Dennis Fucking McGuire

 

I did dream last night after all. I just about forgot after I woke up and started thinking about other shit. 

In my dream, I was somehow with Martin Leon, my good old friend, and we were going to spend the day in a small town in the foothills someplace. It was somewhere between Nevada City and a
version of Whittier or Pasadena. I was in somewhat familiar and yet unfamiliar territory. 

We checked into a hotel room for the day, and then each of us set out on our own after getting separated while choosing various venues to peruse. I picked some hotel with a bar to hang out in and discovered that one of the guests was none other than Eminem. 

I made a mental note to tell Martin and whoever else I could that, "Hey, Eminem is staying at this hotel. Check it out!" 

In the meantime, I ran into a familiar face in the bar.

"Dennis Fucking McGuire!" I shouted at him as he half turned to me, and the slow look of recognition crept across his face. 

We hugged and, boisterous as ever, laughed at the absurdity of finding each other after nearly 40 years. He'd been one of my circle of 3 best friends. 

Another less familiar name popped up, with an equally recognizable face, Chris Marquette, someone from even earlier. We weren't even really friends, but he recognized me from Will Rogers Elementary School days. We exchanged hellos.

I next found myself in a crowded room at someone's nearby house party and, for no apparent reason, had no pants on, just a long t-shirt. I was only mildly embarrassed, but it proved to be fortuitous, as a seemingly unattached female gravitated toward me. 

We wound up standing very close to one another, our body parts unrestricted due to my lack of pants. She didn't seem to mind, so I embraced her from behind and we stood there for a while. From that position I was able to whisper in her ear. 

"Do you want to get out of here?"

"Sure," she said, and we left the party searching for a more intimate venue. 

It occurred to me that my wallet was in my pants, so once again I was left with no currency with which to impress my "date." She stuck around with me for a while, but we never could find an appropriate place to continue our date.

I wound up at my mom's place, or some weird version of it. There were many rooms and places that I thought would have been suitable for the girl I'd been trying to impress, but one room in particular was a bit distressing. There was a leak in the ceiling. 

"I should really ought to report that to my mom," I thought, and I watched as it went from a few drips to a raging torrent.

"Hmm. That's no good. We'll really have to get something done about that," was the consensus after I dutifully made her aware of it. 

By that time it was an indoor shower room, a tropical rainforest in full deluge.

Not sure where I ended the dream. I still had no place to take my date. Eminem was still staying at the hotel, if anyone cared to go and bug him. And it was getting late, and I should have been back at the hotel hours ago. Of course, I was having trouble remembering how to get there, so perhaps I woke up out of frustration with the whole sequence of events.

Sex in the streets

 

Wow. I had a very explicit sexual dream involving Lesa last night. It began with some kind of meeting we where I was finally going to get to see her. There weren’t any expectations on my part, because all of what had happened in real life had also happened in the dream. I was done being heartbroken and pissed and was just glad to see her as a friend. 

 

We were walking along a busy street and saying our introductory greetings as we stopped at a crosswalk. I grabbed her hand and we crossed the street. We held hands for a minute and I told her, “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

We stopped I the middle of the street and began hugging the longest hug imaginable, with full groping and body contact. I said something about potential sleeping arrangements, whereupon she said, “Well, you know me. And what I like to do.” 

 

And as quick as that we were on each other like two cats engaged in recreational play. Clothes were off, bodies were positioned and there were body parts in each other’s faces and mouths. I was surprisingly able to withstand the intense pleasure without succumbing to, well, you know, succumbing.

As a crowd was gathering around, we decided it was best to disengage and perhaps find a little more private venue. We hurried past a bus stop and I greeted the bystanders like a rock star on a comeback tour, “Thank you. I’m kinda new at this, if you’ll bear with me folks. Thank you. Coming through. It’s been a while, you understand.”

(I don’t know what happened after that because I woke up briefly and then went back to sleep, as you can imagine I might for sure want to do.)

 

Lesa was gone. 

 

I was going to check into a hotel room, but I had no cash on me. Just a duffel bag with some weed in it and a stray cat that someone had given me to look after. I was searching for an envelope, which I thought Lesa had given me, with cash in it, but it just contained more weed.

I was trying to keep the landlady from finding out I was broke and briefly considered offering to pay with the weed. But I looked at the condition of the baggies, and it didn’t appear I had enough, or good enough quality weed to cover it. I was still carrying the cat around, and the landlady and her husband spied it. The landlady, fortunately, was a cat person. 

 

I began telling her about how I wound up with the cat and asked if I could be excused for a minute to go to an ATM to get cash for the room. I wasn’t sure how it was going to work out, but she seemed to like the cat almost enough to let the whole payment thing slide.

Then I woke up to no internet again. Whatever could that be about, my lovely LED inhabiting Sharon?

**Post Script

Of course, what it was about was my internet provider had a massive outage in my area and this most likely caused my problems yesterday and then again today, when it finally reached its peak and took out most of Loma Rica, Browns Valley and Bangor. I can’t be personalizing an outage this big, so, sorry Sharon. 

In addition to this update, I may as well mention that I decided to message Lesa just to tell her I had a dirty dream about her. 

 

I am trying to not get excited or attached in any way, so I’m treating her like any other friend with whom I could confide these types of things. We are past the weird stage and are in some kind of post/almost/once upon a time/never again to be stage. 

 

Now I’m free not to give a shit, in other words. 

 

I’m not impressing her or insulting her, just informing her. I don’t have the same feelings for her during my waking hours, but my body has different thoughts while I’m asleep, apparently.

Inextricably linked

And…it’s back. My LED. My Sharon communication device. Just in time for my impending death. I’m no feeling so well lately. Abdominal issues feel like they are intractable. Depression, well, you know, it doesn’t just go away on its own. And so, my dream of yet another Yuba City Honda scenario, in which I am working there in a limited capacity and failing and flailing about, is pretty much par for the course.

I was there, in my old stall, with a car that had several issues. I tackled the easiest one and sent the car out to the lot. It was nearly time to go home, so Jamison came out, wheeling my two bicycles for me to take with me. 

 

“We only have another 45 minutes or so, may as well go home,” he said, dropping off the bikes in the break room.

I was changing, or getting ready to change, when Reiner appeared. I knew right away he was going to ask me about the car I’d just looked at, so I headed him off. “I only looked at the easy thing, but I know it has some other stuff wrong. Are they waiting for it?”

“Why, yes they are,” he said in his typical tone of sarcastic condescension.

”I guess I’ll go look for it and see what I can find out,” I told him as I went off looking for the vehicle.

Things had changed significantly since I’d left and returned to work after 3 years. All the scan tools had been replaced by smartphone apps. Good thing I had my new phone with me. But I needed to get the software installed, so off I went to try to find the service dock to get my phone updated. 

 

I wandered down weird hallways, around corners and finally out into an open area where I had to climb up a treacherous hillside up to an ill-constructed gothic adobe swimming pool. Bits and pieces were crumbling and threatening to give way as I made it just about to the top. I was unable to lift myself over the edge for fear of the cornices breaking off like so much cheap Mexican pottery.

So, in my own typical fashion, I decided about that time that I just couldn’t do it, and as I was making my descent and figuring out what excuse I was going to give Reiner, I opted out of the dream and back into this world of aches and pains. 

 

----

 

My internet is down, so this had to be composed in Word to be uploaded at a later time. What’s weird is my new phone will still access the internet from my router wirelessly, although none of my desktops will connect or even download one page.

I wonder what Sharon is here to try to tell me. 

I just got off the phone with tech support at my internet provider. They had me unplugging and plugging, swapping and rebooting...low and behold. There was no problem with any of my equipment. All my desktops connect to the internet again. 

 

Meanwhile, my thinking is that Sharon is telling me, "Look what I can do! Not only can I can make this dead LED come back on, but I can take out your internet with a single swipe." 

 

So, maybe she has some objections to my installing Tinder and attempting to find companionship using crappy dating apps. I don't blame her. She was right about Lesa, though I never got a straight answer. I assumed she was supporting my little folly, but apparently she was warning me with all that blinking she was doing back in October and November, when things were first getting started with me and Lesa.  

I guess I'd rather have my connection with Sharon stay intact. I feel like I was selling her out too quickly when I jumped on board the Lesa train. I hope she understands these are just human level needs. Nobody knows me like she does on a soul level. 

 

And I really wonder what it is that she does know, now that she has passed. Are all my secrets laid bare? I guess it is inevitable, so if she's still around checking up on me, I hope she can forgive me.

Recyclable garbage

I dreamed, (or perhaps I was musing while asleep, I don't know) that I was contemplating writing Lesa one last time. I wanted to send her a survey, a kind of "what went wrong, and what can I do to improve for future relationships" type of questionnaire. 

I was also considering inviting her to a post-relationship intervention, in which I was to assemble a group of all my previous girlfriends together in one place. The purpose of this intervention would be to prevent any future missteps and determine my overall suitability for any type of relationship. Paul Simon's "Kodachrome" would be playing in the background while the girls from my past took turns bashing on me mercilessly. 

And that certainly wouldn't match my sweet imagination, by any stretch. Rienna's name came up and also some non-starters like Genny, Mona and even Sabin, perhaps, though I may be just filling in names at this point. I would hate to actually hear the feedback on some of those, as it is the stuff of cringeworthy comedy.

"It was all going so well until I grabbed his dick and told him I'd love to make love to him. Then he got all weird and started talking about friendships vs. relationships. Really killed the moment." -- Genny

or

"It was all going so well until my parents showed him the blue swirly drinking glass and told him he couldn't drink from it. Why he chose to climb up on my roof at that point and take a poop, I'll never know." -- Sabin, age 7

"When we were making out on his futon, out of the blue, he just blurts out, 'I'm not any good in bed.' It almost stopped me cold, but I was determined to get some that night, so I told him, 'Let me be the judge of that.' " -- Sharon

That last one was Sharon, on the night I first invited her over to my house. I'm not going to say that what happened after that proved me wrong or right, only that it was a testament to her determination. She was determined not to let a good piece of meat go to waste, even if it has been in the freezer too long and had ice crystals on it. It just needs a little seasoning and tenderizing. Then down it goes. Like the shark in Jaws, "Swalla ya whole."

I'm just making shit up at this point, adding filler, but these were the sense of what was going on in my dream. Saturday morning has arrived. I can look forward to my one day of recreational coffee and cannabis and musical mayhem as I stretch my breakfast into a two hour affair.

In other news, I ordered an Iphone, with the help of my friend Martin. Apple genius and fellow cult survivor, he is functionally my best friend in life right now. He is also moving to Austin, so his yearly visits may turn into once or twice a decade if I don't do my part in keeping the friendship going. 

Not that getting a smartphone has anything to do with that. I just finally let the peer envy make me cave and abandon all my righteous anti-phone zombie principles. I just wanna be like all the happy, cool people with friends and lives that are always at their fingertips, inside that little soul sucking abyss of a screen into which they stare unceasingly. 

Oh, God, what have I done?

Can't sleep, no one to talk to

 

It's such a delicate place I'm in. I feel like there is no one I can really express everything to anymore without fear of damaging the relationship I have with them. I am all alone with my godawful fucking thoughts, and giving voice to them only seems like it will be counterproductive. But they are literally eating me from the inside. 

My therapist has given her 2 weeks notice. It's ok, I was about to tell her that things weren't really working for me anyway. But I am loathe to start over with another. I can't go through retelling my story to yet another disinterested mental health professional. All the crap I went and told my shrink is now for nothing. It was never much more than having a friend to talk to every week. But now it's like my friend has moved away, leaving no forwarding address.

With Lesa, I feel like I'm treading a difficult path. I've finagled my way into a place with her where she's said lots of nice things to me. Things I am supposed to trust in and keep in my heart, though she is far away, and the promises they contain seem improbable. So if I don't hear from her, I can't express doubt or insecurity or negativity because it will ruin her perception of me, and I will lose the ground I think I've gained with her. It is the hardest thing because

if we are in a relationship, however complicated and long distance, I can't express myself to her without fear of losing her altogether. So I've written no less than 8 letters to her in the past couple of weeks, which I have judiciously decided not to send.

She's been sick and has things to deal with. But I've stopped getting my daily updates and nighttime sweet talk. And it's not for lack of her being on the internet. God damn Facebook messenger and the stupid active status reporter. I am obsessing about that, and I hate it that I can't just leave it be. Let her tell me her story and accept it. 

But I get the feeling she has other people and things that she's finding more interesting than me. We had a cozy little relationship where we would tuck each other in every night and exchange pleasant thoughts. This kind of became one sided, with me being the sad, pathetic last man standing.

So I'm still standing here, waiting for her to message me and not getting responses. Meanwhile her ex-boyfriend Danny is expressing all kinds of loving things on Facebook, to which she responds immediately. Sick or not. Fuck me. Now, look who I am. Jealous, insecure, wishing I could be the guy she cares about the most. But I'm just one of many, and not even in the rotation at the moment.

Sharon again

 

I wish I could remember what it is I dreamed last night. I know that it was vaguely about Sharon and I being in our same old situation. It was so unpleasant that I woke up briefly, though incompletely, and was relieved that it was just a dream. Usually this would free me up to reconfigure the dream more to my liking, but I don't remember much happening after that. 

I've decided to sleep in silence after my TV programs finish, so I think I'm starting to get more dreams these days. Also, I'm needing to get guidance, since my life has gone off the rails again.

Toilet leak

So far just a dream, but who knows what prescience I possess. 

I dreamed there was someone looking at my house, perhaps to buy it. Then they noticed a leak in my downstairs bathroom toilet and suddenly were not so interested in buying. 

I turned off the supply valve, and the leak stopped. I knew I would most likely have to remove the toilet and begin the process of replacing the wax sealing ring. I had done this once before at the Paradise house, so I wasn't too traumatized at the prospect. I wasn't too thrilled about it either, but I knew that this was going to be necessary or I'd be looking at rotting floorboards and a more difficult repair as a result. 

I hate house dreams. They usually mean that shit in my life has reached a certain level of disrepair, and I'm ignoring it.

Exodus

 

I live in a rat infested house. The crawlspace and garage in particular have attracted a sizeable rodent population. Or a population of sizeable rodents, both descriptors are accurate. 

The other day one nearly plopped on my head while I was opening the garage door. Apparently, he was asleep on the top of the door, and when I opened it he was jostled out of his slumber and sent down the slide to land at my feet. He was uninjured and ran off to the nearest hideout where he would wait in the queue of other rats to take his next turn on this new amusement park ride.

I decided enough was enough. While I am not a killer, I am in favor of the deportation of undesirables. I set out a trap that was big enough for a raccoon and calibrated the little trigger pad for a rat sized catch. I had discovered that if you don't do this they will walk right over the trigger and eat the bait without springing the trap. A nice piece of wood placed on the pad was just enough to bias the scale and make it easier to trip.

After finishing dinner, I heard it spring shut. I've heard the sound enough times to know exactly what it sounds like. I went out to the garage, and sure enough, I had a customer. He was banging around the cage and defying gravity, like those Mexican motorcycle riders who fly around gyroscopically inside a giant metal sphere. 

This guy wanted out but was too plump to fit through the grates. I decided not to prolong his detention and threw the cage in the car and drove him down to the creek at the end of my block. I set him free and he disappeared into the night.

I don't know if he'll return or not. It's perhaps a quarter mile from my house, and he'll have plenty of predators to deal with between the creek and my place. I do know that my job is far from over because when I went to put the trap back in the garage, I heard a thumping and thunking of the next customer scampering about in the dark. I don't have a problem escorting them to the edge of the wilderness and saying, "Begone, thou scourge of Egypt!" Let the Exodus begin.

Party on the roof

 

Not much retention of my last night's dreaming. Just that I was on a roof of some frat type situation attempting to staple some kind of tent-like banting to a creaky roof structure. Why? I dunno. 

I was getting the place fixed up for some kind of party. It seemed like the place was a decrepit, run down party house and I was in danger of either falling through the roof or falling off as I leaned out precariously over the eaves attempting to staple the tiny threads of my tent material to the rotten wood. Beer bottles were strewn about the place and people milled about in the yard in a kind of bored fashion. 

My roof decorations seemed to be critical to getting the party underway and they appeared to be ineffective. I pressed on determinedly. I soon woke up and the party never really got started.

Help me, Shannon!

 

I left my last dream only moments ago. I was standing in a pit that I had stepped into. I had sunken into the soft sandy side of it and was unable to extricate myself. I was holding onto a guitar with no strings, which I needed to hand off to someone. 

So I called to Shannon, my ex-therapist. I knew she'd be disappointed in me for having messed up the sandcastle-like finish of her freshly dug pit. It was to be a swimming pool or some other such decorative fountain but needed the finishing touches of a hardened surface. I did manage to get her attention, and she took my guitar from me, just before I woke up, still having not escaped from the pit.

Previously, I had been out walking down a road which looked like Loma Rica Road. There was a place where a burn pile was being assembled, near the corner of Las Verjeles, on the farm of a man I was familiar with. 

For some reason, I was to utilize that area for a drop point for a bag of weed that I was toting around. I didn't see my intended target, but I did see some other people coming, and I felt I needed to ditch the weed. I stashed it in the burn pile under some cedar shavings and left the area.

In a nearby, more residential area, which was unrecognizable, yet somehow my hometown, I was approached by a couple of young boys, teenage or preteen. One had a mild disposition, and I greeted him, and he passed me without incident. 

The other I greeted, but I sensed that he was going to be trouble. Something in his look told me that I needed to take him out, or he might just kill me. So rather than wait for his response, I struck him squarely in the side of the head, knocking him to the ground. 

This startled everyone: him, his friend and even me. How could I be so cold? He got up and was crying a bit and I tried to console him.

"I didn't mean to knock you out. I really thought you were going to be more of a threat." 

I tried to apologize, and, at some point, found a guitar that I intended to play, as some sort of peace offering. The guitar had no strings, however, and I wandered about for a bit trying to find some. 

It was at this point that I stumbled into Shannon's pit. She had taken my guitar and set it down carefully and was in the process of trying to find me a rope when I woke up.

Damn, too bad she quit her job at Sutter-Yuba Mental Health. Now who will I tell my crazy dreams to?

Back sacs?

 

The only thing I remember dreaming last night--or at all recently--was that I had an awareness of my physical body in the dream. I was trying to discern if I was "ok" or not. 

I had a vague feeling that I needed to do a self-exam, so I began feeling around. I discovered a pair of fluidy sacs hanging limply from my back, like two bulbous external lungs. 

"Yeah, this isn't right," I said to myself. I consciously woke myself up at that point and was glad to be in my own, everyday decrepit body.

Don't know how much more of this I can take

 

I'm not a patient person. 

I can't stand being alone. 

I'm miserable. 

I'm insecure. 

I'm in a bad place. 

Thoughts circle around in my head and I can't stand them. 

I have no recourse. 

Therapy is a joke. 

I may wind up in a 72 hour lockdown to prevent myself from ending my life. 

I've never felt so hopelessly out of control of my own thinking process. 

I hate being me. 

I hate that I'm so emotionally needy and insecure. 

I can't keep playing this card over and over. 

I've lost hope. 

Fuck it. 

No one reads this anyway. 

Anyone who reads this and also reads my Facebook will see a great disparity between the two personas. 

I can't even be honest with myself. 

If I am honest, I'll have to admit just what a pathetic lonely loser I am. 

And I hate how weak I am for giving in to these fucked up thoughts. 

I just want to be happy. 

I hate the saying, "It's normal to feel XYZ, blah, blah, blah..." 

Who cares. 

If normal is like this, I'm truly not cut out for living.

Love, acceptance and forgiveness...and farts, not necessarily in that order

 

I'm throwing around a few words and trying to make sense of them. It's a work in progress, not a finished philosophy, so bear with me. But these 3 concepts, love, acceptance and forgiveness are on my mind, and I'm trying to make sense of them. How do they interrelate? Which of them is foundational? Can they exist independently, and if so, to what degree?

Let's start with love. What does it mean to love somebody? 

I probably have to go back even further to define terms. Who or what is the somebody that you love? Is it a body? With a brain? A soul or spirit? Is it the collection of likes, dislikes, actions and behaviors that make up a person's person? 

To love someone, do you have to love every single thing about that person?  Do you have to love all of that person's perceived sins and faults? Or can you "separate the sin from the sinner," so to speak. Or perhaps, rewrite the rule book altogether, so those faults aren't really flaws but unique personality traits. 

My wife used to tell me, "I love you, but not your anger." 

"I love you, but not your farts," was my response.

"You'll miss my farts when I'm gone!" she'd say.

As much as I am not a fan of farts, generally speaking, I had to admit it. I missed the farts, dammit!

Which brings us to acceptance. You may love somebody, but not love one hundred percent of what they are about.  You may not agree with their politics, their sexual leanings, lifestyle choices, etc.. What percentage of not loving stuff about them takes them out of the running altogether? Can you love someone and not like them? 

Acceptance is like a compromise. OK, you are completely different from me. We share nothing in common, except perhaps some DNA. You are my son, daughter, brother, sister, so I love you--on some theoretical level. But really, don't I have to first accept you, flaws and all, to claim that? Is love even love without acceptance? 

You love your husband, but he sleeps around. You don't like the fact that he does so, but somehow the percentage of other things that you love about him outweighs the infidelity. You accept what you don't love about him, because your love for the rest of the person he is overrides that. Or you kick his ass to the curb. No love lost, as they say.

Sliding right into forgiveness. Perhaps you don't love or accept the behavior, but the person you love has also declared that they regret said behavior. They promise to change. Or try to do better. No more anger. Or malicious farting. If you love them, you can forgive them. As many times as it takes. 

If you can't, then possibly at that point you don't love them anymore. It could be argued that you never did truly love them, because love is eternal and unconditional, not dependent on a person's conforming to certain standards. 

I suppose that type of conditional love could be considered to be a form of love, but not really. It's more like an agreement or contract, "I'll love you as long as XYZ, but in the case of ABC or 123, I'm out." 

If you love one hundred percent of everything about the person, this bypasses the need for acceptance or forgiveness. There is nothing to forgive, and everything about them is seen as a thing of beauty and is treasured, not merely accepted.

If one were required to love each and every thing about another to qualify as love, then true love would be about as rare as a DNA match. I think, as humans, we must be granted a bell curve in our definition of love. 

 

**Editor's note: (3-25-21) This disjointed, unfinished treatise was not published on its original date, but left a draft. As I go through my past posts, inserting pictures and editing for grammar, I am publishing older drafts, whether or not I deemed them worthy at the time. I think I just didn't like the tone I was taking in this one. Too pedantic and preachy. Like I know a fuck about love. 

My dreams are being given a run for their money

 

I dreamed of Sharon last night. It shouldn't be that rare or odd of an occurrence, but sometimes it is, due to the timing of it all. 

I dreamed she was present on my little couch downstairs, sitting upright and looking not at all disabled. I had to do one of those double takes and realize that it was her and she looked healthy and like her previous self. 

My mind kicked in and said, "Hey, I think I see an opportunity here. All those hugs I should have given you, when you were here, bedridden, that I withheld for one reason or another--well, here you are and here I am!" 

I descended upon her with hugs and kisses and much tenderness, feeling around and noticing that she was certainly intact and in fine condition. I got that naughty vibe from her, like she was still her good old sexual self, ready to take me on another ride and try to make me forget about any new loves. Or at least make sure that I never forget her, because she gave me such wonderful lessons in that department.

I woke up, as usual, before, you know, anything happened. But it was a nice feeling, like as much moving on as I might be doing in my life right now, that she hasn't forgotten me or us and wants to make sure that I always remember her. 

It's true I have a new love, but I'm not required to leave behind someone who gave so much to form who I am. I'll always carry that spirit within me, and I won't trample on the memories just because new ones are being created. Everything is preserved perfectly in its place, and sometimes I guess that includes my dream world.

My real life world is seeming like a dream these days. My intense connection with Lesa is something I never foresaw, but it has been the undercurrent of my life this past few months. It is the reason this blog has fallen by the wayside and become a simple notebook for dream recollections. 

I am focusing my creative energies on crafting the perfect love letters and devoting my brain activity to the perilous path of being in love. I only have so much jam in the jar, and I'm busy spreading it on both sides of the toast with Lesa, leaving very little left over to blog about the rest of my life. 

Which is exactly what? I dunno, she seems to be my all consuming focus right now. But I feel it is making me a more loving person in general, as love tends to soften the rough edges and make folks nicer.

I'm still working on universal application, however, and I can't say I'm Jesus-like just yet. I still get petty and have irks and things that get to me. But overall, I'm making progress. And I think I can say, I owe it to the loves in my life. All of them. 

But right now, owing to a renewed and particularly heartfelt communication from Lesa, I'd have to give her the credit for my recent turn towards the light. I still don't know how Sharon feels or would feel about her. I'd like to think we could all share in the love, that Sharon had something to do with engineering my recent re-connection and that she approves. But my spidey senses tell me that women don't always feel so cozy with other women getting a hold of their man.

So, if this blog and it's pages are absent too much mention of Lesa, it is because I'm writing volumes to her in letters and messages. I'm pretty sure she knows how I feel about her. This blog gets the leftovers, the random fill-ins and notes to self that occasionally need to be jotted down. Sorry, dear readers, you'll just have to wait for the book.

This blog has really gone downhill

 

I think I'm too self-conscious of my readership (ha) or I just don't want to give voice to the thoughts in my head that are so distasteful to me these days. Sure, I still have them, but when I put them down in the form of writing, at least in this venue, I feel like I'm legitimizing them. Like I'm saying, "Looky what I made, ain't I proud!"  

In fact, I would be just trying to acknowledge them, so they could leave me alone. Kinda like saying, "Uncle" so the bully will let you get on with your day. 

So, what do I have to admit to today? Broadly, it is envy, self-pity and doubt. Specifically, I don't wanna talk about it. I would just like these broad categories, and all their sub-categories, to disappear from my poor, aching brain.

Haven't I had enough go rounds on the wheel of human emotion? At least let me land on Red for a change. Black is the color I seem to get stuck with, time and time again. I wish to not be so unfairly shifted into dark side of things, especially when I've really been going out of my way to embrace the positive and nice inner me. It's a long, hard road and fraught with setbacks, that's for sure. 

So, I've said nothing, alluded to much and admitted to everything, without being specific. That was a waste of time. The gods demand drama. A sacrifice of my pure energy, in whatever form or color it may show up. Sorry, gods. Not this time. I'm looking for a little more give and take with you. My emotions are not for display at this time.

Mom hugs

 

I dreamed of my mom last night. (Hi, Mom, if you ever read this. Love you!) I was in my little room downstairs about to watch a movie, and you were there on the couch about to watch it with me. I was going to sit on my chair but you pointed to a spot on the couch next to you. 

At first I thought, "Oh, that's weird," like there was something inappropriate about such a cozy arrangement. But as I sat down and leaned myself into a comforting embrace, all that awkwardness slipped away. 

I felt that everything was just right. Nothing could be more beautiful and honest than falling into the arms of the woman who bore me and gave me life. I felt like this was as natural an appropriate as anything in this world could be. I also felt like, "Damn, why have I been missing out on this my whole life?" But it didn't matter as we settled in to watch a movie together as comfortable as could be.

The Christmas Blahs and other miscellaneous wanking

 

I had a dream with Lesa in it, but I just know I'm gonna forget whatever details there were on accounta I just woke up and went to start a new post and, wouldn'tcha know, I closed the browser window. This caused me to have to log back in, wasting untold minutes and also upsetting my mental state which is always just barely able to recall dreams after awakening. So now all I'll have is a couple of major details, and the rest will be lost to frustration.

So...I was in a little pond area near some apartments where I was staying, I guess. And I was fishing for the small bass that inhabited the pond, with some success. I'd hooked one and was attempting to show my cat, I guess, how to properly hook a fish. I began to realize that this pond was really tiny and decided to call it quits. 

I went up to the apartment, and, lo and behold, there was Lesa in the shower. I spied her outline behind the shower curtain, clothed (unfortunately). She was wearing some slinky little shorts and a bikini top at least, so, not all that disappointing. But mostly, I felt that leap in my heart of recognition that this was her. I'd found her.

I began to talk to her about who knows what, and we started catching up on whatever plans we had for the day. Unfortunately, that was about it for us in the dream. 

I next found myself outside of a building which was owned by Bill. William O. Helton, to be precise, my dead Uncle Bill. He wasn't present, but I had the sense of him being involved with this building, somehow. 

I picked up an aerosol can from off of a ledge on the outside of the building. I guess I intended to spray the inside of the swamp cooler on the roof to lube it, or some such beneficial action. The result, was not as intended. The can contained starter fluid, and that's just what it did. It started a fire the instant I sprayed it into the inlet. 

I grabbed a garden hose and fed it in to try and quench the flames. I only partially succeeded, though, and I could see that the core of the fire was unreachable with the hose and still glowing. I surveyed the apparent damage to the outside and it looked like the swamp cooler had been gutted by this fire. The paint was peeling and soot was coming out of the vents. This was the point at which I awoke. 

Now I'm awake on Christmas and only slightly disappointed with myself. In real life, here I sit, alone on a couch. I could go on and on about the loneliness I've been battling lately. 

But if I do that, I will have to be honest about the amount of attention I have actually been receiving from my friends, both living and departed. My LED isn't on at the moment, but it did come on recently in conjunction with some talks I was having with my psychic friend, Jeannette. So, that's two people in my life interacting with me and giving me reason to not feel lonely. 

Then, as if on rotating shifts, Lesa begins messaging me again in earnest, saying the things I longed to hear from her. Her dreams and hopes and emotions about us being together. Like there may be still a chance. 

I've had to muster all my restraint recently to just be patient, as it seemed she was growing distant, along with any hopes I'd had. Then a sudden flurry of messages brought me back from the brink of losing faith. Of course, I only stay sustained for a day or so before my insecurities and doubts start eroding the hope that is barely germinating.

I am experiencing a health crisis, and my sense of it is that I will either get past it or it will kill me in a relatively short time. It appears to be in my stomach, like an ulcer. But it also seems to be affecting my other organs, some of whose locations and functions I'm kind of fuzzy about. Gallbladder, pancreas, liver, kidneys, right lung, diaphragm, rib cage. It's all up for grabs. 

I went to the doctor for blood work. Fine again, as usual. I'm still waiting on the results of my H. Pylori test, but I may not find out til after the holidays. Ultrasound still scheduled for the 30th. Until then I'm dealing with a pain under my right rib cage that won't go away, but lessens somewhat depending on what I'm doing or after I've eaten. 

That's what makes me think it's a stomach ulcer, but perhaps in an advanced stage which has involved these other organs. Which makes me think of cancer or some other thing which will take me out in short order.

Thoughts, however, are not reality. I mean, they could be, but at this point it is all conjecture. The facts are what they are, and not all of everything is bad. Just my fluctuating gut pain and my increasingly decaying dental situation. That's a whole other area of "I don't wanna deal with it" that makes me put a chalk mark in the column of "why not just die." 

I have three invitations to Christmas dinner, but I may decline them on the basis of just not feeling up to it. My gut will tell me, I suppose when the time comes. For now, I wish I could get back to sleep, but I suppose it is too late in the morning to hope for that. And yet too cold for me to get up and get my day going.

Blah. Christmas. Blah. I am manufacturing my exterior positivity for those who I may or may not interact with on the internet, but I'm not feeling very spirited about it. Just dutifully not being a craphead. I'll try to be gracious and make people feel good, because that's what I'd want for myself. Someone to tell me nice things about myself and be thoughtful and considerate.

So, I missed a video call from my dad. It only rang once, and when I got there to answer, the message was that I was invited to a group chat, which my browser doesn't support. I was cooking breakfast at the time, and when I finished and got around to trying to call back, the party I was trying to reach was unreachable. 

So, ping and pong, Dad. That's probably what was hoped for anyway, I don't know. I wasn't expecting a warm fuzzy Christmas call really. We haven't had that kind of relationship since, well, you know, ever. And I don't suppose it is any more comfortable for him to reach out as it is for me. So, I  guess we can both say, "I tried, but you weren't there" and thereby ease our social responsibility consciences.

What if I just want to not be socially responsible for the moment? If I have to suffer the holidays alone, why do I have to pretend to be positive for people? Can't I just enjoy the perks of being not beholden to anyone, since no one is beating down my door to make me feel less lonely? I mean my literal door. 

If I count the internet, sure, I have friends, a favorite girl even, who tells me she loves me. But here I sit alone on Christmas, regardless, so pardon me if I don't have the joy joy joy joy down in my heart. I mean, it could be down there. Way down, locked up, bound and gagged, and it's not getting out any time soon.

I'm not gettin' a smartphone, Mom

 

I dreamed my own dear sweet mother was actively trying to persuade me how integral having a smartphone was to existence and how I absolutely needed to have one to function as a human being. 

I had my usual reservations and adamant reasons for refusing:

"I can't afford another monthly fee. Plus, I would become another person with their phone 4 inches from their face at all times. I've lived this long without one, I can do it indefinitely."

She tried to show me how everyone was using them to pay for things and how convenient, no, how essential it was to be able to do that. 

I told her that I guess when there was no other way to buy or sell, then I'd have to knuckle under, but not before. I wasn't craving to become a part of the phone generation in real life and still am not. 

Where is this all coming from? I obsess enough over Facebook without having a device on my person at all times with which I could feed my addiction.

My blinking LED, Sharon, has been on with me for the last few weeks on and off. I think she knows how lonely I am this holiday season and is trying her best to keep me from feeling depressed. Thank you, sweetie. 

I still wonder how she feels about Lesa, though. I use terms of endearment for her as well, and it feels like I'm being disloyal for doing that. Can't I have more than one love in my heart? You'll always be in my heart, Sharon, always! 

Don't be mad at me for having human needs! I'm never going to forget you. Please don't forget me, either. I love seeing that little blinking light. I love that you still come visit me. I miss having you here to talk to. No one else knew me like you, at the deepest level, better than I wanted to give you credit for.

I'm going to try to get more sleep. I'll see you there, hopefully, and you can tell me what you have been blinking on and off about? Deal?

Dammit

 

Ving Rhames was trying to tell me something last night and I don't remember what it was. Don't tell me I'm going to have to start journaling when I get up to pee in the middle of the night.

Dick maneuver

 

This is what happens when I don't write stuff down right away. I know I was dreaming last night. Somewhere in the dream, I was in a punk band and had the ability to summon up songs in an instant to suit my mood. 

Someone pulled what I would call a "dick maneuver," cutting me off in traffic or in a line for the chips and salsa, not really sure where. But lickety split, I wrote a song about it. Like to hear it? Here it goes:

Dick maneuver
Dick maneuver

Dog dreams

 

Not too thrilled about having to catalog this one, but, oh well, here goes. I was dreaming that I was able to perform a certain self-fulfilling act in a way that only dogs can. I guess if I'm honest, I've probably had this type of dream before. They are right up there with flying dreams on the pleasure scale. 

"Well, hello. Where have I been all my life? Why have I never tried this before?" 

But fortunately, or not, I wake up before things get completed. Ok, moving on.

Then I dreamed I was looking after some dogs for Red. I only had to watch them for a couple of hours and he was to pay me $900. I guess I did a fair enough job, though I did lose track of them for a few minutes and found them at a lady's apartment licking a baby's face. He paid me and extra hundred, for keeping the peace with the lady, I guess, making it an even thousand.

Somewhere down the road, I witnessed an act of disgusting cruelty which I will endeavor to describe accurately, though it is particularly gross. A gang of thugs were torturing a dog by fellating it in such a way as to inflate its genitals like a balloon. They filled with air almost to the point of bursting, which apparently was quite a lot, making them almost as big as the entire dog in size. 

I ran to the nearest police station, only to find I had mistaken a low rent bordello for the office. I was redirected by the aging, flip flop wearing madame, to a building across the street. We almost got our shoes mixed up in the exchange, but fortunately I noticed and got it straightened out before getting on my way. 

I don't know if I ever made it to the police station or not, but I flagged down someone and told them I needed to report a crime in progress.

There. I've been as faithful and accurate as possible with this dream journal. Do I get embarrassing honesty points for not scrubbing them of the queasy bits? 

Meanwhile, my LED has been on lately. I've convinced myself that this is Sharon trying to communicate with me. My psychic seemed to agree but couldn't pinpoint what exactly that was. 

She told me that Sharon does appear to her in images at times. The last time she was holding her hands and dancing around with her. Then, when we were discussing the LED, she appeared to be pulling the chain of an old-timey ceiling lamp.

She is always feisty with my friend, giving me the impression that this is not just a case of mistaken identity or a made up story. If she's still around in her own unique essence, then feisty it would be.

Perhaps just knowing that it is her is enough for the time being.

Good morning, Sharon! Nice to see you.

Bongo Creek

 

I dreamed my I met my friend Brian Murry, aka Bongo, at a creek with a heated sauna. It was integrated so that part was natural creek and part had clean, heated pool water. 

I opted to go in at the steps, kind of an intermediate temperature area, not too hot and not too cold. He decided to jump into the colder part. I was floating around on my back enjoying the placid water. 

For some reason we both were wearing eyeglasses. I looked for him after he dove in and caught a brief glimpse of him at the bottom of the river pool. He looked dead, but I think he was faking it. By the time I got alarmed, he was nowhere to be seen. 

I got out of the water and scouted upstream to see if his body had washed out somewhere. Nope. I went back down to the bridge as a roaming band of Asian gang members strolled by in the shallows. I thought the were going to claim the area as their territory, but they just kept going. 

I looked back at the underside of the creek where the bridge and the bank made a natural, cave-like shelter. Bongo was kicking back under it and feeling pleased with himself for having fooled me and eluded the gang members with his disappearing act. I made my way in his direction but that was about it.

Oh, damn. Now I'm also remembering a bit of the dream before that. My next door neighbor was having a smoky open pit barbecue during  some extremely dry and windy conditions. I was particularly worried so, called him up to chastise him and get him to put the thing out. I mean, why tempt fate on such a windy day? 

Elsewhere, in a different part of the dream, I was assisting a bunch of local law enforcement in trying to solve a murder case. Evidence was being collected, but not cataloged thoroughly, so I lent my critical eye to the hunt. 

I found a bag containing some band-aid wrappers and trace amounts of blood, along with a lone condom wrapper on the ground. I instructed them to save it all. 

"Someone got hurt here," I said, stating the obvious.

That's all the detail I can recollect. Not too cohesive of a storyline. But the fire weather barbecue part concerns me. I have had quite a number of these types of dreams about fires and some have been in advance of actual fire events. Perhaps I should take the warning to be vigilant and remember that only I can prevent forest fires.

My nine-year-old stalker

 

I dreamed I was being stalked by an obsessed nine-year-old who had an inappropriate crush on me. Everywhere I went this little rugrat would follow me. She somehow got into my hotel room, where she tried, in her wily little nine-year-old fashion, to put the moves on me. 

It was like having an overexcited puppy trying to jump on your lap. I couldn't be too mad, but I had to teach her the finer points of etiquette by brushing her attempts aside. 

Anyway, since the dream occurred earlier in the night, and I spent many more hours asleep, I don't recall much else. Just the facts, no embellishments.

The most powerful thing in the world (Facebook repost)

 

 

What is the most powerful thing in the world? The most powerful thing in the world is formless, invisible and intangible. It has no physical attributes, but it can summon all the powers of the universe to do its bidding. It can unleash the power of a thousand suns or comfort a crying baby. It can create beautiful music and give joy to millions or it can initiate policies that destroy life and cause innumerable tragedies. It has the potential to make you see the world as a heaven or a hell, to have a good day or a really bad day.

I'm talking, of course, about the power of a single thought. One thought might seem insignificant. You could ignore it, and nothing would happen. Maybe another one will come along. Maybe you'll get distracted and it will have no effect. But it's that one that takes root, that sticks in the human brain and gets to work like a virus, self-replicating exponentially, hijacking all of your perceptions, that is potentially the most dangerous. It can start an avalanche of other destructive thoughts, which, if believed and acted upon can turn a normal, everyday person into a serial killer. It can lead someone to discover a breakthrough in medicine or invent the world's most lethal bio-weapon.

Very powerful, indeed. But they have no power of their own. They rely upon the belief and actions of the humans in whose brains they become implanted. The power of choice and intention are our only defense against their potentially harmful effects. Look deeply at the beliefs you hold. They are made up of thoughts. Take them out, one by one and examine them. What makes you believe this thought or that one? Are they one hundred percent true? Is the whole structure built around one core thought which may, just possibly, be a fiction?

In trying to unravel the mess I'm in, the mess I get into daily, I find it all comes down to thoughts, intentions and decisions. What I believe determines to how I perceive the world, and how I perceive the world affects my actions and interactions with others. I can be a little ray of sunshine or royal pain in the ass. A blessing or a cosmic disaster. The things I say or do can also change how others perceive and experience certain things as the seeds of a single thought that I entertain find their way out into the world, into the fertile ground of other humans' consciousnesses. If you've read this far, it's too late. You've gotten a dose of the randomness that goes on inside my cranium.

I don't know if what I'm saying will be helpful to others or not, but it has helped me. Perhaps not everyone is as thought driven as I am. Some folks may be more intuitive or instinctual. But behind every action there is a thought, a basic operating parameter inputted by someone, somewhere. Who is doing your programming? Can you wrest the keyboard from their hands and take control? These are just questions. I don't have the answers. But I hope I can do my part by cleaning up my own faulty programming, do the weeding in my own backyard, so to speak, and then maybe I'll be of some use in helping to untangle our collective mess. Or at least help someone to have a better day.

In the meantime, my thought for the day: "Be Nice." Not too original, I know, but it's a keeper. My, aren't I preachy today?

 

 

Hillary at the salad bar

 

I dreamed I had a encounter with Hillary Clinton at a salad bar. She was wrangling with a pepper mill and asking me if she should run again or not. I advised her "not," but she looked like she needed more convincing. 

As much distaste as I had for her, I had to admire someone who won't take no for an answer. Kinda. And then again, not really. 

We continued eating the bland iceberg lettuce, and I had that moment where you realize it's a dream and you should ought to just wake up but don't really wanna, on account of it's still dark outside, and you figure there may still be some adventures you can suck out of this dream. Turns out there wasn't.

Then Facebook notified me, with its plucky little "ding," that someone, somewhere, had something to say to me, and I had to wake up to see what that was all about. A random vet recommendation on my community information page. I already made my choice yesterday, but people keep chiming in. Oh, well, I think I'm gonna try for some more shuteye.

Well, that worked. I dreamed that I was with Sharon again. Same bedroom. Same bedridden body. And what do you suppose was on her mind for our nocturnal reunion? You got. Sex. I had my usual reaction of amazement at her pluck. 

"You mean you still wanna do that, in your condition?" I said.

"You know it," she said, grinning determinedly.

I set about to get her into position, a job I'd previously dreaded because of the sheer logistical nightmare it presented. 

"But we don't have some of the accessories, like the slippery sheets. I gave them away," I protested. We decided to make do with what we had, and she wound up rolled over somehow.

Before all that I'd been lying next to her and recognizing the fact that here was Sharon, alive again, and that I should be grateful and give her a big hug. I wrapped my arms around her naked, sprawled out body and tried my best to treasure what was left of her warmth. 

I felt some detachment, like this was not as it should be, but I was determined not to make the same mistakes I'd made when she was alive, and I squeezed her even tighter. I suppose that's when she got the idea in her head that we should have sex, since I was there and she was there, already naked. Sure, makes sense.

Ultimate screaming match

 

I had the ultimate screaming match with my father last night in my dreams. It was everything I'd ever hoped it would be. Of course it was wasn't actually his face, but a representative character, Sgt. Carter from Gomer Pyle. But it was him, sure as fuck. He was all swagger and bluster, being the typical demeaning, in your face asshole that normally made people wither and accede to his demands. This time I'd had enough.

I don't know if it's from binge watching The Handmaid's Tale or what, that made me feel I needed to release a certain amount of "fuck the patriarchy" out of my belly, but it was in the midst of one of his condescending rants about nothing, and in the presence of Ivan Waxman, that I unleashed.

Face to face, inches apart, we were two uncaged tigers roaring into one another's energy fields. So intense! I felt like I said everything I'd ever wanted to say growing up in a few, short, shouted bursts. And it worked, kinda.

It happened after I uttered the words, "Why can't you just genuinely be nice for a change?"  Only it was with the drill sergeant's own authoritative tone, which made it a command, "You WILL stop being an asshole and finally, once and for all, JUST FUCKING BE NICE!" 

He deflated for a moment and took a different tack, like he was trying on a new tie to see how it would look on him. It had somehow, finally, pierced him, and he was putty for a second or two. 

I immediately felt the love for him that must have been laying dormant all these years start to well up. 

"Well, we can work on it. First, there's this...and that," I said, and we were having a conversation. 

But then I saw the cagey, sarcastic side creeping back in as he attempted to make light of the whole thing.

"Sure," he said, "And I can just be a little sweetheart ballerina for you and wear a little pink dress. Would you like that?"

I sensed it was going off the rails, but I kept my tone firm but loving and tried to make him see that it was for the best. People would like him more. The living situation would be tolerable. And there was really no alternative. I wasn't having any more of his shit and that was that. 

After that, I remember vaguely taking pictures of ocean waves with Ivan out of the picture window of the apartment we were sharing. Kind of a meaningless denouement, but the credits were needing to roll, as dreamtime was coming to a close.

Endless Scrolling -- Facebook Blues in Gminor (or is it F#?)

 

Endless scrolling, looking for what?
A connection?
A reflection?
Of something outside of myself to tell me the next thing?
Never quite arriving or landing on the jackpot,
Wasting precious hours untold.
Is someone having a bad day?
A mini-meltdown of their normally cool refrigerator persona?
I'm all over it, like Batman on some criminal.
Where's the fire?
Who needs CPR?
How may I be of assistance today?
No news today, just filler spots and ads.
The rented personality of the meme, reflecting the most apt non-personal status of self.
Or worse, the preachy political snipe or smug spiritual greeting card fluff.
I can't take it.
I give up searching for humans where clearly a bot could be shoveling out this drivel.
Oooh, a judgy thought--I'm sure there's a meme with which to zing me back, ready at the quiver,
To pierce me in my liver and tell me to give up my fight.
Give in.
Give up.
It's easier to accede.
Step in line.
Step into the queue.
Get your daily dose of validation for the low, low price of your own smug superiority.
And by your, I mean my.
And by superiority, I mean insecurity.
Easier to be fake and hide that unseemly, unregistered, not for public display personality of yours.
And by yours I mean, my.
So  just scroll on by.

Gold in them thar hills

 

I was dreaming of prospecting with my friend Bob on his property. We knew that the rocks on his land were rich with crystal and gold, so I picked up a hammer and started whacking away at some giant boulders. They were coming apart upon impact, and I was finding some pinkish mineral. Where there's that pink stuff, there's gold was my thinking. I kept whacking away and found some amazing crystals being loosely held in the compacted composite rock. 

 

It attracted Bob's attention, and he came over to get in on the action. I found a cache of this type of rocks under a boarded walkway. I was able to grab rocks from under it with ease, while Bob had to reach under blindly from the topside.

"Careful of black widows," I cautioned him half out of general concern, but half to slow him down, as I scooped up as many as I could before he could get to them. 

 

Sure enough, I did start seeing black widows after that. One of the little buggars came flying out straight for my face, causing me to brush myself frantically. I guess that evened things out, I thought, as Bob continued his slow, steady picking.

 

Anyway, we'd gathered enough crystals for the time being, and I began to discuss the statistical analysis of someone's love life with them. It was some girl whose face and name elude me. The only thing I remember vaguely is the stat "three out of five of my lovers..." 

 

Then the dream started to collapse like an inflatable circus tent. I was contemplating how I could stay in it, but reality was already making the structure unsustainable. So here I am, pocketful of nothing and a scant recollection of a conversation. Blah, blah, blah. Boring huh?

I could tell you about the real world, I guess. The past few days I've been having nice talks with my psychic friend, J. She's been a real comfort to me in the past, and also now, as I'm going through another one of my mini-health crises. It's nice to have people around to show concern when you are in a frightful situation. 

This time it's just another weird abdominal pain originating from the gallbladder area. It's been here for a while off and on, but it's gotten worse in the last couple of days. I was almost going to get checked out, but I talked to my mom, and she seemed to think I could wait. I wasn't at the threshold of pain that made a visit to urgent care imperative. 

Meanwhile, Lesa is is having her own issues, migraines or something that she is dealing with, so she's been a little quiet lately. Quiet is not in my wheelhouse, apparently, so I'm glad I have other people I can draw strength from by reaching out and chatting. Besides, it is unseemly to put all of that onto one person to bear. I can be a lot.

I listened to a tape that was recorded at a house party in 1982 in which I played for a punk band called Malicious Mischief. The tape was sent to me by Jeff Gross, the guy at whose house the party was held (and the guy who stole my guitar at said party).

Ha! I didn't let him forget that I knew that he knew that I knew that it was him, although it had gotten resolved years ago, with him returning the guitar sheepishly. No harm, no foul. I was just glad to get my hands on this tape which, although terrible, is a reminder of just how much fun you can have with a lot of innocent enthusiasm (and a shitload of beer). 

I digitized it and made it available on Facebook, but I'm guessing it won't be the most listened to recording of the year. It is 18 minutes of anarchy with a few crappy songs thrown in. But as bad as the sound quality and the playing were, I kinda like the vibe. Raw and edgy and full of "who gives a fuck."

Oh, and I forgot to mention, Sharon has been appearing to my psychic at random times during my chats with her. Perhaps, not too random. She seems to be expressing approval and sending me encouragement and love as I exhibit some tendencies toward evolving as a person. 

I've been trying to help J out of a funk that she's been in, utilizing my own experience with distorted thinking patterns. In trying to help her, I've been helping myself. I had the thought that maybe, just maybe, I could put the struggles I've been through to use in some way. Perhaps a job as a counselor or therapist of some sort. 

I need to find out what the minimal credentials are. I do have that minister's license from the universal life church that Sharon signed me up for online. So, legally, I can marry people, I guess. As long as I don't claim to provide any real psychological services, maybe I could use that cheesy new age angle and weasel my way into a career as a spiritual advisor. Ha! I'm just as lost as you, but I can give you comfort because I'm at peace with my existential angst.

Or I could go back to school and try to go about finding a legitimate career path in more conventional counseling. But I am loath to promote any party line sort of psychology. Maybe Cognitive Behavioral Therapy or Dialectic Behavioral Therapy, as it has evolved into these days. I'll need to educate myself enough in these subjects just to know if they are something that I could conscience promoting. At first glance, they have seemed to be helpful tools in unraveling the rat's nest of my own negative thinking. 

Meanwhile, back to surviving my stomach ailment...

Corn Woman

 

I was dreaming that I was in a grocery store checkout and I saw someone who looked familiar. It was one of those faces that you kind of recognize but aren't sure because it's been like 30 years or more. It was a woman I'd worked with in LA at Hondo Die Supply named Jeannie Nelson, aka Corn Woman. 

I saw her getting her groceries, and she left before I could say hello. I rushed out of the store and flagged her down just as she was starting to pull away.

"Jeannie, is that you? Corn Woman?" I shouted after her. She stopped the car and opened the door so I could get in. "I thought I recognized you, but I wasn't quite sure," I told her.

"I knew it was you, too," she told me, "but I didn't want to say anything, in case I was wrong."

She presented me with a McDonald's straw wrapper to commemorate our reunion. I was going to attempt to tie it around her finger, but she just laughed. I felt very close to her for some reason and attempted to lay my head on her chest. 

She wasn't altogether unreceptive, but I somehow got that it was less than appropriate, so I withdrew. We smiled at each other and made some kind of plans for keeping in touch, possibly a barbecue or some other family event.

The dubious moniker "Corn Woman" was given to her by my friend Eric Murry after I had described this woman's gruff demeanor to him with a story which included the following dialogue:

Me: "I'm hungry, I could eat anything."
Jeannie: "Could you eat the corn out of shit?"
Me:


There was more to the dream, leading up to the grocery store, but I'm having a tough time unwinding the thread that got me to that point. Something to do with another female and a shared living situation, but it's just not coming to me. 

Meanwhile, in the hear and now, I'm in a bit of physical pain, possibly my gallbladder or some other unruly internal organ in my right upper abdominal area. It's really putting a damper on my newfound positivity and ability to live my best and happiest life. All my same previous distrust and distaste for doctors and medical procedures still apply, but I'd like to not suffer or die just yet. Not when things are in such a hopeful place with Lesa.

Oh, what to do? If I start getting in any more pain, I'll be forced to go to the urgent care and get myself looked over. Tests and more tests. Possible outcomes and procedures or diagnosis that I don't relish giving myself over to. If I just let it play out, it may get worse. I may die unnecessarily. 

I've got to do something. It's really getting in the way of my living what's left of my life. The things I could enumerate on the subject are too plentiful to know where to even begin, but the point is, I'm living again. I have friends, a love interest, and things are looking positive for a change. And now, this little stab from life, as if to say, "Don't get too comfortable."