real life but can't.

"Later, you'll join me in the shower, where I'll make the cum come out of your dick," she told me. 

She really meant business. I could hardly wait. At some point in the dream, I figured out that the part where she told me this, along with the kissing, had all been a dream. And yet here we still were, in my parents house, the same parameters in play. I would just have to broach the subject with her again. 

"So, when do you want to do those things we talked about in my dream," I would say to her, as I contemplated my approach. That would do. Of course, she was reclining on a beach towel with some people nearby, making it a bit awkward. I reconsidered my options.

I thought I should first offer her some coffee, so I went to make some. It wasn't going to be regular coffee, but some hallucinogenic version with tree bark or toadskin or lizards. Something hideous, but sought after by those in the know. Anyway, between the coffee quest and having to get up to pee, I never did get to re-proposition Jenny.

I wound up in Paradise, in my old house with cousin Tim. I was inside the house, which was now partially roofless. 

"Kind of an improvement for lighting," I made note to Tim. 

We disagreed as to whether or not it was actually lacking a roof altogether, or if that was just an illusion. The roof did appear to be there when you looked directly at it. 

As a neighbor attempted to move a pool table, upside down on a small trolley trailer, the night's entertainment came to a close, and I was faced with the end of another sex dream that had failed to deliver the goods.

Where does the washer fluid go?

I was working again at YC Honda per usual. This time there were Facebook friends from my high school punk days also working there. I was having trouble remembering where to fill the washer fluid reservoir. I had it in my mind that it had something to do with the dome light assembly inside the cabin. Good thing I asked, unfortunately others seemed as mistaken as I was in this belief.

Last time I checked in I was in one type of self-isolationist funk or another. I was pissed at Reinna for ditching me, and I was going to ruminate on that and let myself go all feral. Well, the guinea hens proved too overwhelmingly cute for me not to share with my Facebook friends, so that put a stop to that. 

I'm still as lonely as a person can be, out here with just the animals, but at least they provide me with a sense of purpose. Like right now. I gotta go find those keets, who spent the night God knows where, while I had a fitful night of insomnia.

I'll get back to you later. I have plenty of things to talk about, just not the energy to live and talk about living at the same time.

Yesterday was Sharon's birthday

 

And once again, I didn't do anything special for her. It's like I can't get that day right, even though I really wanted to this time. I was gonna make some kind of ritual out of eating a pizza in her honor. Light a candle. Drink a beer. Make myself cry over the fact that I missed her. But I was distracted all day with the problems of a new computer that arrived broken. And with guinea hens. And my regular routines.

I did see one shooting star in the early morning hours, when I dragged myself out of bed to see the Perseids. It was her thing. The Perseid meteor shower comes around every year as her birthday approaches. It usually peaks a night or two before. 

She told me that when she was gone that she'd visit me every year as a meteor shooting across the sky. If I look up, I'll see her flipping me off. Or blowing me a kiss, I forget which. 

Both years since she passed, I've seen at least one shooting star of extraordinary length and brilliance streaking across the sky in the early morning hours of Sharon's birthday.

I did dream of her, but only briefly and I'm trying to remember it. She was still in bed, ill, and I was told that I needed to make a list of "what was wrong with Sharon" by some health care professional or psychiatric person. I came up with a very simple list with three categories: MS problems, incontinence issues and spiritual issues. 

Of the three, my conclusion was that only the first two were really problems, while the third one she had licked. She was doing better spiritually than I was (or anybody I knew, for that matter). I was trying to word it properly, but she let me know I was on the right track. 

"And don't you forget it," was her unspoken agreement with my assessment.

That's all I can recall of it. Today is another shrink appointment. Last week's appointment was not really very satisfying. We didn't speak of anything that moved me to tears, we were focusing on some minutia of my routine and getting all hung up on semantics. 

I was disappointed because the week before I had broken down again when we were discussing Sharon and my guilt over my lousy caregiving. It started with a personal assessment of one word descriptions of myself. "I am, I think I am or I'm not," I was to respond as she fired off adjectives that would define my character as I saw it. We got to the stuff about being "nice," and I just lost it.

Being "nice" was Sharon's spiritual advice to me in a nutshell. All of her caregiving instructions could be encapsulated in the phrase "BE NICE," which she even had me print out in a giant font and pin to my reminder board in the bedroom. It's still there, though I don't stay in that room long enough to notice it much.

If I was to believe in reincarnation, I would say that I must have been a Nazi in my previous life, and that taking care of Sharon was my punishment and karmic lesson in this one. The fact that it came so unnaturally to me, that I resisted it with every ounce of my being and felt an angry urge to rebel, when the normal response was empathy, is consistent with the theory. 

I don't know what I believe, but I know it seems like I was fighting something in my deepest nature, whose origin I couldn't trace to any experience I had in this life. 

Plus, there was that fascination I had with the Nazi side of WWII when I was a child. I was fascinated by the whole dark imagery and mystique of a culture so un-apologetically evil as I pored through history books with pictures of atrocities. Not your "nice kid" by any means, though I never blossomed into any kind of white supremacist.

Anyway, Whiskey and the Keets are calling me to get off the couch and get started with my daily routine. Thor, my new mega computer is up and running, though I'll have to duct tape his cover to the case. He is so large that I'll have to get out the jigsaw and carve a larger opening in the back of the desk to run the wires through. It's twice the size of an average desktop, standing 24" from top to bottom. I can't stand to look at it taking up all the real estate in the middle of my floor much longer, so I'll definitely be stuffing him into that cubby hole one way or the other.

If I'm gonna be dumb

 

If I'm gonna be dumb, it may as well be fun.

I can't control too much at all,

But with constant editing, the perception is what I make it.

An umbrella on the front porch tells the story.

Especially when it's August.

And the rain for which the umbrella was so needed,

Happened months ago.

Like the weeds and the cobwebs,

It was left unattended,

Like a shirt that needs mended,

Or letters unsent--ha, I was gonna say un-sended,

But my snobby auto-correct brain won't let me.

That's it for now, not much to say.

August 14 is Sharon's birthday.

I left the door open for the guinea hens,

In case they want to come out and play.

Perhaps they got too much excitement the other day,

When I couldn't get them to go back home til 9 at night,

When the cat was stalking them,

And they were just too plumb tuckered out,

Or dumb to figure out,

Which way was home.

Sean's monster computer will arrive today,
And an Amazon order for some 9 volt batteries and tiny measuring spoons.

Poltergeist

 

I was dreaming of Sharon, but she didn't look the same. There was just an understanding that it was her. She looked more like Vivianne Van Asperen, but her parents were still Hannelore and Bob. So, it was Sharon, I guess. We were in a couple's living room who were selling paranormal decor for the home. 

One item Sharon was interested in was a giant pendulum for divination. It was an unwieldy behemoth that was made to be hung from the ceiling as a chandelier type fixture. It had a fold out wooden cross that looked like inlaid paneling. Then when you wanted to use the pendulum, viola, it folded down and an 8 foot long strand of crystals would pop out and hang down so you could do your witchery.

We were sitting at a table and trying to negotiate buying it, when the chair I was in just wouldn't stay put. It was an office type chair with casters. I felt like I was on a ship, rolling this way and that. 

"Is this kind of thing normal? To be unable to stay in one spot?" I asked.  She assured me that it happened all the time.

Prior to that I had been in another situation that seemed to have to do with the cult I was in back in the '80s. But it was present day and they had a nice bit of property that they were renovating to make it even more expansive. I noticed a smallish house that was being stripped to the studs and expanded to a three story version. 

Robert Leon was in his usual form, speaking in whispers to a close associate:

"Am I doing it? (Am I doing her, he meant). Well, if you ask me, am I going in that room there, getting naked and having sex with her, that kind of thing, I'll say, no."

He spoke the words with the tone of a politician who knows he can think of fifteen different loopholes to exonerate him, while still bragging that this was exactly what he was doing.

The grounds were expansive, including a lake and a nice cement walkway/biking path. I encountered a man on a Harley who was a bit perturbed that I wouldn't yield the right of way. I was walking and he was riding, so I wasn't sure who actually was supposed to yield. 

I was going about placing talismans for some kind of ritual in tied up bandanas. One of the items was a raw onion. Some kind of result was expected if I got them all placed, but I don't know what, exactly.
Luis Ramirez and some of the Honda staff were also in on it and helping me in some way or another. 

Art Mele's presence was implied, but it was more representational than actual. He could have been a mashup with Robert Leon. The big cheese character, heard but not seen by us everyday folk. 

It could have been that my talisman placing and conspiring with Luis was an attempt to bring down Robert's evil empire, but it was unclear. Things were in a process of discovery, so I guess I hadn't gotten to my true purpose yet. Possibly that's what the giant pendulum was for.

Anyway, it's nice to be back in the game, even if it's confusing and unreal because it's the dreamworld.

I'm done lying to myself (about lying to myself)

 

When I lie to myself now, it will be with the understanding that this is what I'm doing. I'm telling a version of events to suit my agenda. 

Right now, I'm feeling a passive-aggressive angry feeling because Rienna cancelled our meetup. We never even had plans. It was plans to make plans and possibly meet up while she was in California. She sent me a quick message saying she'd be too busy, and I lived too far away. She felt bad, blah, blah, blah... I messaged her back as politely and understandingly as I know how, but Facebook Messenger's tattletale service that shows when a message was viewed doesn't indicate that she even read my message.

So, here's how it plays out in my head. Obviously, I built this up way too much. It meant much more to me than it ever did to her. I don't rate a response or even for her to bother reading my response. I obsess too much over perceived rejections and slights, where I should just not give a shit and move on. I keep checking to see if she's at least read my message, as if that will somehow indicate something.

When she left me in 1994, it was sudden and, once again, I was the one who was attached and upset at the breakup. I didn't have the self-esteem then to feel OK within myself to let it roll off of me. I took it personally. What I should have done is let myself seal off that part of me for good so that I'd never invest another lousy feeling on this person. 

I can't help it, though. Even though I'm mad at her for not caring for me like I do for her, what can I do? I feel guilty for even writing this down, even if no one ever sees it.

I should just resign myself to the fact that I'll live and die here alone. I have no real friends, and I just entertain people on Facebook once in a while to get likes or comments. Real friends, well, I wouldn't know what that would even look like in my life. I'm no one's friend, and no one is mine. 

I got mad at Denise Graubart for not responding to a message a couple years ago when she was visiting up here. She came within 50 miles of my house, and I offered to meet up with her and her family somewhere, but yeah, itinerary planned, time not allotted. But I figured a response at least...

Fuck it. This is me, pouting. Inside on the outside. Not so pretty, huh? Not so wizened or brilliant. Just a sad, old pathetic guy who wishes more people liked him. And not just that superficial bullshit about hugs and best wishes, emoji, emoji. I'm sure that's the currency these days, but it's fiat in my book.

My shrink is just another person who will listen to my crap, but hasn't a clue of how to fix me. Doesn't even make that promise. So I go, but instead of feeling better, I just feel more hopeless. Because now there's one more person in this world who has zero chance of liking me, since they know a little about me. 

I should dump the whole thing because it's going to cost me money to go there. I've already gotten SSD back, so it's counterproductive. If my shrink thinks I've improved too much, it will reflect in my files, which are accessed by the evaluators who assess my worthiness of receiving benefits.

I have too much to bitch about, and even I'm tired of hearing it. Inside my head or out on the pages of this blog, I disgust myself.

Owww

 

I'm trying to not give in to storytelling, cementing my narrative into something I intend to believe, or worse yet, peddle to others, as if to convince them of anything. I'm just going to say, "Owww." That's what "it" feels like, whatever "it" is. 

It feels like pain, in my forehead and face and chest. Like a scrunching of eyebrows and a contraction of chest muscles. I'm just going to experience it, not name it or pin blame on anyone. It happens. I'm not immune. I'll just let it happen. Maybe it'll go away on its own.

Hey, this is great. No more meddlesome one or two unidentified blog readers. I changed the setting to private. Now, no one is to blame but me for my being unavailable. I'm keeping Facebook alive because I use it to sell things. I am just going on a "like strike," where I refuse to like anything even if I really do like it.

This unsettled feeling, like a nausea wave that won't recede, is sinking its teeth into my psyche. I don't feel at peace within my own body. I am conscious of a shift, of cords being cut, roots that were taking hold withdrawing and dying from a toxified environment. Expansion has stopped, and a curling up of leaves, a wilting and dying process has begun. 

If my soul doesn't receive nourishment from somewhere it will become darker and darker until no light is left in it. I'm going to let that happen. I won't seek any kind of attention or support. Let's see how rotten I become.

I don't know how to describe it other than, "I feel bad." Sick, but there's no tangible sickness. Just a lack of will to live. And an empty feeling and lack of pleasure in anything. I just want to be rid of this heavy cloak of depression, but I can't shake it. No one is going to do it for me. 

So, I guess that's it. I will myself to not live. If I have to interact, I will fake it just enough that the person will not detect how bad it really is. Then I'll quietly let ties fade and break of their own natural decay. No one will notice. I'll keep my stupid words and horrible feelings to myself.

Ughh

 

I don't like being me right now. I feel like going full turtle on the world, sinking back into my shell by taking this blog down, de-activating Facebook and hiding from everyone. Maybe stop going to my shrink, too. She's not helping. I am simply feeling pouty and like a kid that wants to be loved, but the more he acts up, the less lovable he is. 

I had so much wanted to see Rienna, too. I think I was already in a teeter-totter state, but her cancelling our visit made me feel like I just don't have any hope of anyone ever giving a crap about me. Sure, I invested too much in what was to be a one day, possibly an hour or two visit. I just don't have much to look forward to these days, and I was really looking forward to that.

My daily routine is just a slow way of dying. I walk, I exercise, I eat my omelets and salads. I avoid alcohol and limit my caffeine and weed smoking to one time a week. I look forward to Saturday morning for that reason. The drugs make me "feel" something. But a little less, each time I do it. 

I already know the path of addiction. The more you do, the less you enjoy it, until it finally starts working in reverse. It actually makes you feel bad. That's where I stand with alcohol. It makes me feel worse every time I drink, so I don't do that. It's pointless. But my mind remembers that it made me feel good in the past, so there's still a slight craving.

Ah, fuck it. I'm making this blog private again, so no one will get to read this. Boo hoo. I'm gonna be here, no one giving a fuck about me, until I'm not. Then who'll notice if I'm gone? Doubtfully, anyone at all. Goodbye.

Fire escape

That was the theme of what I was dreaming about last night. There was this pins and needles feeling, like at any moment I could be forced to flee. The wind was raging, and I was in a house located on a steep hill. I looked outside and saw a little orange spot ignite, which quickly turned out to be the whole hillside. 

There was one other person in the house with me, and I screamed at them that we needed to leave. That I had to fumble with the gate lock at such an inopportune moment only added to the panic. It seemed that I could run but not escape. 

Later, I was in a much more residential type area, but the threat remained. I was with a larger group of people, but when the fire ripped through the neighborhood, within a few seconds I found myself alone. 

Once again, it was the wind that seemingly made everything combust in a matter of minutes. I must have made it to some other safe ground because I never got to the point where the fire "got" me. But it was so close that I had to flee through it at times.

Relatives by the lake

 

I'm not sure who they all were, but I was visiting some relatives by a lake. Maybe it was Minnesota, but the characters were vaguely familiar. One was a slightly Amazonian woman who reminded me of Pink or Kristen Johnston, but had nose hairs that needed trimming. 

We were planning to do a little camping down by the lake, and folks were scrambling to get the gear together. I was told to inform Monika, the slightly Amazonian Pink woman, about getting the tent. Someone else was bugging me by calling me on my flip-phone to get me to pass her the message. 

I wound up handing her the phone. "Meineke! Meineke!" I mispronounced her name on purpose. "It's for you."

I began looking for some kind of thermal desiccant in the refrigerator/freezer. "It ought to be here, right next to the pork chops," I thought.

Prior to that I was near the lake and was attempting to make things look nice around the shore. I picked up a couple of pieces of trash, but whatever I touched wound up in the lake and drifted away, irretrievable. 

I had found a square egg carton filled with little marijuana seedlings that hadn't seen sunlight in some time. I was thinking about how I might find homes for them by planting them somewhere, but, you guessed it, they wound up in the drink too.

All in all it was an odd vibe. Relatives, who were not my relatives and a chaotic, disorganized camping trip which never materialized. That's about it. Pink Monika was wearing men's underwear and an old t-shirt, but despite this and her nose hair situation, she was still quite sexy. I was kinda looking forward to going camping with her.

Yuba City Honda again

                                                                                           

I may as well dream about work, as it is clearly something lacking in my life. I was back to work in rehabilitory capacity. Things were different. The place was in a different location. Some of the same characters were there, but some were old ex-employees, back doing their old jobs, such as Kou from parts. I never actually got around to working on any cars. I was in a forever state of trying to get a job dispatched to me.

I needed a timing belt done on my car and was working out the details of how I was gonna get paid to work on my own car. Tom also needed a timing belt done on his car. I was scheming to get both jobs, but they made it clear that things didn't work that way anymore. No more job stacking and hoarding. One timing belt job at a time. That was fine by me, I was never a big fan of those kinds of jobs anyway.

I was kind of roaming around and wound up in the office, leisurely kicking back and listening to the office girls chit-chat about spiritual music. Someone called "Katie Love," who was the latest rage, a kind of new age version of Katie Perry, was being raved about vapidly. 

I stuck my nose in the conversation for a second, "Uh. Spiritual music, eh?" 

They included me in their yappy raving for a minute, but I turned my attention elsewhere, as I still had to get some work done that day. It was almost 2 o'clock, and I hadn't touched a car yet.

Walking across the courtyard, some employees were talking about more innocuous stuff. A black couple (I guess I have to say they were black, in order to get the description out in as efficient a manner as possible) was having a lightly flirtatious conversation about what things made the guy a good "daddy."  He definitely had the dad bod going on. He looked like Neil deGrasse Tyson or that Jordan Peele character. 

(There, I even spell-checked their names out of some sense of racist guilt. How dare I spell their names incorrectly if they are black. To be fair they were both slightly orange, having that odd hair color that looks like they tried to bleach it, and it didn't come out quite right.)

Anyway, I'm just being as descriptive as I can. They were all kind of heavy-set. What's the polite term for that these days? Why am I being so overly concerned at this point? A fat black dude was trying to woo a big black chick. She was mildly amused at his self-promotion. (Apart from my own racial PC self-consciousness in this narration, I'm sensing another theme. I'll get to it in a minute.)

So, I'm about to start my job, or at least settle in on which timing belt I'll be doing, when I realize I've not clocked in. I've been back to work for 2 days already, and I have done zero work and have failed to clock in either day. Reiner wasn't going to be thrilled, but I sensed that it was a common occurrence and that I'd just need to obtain his signature verifying my presence.

I think my theme is interaction and self-esteem. Everyone had enough self-esteem to interact with others socially in a work setting. Even I had seemingly overcome my reluctance to engage in office banter with the opposite sex. My takeaway: I'm not doing anything like that in my reclusive, self-absorbed disabled life. Since I don't have that type of input in my regular life, I need to get it somewhere.

Now, who's trying to notify me on Facebook? Someone liked my comment about telemarketers and my strategy of wasting as much of their time as possible as retribution for making me pick up the phone unnecessarily. I guess that's the extent of my social interaction. I do insert myself, unsolicited, into people's threads and usually don't get my head bit off. 

Warning to new or returning blog readers

Since this blog functions a a multi-purpose repository for anything and everything I might write down, it will from time to time contain highly opinionated, personal and deeply charged items which readers may or may not take personally.

For instance, I write down all my dreams, in as accurate detail as I can recollect. Some of these dreams include real life characters who might be friends or relatives. It also functions as a journal, where I make notes of events or impressions of things on a semi-regular basis. Occasionally, I'll include recollections of stories that occurred in the distant past that were somehow brought to my attention, and I will re-tell the story just to pass the time.

In the event that you are reading and stumble across your name, either in a dream journal entry or a real-life event which I chose to write about, just know this: I am just relating what happened because it made an impression on me. The dreams are totally out of my control, so I'll claim innocence of malfeasance on that. I can't choose the programming that my subconscious decides to entertain me with at night. 

As for real life accounts that may differ from your recollection, I can only say that I'm not a journalist. I'm a person writing about things from an obviously subjective viewpoint. I hope to not offend anyone or give reason for upset, but it is likely that eventually, if you read long enough, you will find something to disagree strongly with.

Case in point, my argument with God or the Universe or whatever. You may find it a tad distasteful that I'm so flippant and arbitrary with my critiques of this life and existence in general. My attitude may come off as piss-poor and entitled, lacking gratitude, etc. I hate to break it to you, but that's just me. I'll never join the ranks of pleasantly docile accepters of what is. I'll be shaking my arthritic fist til it's just a skeletal claw.

But if seeing your name in print for some reason makes you feel litigious, please contact me, and I'll scrub all references to your name, replacing it with a fictitious pseudonym. But you'll know and I'll know that it was you I was referring to. At this point, I'm not believing enough people read this or care enough about how my perception of them might be received in these written accounts to merit self-censorship. 

Although technically a public blog, there is not much chance of it getting public attention. My two or three occasional readers have not chimed in and told me to knock it off with the name dropping and personal anecdotes yet.

That's it. I don't have anything to report or recount today. This was just a cautionary word for those who have not yet been unlucky enough to find that they were the subject of one of my entries. My aim is not to offend, embarrass or hurt anyone's feelings, but I'm also not wanting to tip-toe around and self-censor at every turn. You understand...don't you? Ok. Back to laying about and listening to the sound of my sprinklers.

---

Ok, I did think of something. Not too spectacular, just another day's small accomplishment. I cooked a pan of low-carb zucchini lasagna. My secret ingredient is carnitas. Instead of ground beef, I use chopped and pan-seared bits of pork in the traditional red sauce. 

Because of my diabetic past, I've gotten accustomed to substituting the zucchini for the lasagna noodles. I have a bumper crop of them this year already, so this was just housekeeping to avoid throwing away vegetables. I can't keep up with them, so I make things with zucchini and freeze them.

Same with my tomato plants. The early girls are producing more than I can eat in salads every day, and I had a backlog. So into the sauce they went. I'll have about nine meals out of this one afternoon's work preparing it. Pretty efficient, really, work to reward ratio-wise.

Sharon visits again, almost didn't remember to write it down

 

I dreamed of her again. This time was like so many others in the past. I was with her in the house, and she was ill, bedridden, needing care. Some kind of odd shipping delivery came to the house in the middle of the night while I was out for a minute checking something outside. 

When I returned, there were boxes stacked up inside the house everywhere. By the door, inside the kitchen, spare room. Everywhere. Even outside, there was evidence of the delivery driver moving things about to gain access and to store more boxes.

Sharon was curious about all this moving and stacking of boxes and was wondering what had I ordered that was taking up all this space. And to my amazement, she proceeded to get out of bed, despite my shocked protests. 

"Are you sure you are able to do this, honey? Look at you! You are up and walking!" I was always amazed that she could walk in these dreams, and I went to steady her, but she was fine.

I got excited and contemplated all the things we would do again, now that she was cured. I told her about the boxes and how they were some supplements I'd ordered in bulk, which was why there were so many. 

But as I opened them, I couldn't find any evidence to back up this claim. I only found packing material or unrelated items, which didn't appear to substantiate my story. 

No matter. I woke up soon, and we never did any of the fun things I had assumed we would. But it was nice just having her back, even if just for a moment.

"R" Rated dream warning

 

"R" for Rienna, in this case. Sorry, friend, if you happen to read this. You're on my list of super secret squirrel club members with above top secret clearance to read this. But here goes:

I just woke up and almost didn't remember for a minute. I knew I had dreamed, but it was already slipping away. Then I remembered a brief flash, and the gist of it came back. Oh, and "R" also indicates adult content, or in this case, slightly juvenile.

Ok, there was sex. Well, there could have been. Started to be. Was intended. But something happened, as is typical, to interrupt and delay the event. 

The details are scarce, just a fleeting image of the two of us intertwined and quite a bit enjoying ourselves. Intimate talk and this and that kind of touching going on. Then a little weirdness crept in.

Apparently, a threesome was going on, unbeknownst to me. I only became aware of it when the 3rd party (a guy) stopped doing whatever he was doing to her. 

"Damn," she said, "And I was really starting to enjoy that!"

I apparently wasn't too taken aback by it, but the party was over, nonetheless. I spent the rest of the dream kind of weighing the realities, if there are such things as realities to be weighed in dreams. Would I really be able to sustain any kind of relationship with her? Could I compete with Mr. Threesome guy? 

I felt the pull of my youthful affections telling me that I'd go to the ends of the earth for this woman who I was so in love with in my 20's and have remained good friends with to this day. But my inner old man was telling me I should let it go. Cherish the memories, but don't pursue it.

---

Funny, because I'm actually supposed to see her again in a week or so. She will be in California with her daughter, and I was asked if I might meet up with her one day while she's here. I instantly agreed, though no date or details are yet confirmed.

Sorry, Rienna. I hope you don't read this, at least not before we get to meet again. It might make you a little leery of me to know that I've had one of THOSE kind of dreams about you. I suppose my springtime hormones have not yet run their course. 

I promise to be on my best behavior, even if I do wanna hump your leg when I first set eyes on you. Puppy love is embarrassing, but not for the puppy. 

I'm not ashamed, just a little shocked and amused. Really, not even that shocked. Just kind of pleasantly entertained. I'll try not to pee from all the excitement. I really am going to see you again -- that part's not a dream!

Dissatisfaction: The Key to Life (cross-posted on Facebook)

 

A lot can be said for happiness and contentment, but I'm here to tell ya that it's dissatisfaction that makes the world go 'round. I'm not saying that a good day of rest doesn't have its place, but what was it that came first? Six days of work. And in some form or fashion, before undertaking that work, God had to have been just dissatisfied enough with things as were to decide to take on the task of creating everything.

And so it is in this world. From the womb, we are kicking to get out. Sure, it's comfy for a while, but it gets a little cramped and finally, we gotta get out. If a seed was content inside its shell, it wouldn't ever spring forth and become a plant. A baby chick pecks at its shell because it's not content to stay inside forever, with dwindling resources and a growing body and appetite. A toddler isn't content to toddle for long. Soon he will be up on his feet and reaching for things that were out of his grasp on the floor.

For me, the only thing keeping me alive is the daily need to do stuff, before other stuff happens which I would be even more dissatisfied with. Just being content with the way things are would lead to me never moving one inch off the couch. Something will bug me, and I'll have to do something about it. And that is what is keeping me from stagnating in my own filth.

Besides just maintaining the status quo (a battle in itself), every day I must find something that bothers me just enough to make me do something about it. A rattling bathroom fan, snails in the garden, a jammed door lock, a leaking garden hose fitting--it can be anything, really. Just something to engage me in the business of living. Because when I'm not actively trying to make the world more to my liking, it is taking me down the lazy river of death. "A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest, then your poverty shall come as a robber and your want as an armed man."

I may not have discovered the secret of enlightenment or know the mysteries of the universe, but this little tidbit holds true. If it weren't for struggle and discontent, there would be no life. Why bother to manifest from the void at all? Some inkling, some tiny mad thought said, "Fuck it, I'm gonna try this." And thus was the entirety of existence conceived.

So go ahead and hate and dislike stuff. Rage against the system. Or against those dirty pots and pans. Or cancer. Whatever your battle, keep fighting. It's what makes you who you are. Fight to keep your molecules together; don't just become soup or jello. Be a thorn. Stick your head up. Wear an inappropriate t-shirt. Bark at something.

Enough preaching. I need a nap.

102.5 -- It's good to be alive

 

Well, I don't know if I should hastily go throwing around the word "good." But after having a fever for 24 hours, I am just now appreciating what life was like before (and what it is like after) having a miserable, aching, head feels like a bowling ball attached to a string fever. It feels pretty good by comparison. I can say with certainty that feeling good definitely feels better than feeling bad.

I spent all day nursing the fever but wanted to avoid taking anything for it, as in Tylenol or Ibuprofen. Fever is the body's way of kicking into high gear to battle some kind of infection, so I was gonna bear with it and let it do its thing. 

It sure shut me down for a while, though. My brain was scrambled, and I couldn't even enjoy TV or sleep properly. It was like all kinds of short circuits were happening in my head. A thought would come in and get thrown in the blender before I could even process it.

After a night of sweating and drinking water (and getting up to eat a snack), I awoke feeling much better. As I was putting away my ritual sleep jewelry (some habits don't stop even for a fever), I asked the Magic 8 Ball a question:

"Boopie, do you still love me?" 

I've been doing this off and on for a few weeks, and I've gotten positive responses, or at least not negative ones, every time. I'm a kook, I know.

"It is decidedly so!" the Magic 8 Ball affirmed.

As I was thanking her for whatever part she played in my recovery, and for still loving me, I glanced over at the LED on the Christmas strand. It had been off for a week, but now it was bright and strong. I don't know if it's her in a scientific and for sure way, but I'm gonna take it and run with it. It makes me feel better if I think she's popping in on me now and then.

As little as I normally get done in a day, I'm gonna have to take it easy and not try to even bounce back to that routine too quickly. I'll just relish the feeling of not feeling like total crap and see what kinds of little things I can do in the course of a day.

The King

 

Weird. Last night I dreamed that I was the recipient of James Reed's wife, Suzanne, in some kind of wife borrowing situation. She was her usual compliant, eager to serve self, and I was enjoying cuddling with her. I wasn't sure if sex was included, so I never took it that far. 

Meanwhile, Sharon was lurking around the house just out of sight, and I didn't want to upset her with the arrangement. So, other than a few cuddles, it was mostly concern for my wife's feelings and James' feelings that I was dealing with. 

James was busy with some ham radio project, building a tower of some magnificence per his usual "all in" mode. I suppose this was how he wound up farming out his wife. He just didn't need her at the moment.

So, that's about it. Me laying there in bed, Suzanne in my arms, feeling a bit of contentment and a lot of guilty unease. 

---

I suppose it is worth mentioning that I recently decided to friend her on Facebook, and she accepted yesterday. I did this mostly because stupid Facebook keeps throwing recommendations of "people you might know" at me. 

She and James are both Christians, her to the maximum and him to the minimum extent, although the ratios may have shifted recently. He used to be more involved in the church, but went through an entirely self-serving phase of 10+ years or so. 

During this phase, she was still the dedicated Christian wifey and treated him like a king, despite his complete lack of spiritual righteousness. 

Look at me being all judgey and stuff, geez. It was nice sorta being the king for a minute, I have to admit.

Laverne and Shirley revisited and I guess I liked a baby

It seemed like I had 3 dreams, but I only remember 2. Firstly, I was living with Dad and we weren't getting along. That I was my current age and staying on his couch probably had something to do with it. 

The dynamic was familiar; he was trying to control me with punishments and speaking to me harshly, and I was hateful and resented everything he said and did. To top it all off, he was restricting me from watching my big screen TV, turning it off and taking it down from the wall angrily. 

I found myself trying to sleep with this giant TV screen crammed under me on the couch. Not too comfy, but I wasn't gonna let it go.

---

That reminds me of the time when I was living with him as a child of about 12 or so, and I wanted to watch my television shows, but he was watching the Stanley Cup playoffs. 

Guess who prevailed? Of course. But to add insult to injury he spoke dismissively of my two favorite shows while snobbishly acting as if his choice was the culturally superior one.

So, I made the ultimate stand: "If I can't watch Happy Days and Laverne and Shirley, I am going to my room!"

Well, that worked out fine for him. Saved him the trouble of having to send me there himself.  A self-punishing brat, how convenient.

---

The other dream was more benign, and I don't remember much other than there was a baby (a grandson of Greg, I presume, because he was hovering nearby) who was in my house and crawling around on my kitchen island. 

I approached him to talk to him, as I would a frog or a kitty cat or any other cute little creature I might encounter when going for a walk. This little guy answered back in English, though, and I thought that was the neatest thing. He was way too young to be so sentient and responsive.

At some point, he fell into the washing machine. It wasn't on, but of course Greg was more concerned about it than I was. I retrieved him, unspoiled from the contraption, and he was all smiles and regular baby goo-goos. Not traumatized in the least. I held him like one holds a baby and felt whatever it is people feel that hold babies.

---

I've only ever held a few babies in my life, but the one I remember most vividly was in bible study. Her name was _______. 

Something very intensely joyful resided in that little bundle of baby flesh. With bright, laughing eyes and a big gummy smile, she exuded the essence of life in its purest form. 

That warmth radiated from the center of her tiny being, outward through the baby blanket, and infused my naturally cold heart, warming it up a few degrees.

---

Not sure what any of this means, but I'm sure my shrink would have some opinions about it. Oh, well. Real life awaits. 

And my LED of afterlife communication is back on. I'm sure I am needing guidance, but I am having a hard time distinguishing just what Sharon might be wanting to tell me. 

"Sharon do you still love me?" I asked the Magic 8 ball several times.

"You may rely on it" and "Without a doubt." The answer was invariably positive.

I ventured to ask it, "Do you forgive me?" 

The answer wasn't so nice: "My sources say no." 

Oh, well, I wouldn't blame her if it took several lifetimes to get over what I put her through. But who are these sources, anyway? Damn unreliable Magic 8 ball. It's like a CB radio, you never know who's fucking with you on the other end.

---

OK. I had a brief flash of my 3rd dream. Just an image of some incredibly narrow, dangley and precarious bridge spanning a deep water ocean chasm with inhospitable water. People were stepping out onto the bridge to sightsee or whatever, and I was like, "Uh, no!" 

It was evident that once you stepped out a mere 2 feet onto the bridge you were hurled into the water. People seemed to be OK with that, but I was having none of it.

Wind the cord with the grain--and why I'm going back to 440

 

Simply put, why fight it?

I heard about this thing called 432 from my internet conspiracy site. That doesn't automatically make it not true, but it is a good indication of where it is headed. 

432hz is a tuning pitch slightly below the world accepted standard concert pitch of 440. According to the internet tards, 440 was adopted by the Nazis in WW2 to create an atmosphere of agitation and aggression and to make the troops hyper and the people less in sync with the natural, organically correct, earth-based vibe of 432. 

While it may be true that visually evident resonance tests (cymatics) using instruments tuned to 432hz,  do, indeed, vibe well with sand and paper plates, throwing off nifty patterns as you dial in certain notes--the fact remains: 440 is where the world's musicians tune up and what virtually everything you've ever heard on record, tape, CD, MP3 or otherwise, is going to be tuned to. 

If you wanna jam with a paper plate and some sand, sure, go with 432. But if you want to sound like you're not slow in the head, out of tune and flat, then join in lock-step with the rest of the world, and don't throw out those old tuning forks just yet.

Same thing applies to winding up guitar cords. They have a natural bend or grain that they have acquired from their being rolled into a loop. When rolling them back up for storage, always go with the grain, and you won't develop kinks or cause undue stress on the wires inside. 

I learned this from my cult's music ministry roadies, who would shout at you as if you were going to use wire hangers on cotton or some other atrocity, if they caught you winding a cord up improperly. Some things do just make sense, despite where or how the tradition originated.

So, if cult members or Nazis tell me how I ought to be winding my cords or tuning my guitar, as long as I can jam with the rest of the world and be in tune, I'm gonna go for it. Good enough for the Beatles or Jeff Beck or Jimmy Page, fine by me. Maybe they can start manufacturing some 440 resonant paper plates, so the cymatics people can be included as well.

TV blocks dream reception

 

Last night I turned off the TV in the middle of the night and was treated to at least 3 dreams. None of them seemed particularly long or memorable, but they were better than the blackness of unconscious sleep.

In the first dream, Rienna and I were walking around in some sandy beach town. We sat down in one of those beachfront alleys that accommodate pedestrian traffic. I remember picking up her right leg  and raising it up in the air, as a referee raises the arm of the victor in a boxing match, and saying, "This is my girlfriend, world!" Some discussion ensued as to why I hadn't told anyone earlier.

Next, I was in some coastal community on a boat launch near a breakwater designed for sailing. I got onto a pretty small sailboat to go sailing with a couple who seemed to know what they were doing. The first minute or two went ok, but soon we were headed full speed toward some rocks. With no way to change course, we all abandoned ship, and I watched as the boat smashed itself to pieces against the breakwater.

Finally, I was in a car arriving at a rental property on the coast, about to check in, or at least inspect it for possible use as a resort. It was just an everyday house, empty and no amenities. A caretaker informed me that there was no cable, and we'd be forced to watch TV the old fashioned way. He offered to escort us to the nearest supermarket, so we could pick up the latest TV guide.

That's it for now. I had to write them down, despite the lack of much descriptive detail, because I'm trying to regain my ability to remember dreams at all. If there is any interpretive significance, maybe it will become clear at a later time.

Just gonna rail against this "infinite possibilities" model a little more

 

Don't nobody mind me. I'm just going to sit here, your little black spot on the sun today, and pose the questions that might be getting overlooked, whilst most folk are going about their day to day routine. 

You know, going grocery shopping, catching a movie, doing homework, housework, work-work, or kicking it with a cold one watching the tube. Or watching your kids. Or making more kids. Whatever it is y'all might be doing that's occupying your mind enough to just not be concerned with philosophical questions.

So, let me do it for you. 

I'll be the guy who tugs at that little thread on your sweater. The nose that sniffs the air and says, "Hhmmmnrf. I smell something stinky. What is it and where is it coming from?" 

I'll pose the question "why?" and you can all just ignore the weirdo with the tattered clothes, wandering about muttering and shaking his fist at the sky. 

You know how they say, "It takes all kinds," right? Well, just tell yourself, "There, but for the grace of God, go I," and avert your eyes just a little. 

Don't engage the crazy person. He'll wind down eventually, sleep it off perhaps. But for now, he appears to be gearing up to rant about something. Let's just grit our teeth and hope it doesn't last too long.

My question: "Why?" 

That's it. Why anything? Why something rather than nothing? Why birds and worms, snails, ticks, fleas, lice, rats, cats, dogs, frogs, cancer, kids, oceans, trees, ice cream and poop? I mean, there's a consensus about some things being "good" and others being "bad" so, why everything, then? Why not just a few things, the good, agreed upon cool stuff? 

Well, apparently, because there isn't as much agreement as all that. Some like it hot, some like it cold, chili in the pot, nine days old.

Maybe God is still figuring it out. Let's just say that in the beginning, God was extremely bored and lonely in His infinite void of space and decided, "This sucks. Let's make some shit." 

And He proceeded to make as much stuff as He possibly could. Everything, to be precise. Not just good, cool, acceptable stuff, but really rotten, foul, horrid stuff as well. Just to be consistent with His infinite nature, He couldn't skimp or leave any possibilities out. 

So, baby killing, poop, toothaches and forest fires, a devil, some angels, Trump and Hillary, and many vaguely insignificant, but, oh, so necessary, shades of individual consciousnesses, all needed to be created, or allowed to exist, having been given the gift of life. 

At some point, maybe He'll say, "Well, THAT certainly wasn't a good thing to include. Perhaps the universe could have done without one of THOSE." 

I feel like I may be one of THOSE things. Something that exists because, well, it had to be tried at least once. But let's agree not to ever, ever do that again, shall we?

"Look, he's running out of steam and he didn't even get to the main point of whatever it is that is eating him up today. What  shook up his little world, that he had to get all 'what's the point of anything' again? What rattled his little bird cage and ruffled his feathers?"

Who knows and who cares? No one, that's who.

Sometimes...and other times, too, Drew!

 

Is what Red would have to say about my life choices right now. A type "A" personality, obsessive to the point of crazed, he was never one to go half-ass into anything. If he bought a guitar or a car or a computer, it was after an extensive amount of research. 

And he wouldn't stop talking about his latest area of interest. Everyone he came near got their ears bent with a full lecture series on whatever he was into at the moment. Be it dog training, his band, his hot rod, his police training or gun collecting, you were going to hear about it.

When I first met him, he was "in love," still dating his wife to be. That obsession lasted almost until they were married, but his love for her got replaced by the search for the perfect tube amp. Once a new focal point came into view, all other previous interests ceased to register in his consciousness.

Extremely focused would be putting a positive spin on it. Tunnel vision, blinders or oblivious would be other ways to describe it. 

His wife lived without A/C in her minivan, despite his being a master mechanic, because his priorities lay elsewhere. He was restoring a 67 Barracuda with a hemi. Or he was breeding Belgian Shepherds, or immersing himself in the world of IPAs.

Why am I going on about a guy I used to work with over ten years ago? I dunno. I just had a thought or two about the type of people who get things accomplished, and his name came to mind. He was a full immersion participant in any project he took on. If he was in for an inch, he was in for a mile.

I am about the polar opposite, personality type-wise. I am a slacker, unable to get even my feet wet in tackling new projects or areas of interest. I may be obsessed with something for a time, but I always go for the path of least resistance and, though not usually satisfied with the results, I live with them. 

Right now, I'm experiencing computer and display issues with my television. I made a hasty purchase when my last new TV gave out. Now I'm wishing I had Red do my research for me before buying it.

It occurs to me that the world exists because of dissatisfaction. In the beginning, God, in the infinite void of space said, "Oh, hell no. This ain't gonna cut it." So he created "something" as opposed to keeping with the spartan theme of "nothing" that He had going on before that. 

So now we have existence and free will and life and death and millions of things inhabiting the vastness of the known universe all because God had a bug up His butt. 

Couldn't He have just left it alone? He had to go and fuck it up with the whole "infinite possibilities" model. 

I know there's a lot of good, enjoyable stuff to be found if you pick through it. But ya gotta admit, there's a fair amount of rubbish. Good old-fashioned fucked up shit that could have been left off the list of "things to include in My universe project."

I don't have the energy right now to even begin categorizing the layers of crap I'm dealing with. I doubt I ever will. I'm still alive, but that's all I'm gonna claim right now. If that's even an accurate description of what is going on with me.

Angry with life, myself and everything

I don't even know where to start. Fuck it. I won't. It doesn't help.

Things to write about, too exhausted to start

 

I took a trip to the coast. It was a one night stay in Fortuna. I left early Friday morning and got back Saturday afternoon. I'm still wiped out from the driving. I want to be able to say how it went, detail the stops and minutia of my little excursion, but I don't have energy enough to do it. Plus, there are a few other details of life on the moon that I feel need discussion, but I have no motivation to write. Whoever reads this, be glad, you are getting a break from my whining and sniveling on and on about my "feelings" or lack of them. Nothing to see hear. No excitement from this quarter.

Muhammad mows down the mountain

 

I'm only calling it that to avoid putting the word "mushrooms" in the title. I figured it would be less of an NSA trigger if I saved it for the body of the text, but who am I kidding? 

Muhammad, in attempting to alleviate his depression, decided to try a micro-dose of magic mushrooms. So, the title should read, "Muhammad mows down the mountain, micro-dosing magic mushrooms." Or something to that effect. Gotta maximize the alliteration.

I'm guessing I'm just not cut out for this type of therapy. The idea is that you take a minuscule dose of the hallucinogen, and it enhances mental clarity while lifting the fog of depression. 

What a load of horseshit! Stupid+Mushrooms=More stupid. It mainly made me stupid(er) and lessened my ability to function at the normal everyday tasks that I could at least manage to accomplish with my regular old, non-enhanced brain. 

Eye-hand coordination, spatial awareness and focus were all diminished, while a heightened sense of paranoia and a feeling of a lack of control of my own actions prevailed.

I was sold on the idea of micro-dosing by a few articles that I read, where it was claimed that you would gain all the beneficial brain stimulating properties of this powerful drug while still being able to fold laundry. 

"Take a small dose, and go about your daily activities. Everything will taste better, look brighter, and you'll be open to new ideas."

Poppycock! I find my own naturally occurring state of consciousness, as fucked up as it may be, to be far superior to this impaired, scared, dumbed-down version.

So, what was on my plate for the day that made me declare this experiment a failure? Just a little light lawn mowing. 

Uh, stupid decision #1: never operate power equipment while experimenting with a mind altering substance. I'd have done better smoking a ton of weed and jumping on the mower. At least I'd be in familiar territory. And weed tends to make me more focused and less agitated.

This mushroom stuff just threw off my calibration for everything. I hit way more rocks, stumps and protrusions than normal. I was less able to navigate potholes and corners. Even backing up was sketchy. 

It was like I was asleep at the wheel, or just barely waking up and finding myself headed straight for a tree and having to avert collision constantly. I missed large swaths of unmowed grass on multiple passes, while focusing on eliminating a single dandelion became an obsession. I found myself continually mowing into my dusty exhaust because of poor choices of direction.

The smartest thing I did was admit I was licked and give up for the day. I'll have to assess the crappy job I did tomorrow and redo major portions with the benefit of an unimpaired brain. Now what can I do with the rest of my day? 

I'm 2 hours and 8 mins. in at this point. Maybe a nice, safe morning of breakfast and television until my brain and body decide they want to work together again. Who knows, I may find cooking to be a more formidable task than I'm giving it credit for. We'll see.

Fuckin' shrooms. For the second and last time, I'll say "never again."

Diane...again

 

Not too much this time. Just a passing dream. I was somehow in a wannabe little relationship with her, but not even to the point where she knew I really liked her. But we were friends, and I'd go over to her house and hang out. 

On this occasion, I was at her house, and we were going to eat pizza or something, but she had a cold. Her house had that "I'm sick, so I'm not cleaning shit" look to it. Not her usual fancy decor, but I could hang.

I went outside to try to re-park my big rig diesel, but I was having some trouble getting up into the cab. It seems they had made the driver's door entry compartment for someone 3 feet tall. I couldn't climb up and contort myself, no matter how hard I tried. 

I decided I was going to try to shift it into neutral while outside the cab and then maybe push it back several feet by hand. Yeah, it didn't even sound logical in the dream.

There was more, but I'm struggling these days to remember anything dream-wise. They just evaporate, mostly.

Oh, yeah. While I was parking my truck, a big black guy came over and climbed into bed with her. I wasn't too happy about it, but I recognized that we weren't really even dating, so I just kind of sulked a bit. 

I think I was scheming about how I was going to woo her away from this guy, but nothing ever came of it.

This is Bullshit! A Comprehensive Field Guide

 

Having spent a lifetime as an expert in the field of bullshit recognition, I feel as if I have already written the book on what is bullshit. 

In all of life's situations, there needs to be someone who can point out (in case there is any question or doubt) just what is and what is not bullshit. There might come a time when it is handy to have a reference guide, in case I'm not around to point it out for you. 

This book will not attempt to interpret your own particular bullshit, but it will provide you with a template for categorizing the various types and degrees of bullshit that exist. It is up to you to decide what fits where on the scale of "that's nothing" to "complete and utter bullshit."

Statements like "never bullshit a bullshitter" are, in themselves, bullshit. 

Why? Well, why not? Why not bullshit a bullshitter? It seems to me that if you are looking for a litmus test to see if your bullshit is going to pass muster, why not run it by a professional? If your bullshit can fool the bullshitter, you have truly achieved mastery, and your bullshit should work on just about anybody. 

Also, a bullshitter will be more likely, as a practitioner himself, to forgive the sin of bullshitting. You might get a twinkly-eyed "Aw, come on" but not the jaw dropping, self-righteous gasp of a non-bullshitter.

I should mention that this book is a companion in the series which includes "Andrew's Big Book of What is Cool" and "The Big Book of What is Gay." The term gay, in this case, is used in its most inclusive, and least politically sanitized sense. It is an umbrella term, which can cover many non-homosexual items, situations or people. 

Long before "gay" was the exclusive property of a specific group of people with certain sexual orientations, it was an adjective. I'm returning the word it to its former usefulness. This will undoubtedly piss off a lot of people who would like to claim ownership or are averse to the term having any negative connotations. 

Sorry. My lens, my perspective, my book. If you don't like it or agree with it, write your own book and make up your own definitions.

"Cool" doesn't suffer from so much baggage and will not need a lot of disclaimers or non-apologetic explanation. Something is either cool or not cool. This will be a completely subjective reference table, just in case anyone was wondering about the coolness or non-coolness of any particular thing in the universe, from my perspective.

Back to the bullshit at hand. I had to repair my water heater for the I don't know how many-eth time in the past 5 years. I think I came across the exact root or roots of the failure, though. One, in particular, was the fact that it was rated for 115 volts, and I have been operating it on 220v for most of its life. 

I seem to remember something about the guy who installed telling me, "we can't find another one this size that runs on 220v, so just flip one side of this double pole breaker and you'll be aight." I promptly forgot about that and flipped on both sides at my earliest convenience. 

The other issue was the quality of the well water. It is chock full of minerals, which, interacting with the heating element, create an internal short and make a thick, goopy sludge that is almost too thick to drain from the drain valve. I actually had to blow compressed air into it to get this gelatinous crud to ooze out.

So, a new circuit breaker, thermostat, a 220v heating element and rewire job and I have hot water again. Where does this fall on the scale of bullshit? 

"Fuckin' bullshit!" 

I hesitate to go with Major Fuckin' Bullshit out of a sort of "knock on wood" mentality of not wanting the universe to up the ante of the type of bullshit it is handing out. Some things, like, oh, crippling, long-term illness, for example, could push this way back down the scale, almost to "that's nothing," or at least petty, insignificant bullshit.

I've had to deal with all kinds of bullshit, so I'm becoming adept at sorting out which level of bullshit I'm dealing with at any given time. Whether you're an ascended master, or an everyday hot-head, if you are honest, you will have to admit that life has its share of bullshit. 

"Don't try to shit down my back and tell me that it's raining. At least pee on me, because that would be more believable."

I'm stealing that quote, and I'm not gonna give credit to the person just yet, because that story has a backstory and right now we're not even in the same volume of reference material. But it's a good one, I promise you that. A real hair-curler. More on this later.