reality bumper stickers

A Nightmare

A gift to the lawyer, the teacher, a friend.

A Nightmare

W. S. Gibert

When you're lying awake with a dismal headache, and repose is taboo'd by anxiety,

I conceive you may use any language you choose to indulge in without impropriety;

For your brain is on fire - the bedclothes conspire of usual slumber to plunder you:

First your counterpane goes and uncovers your toes, and your sheet slips demurely from under you;

Then the blanketing tickles - you feel like mixed pickles, so terribly sharp is the pricking,

And you're hot, and you're cross, and you tumble and toss till there's nothing 'twixt you and the ticking.

Then the bedclothes all creep to the ground in a heap, and you pick 'em all up in a tangle;

Next your pillow resigns and politely declines to remain at its usual angle!

Well, you get some repose in the form of a doze, with hot eyeballs and head ever aching,

But your slumbering teems with such horrible dreams that you'd very much better be waking;

For you dream you are crossing the Channel, and tossing about in a steamer from Harwich,

Which is something between a large bathing-machine and a very small second-class carriage;

And you're giving a treat (penny ice and cold meat) to a party of friends and relations -

They're a ravenous horde - and they all came on board at Sloane Square and South Kensington Stations.

And bound on that journey you find your attorney (who started that morning from Devon);

He's a bit undersized, and you don't feel surprised when he tells you he's only eleven.

Well, you're driving like mad with this singular lad (by the bye the ship's now a four-wheeler),

And you're playing round games, and he calls you bad names when you tell him that "ties pay the dealer";

But this you can't stand, so you throw up your hand, and you find you're as cold as an icicle,

In your shirt and your socks (the black silk with gold clocks), crossing Salisbury Plain on a bicycle:

And he and the crew are on bicycles too - which they've somehow or other invested in -

And he's telling the tars all the particuLARS of a company he's interested in -

It's a scheme of devices, to get at low prices, all goods from cough mixtures to cables (Which tickled the sailors) by treating retailers, as though they were all vegeTAbles -

You get a good spadesman to plant a small tradesman (first take off his boots with a boot-tree),

And his legs will take root, and his fingers will shoot, and they'll blossom and bud like a fruit-tree -

From the greengrocer tree you get grapes and green pea, cauliflower, pineapple, and cranberries,

While the pastry-cook plant cherry-brandy will grant - apple puffs, and three-corners, and banberries -

The shares are a penny, and ever so many are taken by ROTHSCHILD and BARING,

And just as a few are allotted to you, you awake with a shudder despairing -

You're a regular wreck, with a crick in your neck, and no wonder you snore, for your head's on the floor, and you've needles and pins from your soles to your shins, and your flesh is a-creep, for your left leg's asleep, and you've cramp in your toes, and a fly onyour nose, and some fluff in your lung, and a feverish tongue, and a thirst that's intense, and a general sense that you haven't been sleeping in clover;

But the darkness has passed, and it's daylight at last, and the night has been long - ditto, ditto my song - and thank goodness they're both of them over!

clinically speaking ...

I’ve met some rather cold people in my time. In fact, if the temperature of their soul could be measured, they would be labeled clinically dead.

To go through life well means to avoid placing your needs over the needs of others, even to your detriment. I don’t use “detriment” lightly. I am thinking of the interplay of needs and desires. If you want to live as you should, you place both your needs and your desires below those of others.

Here’s a chart to help you understand:



Notice the duality of your needs and desires being below those of the other person. Not even what you perceive to be your need rises above what you perceive to be in conflict with the other’s “mere desire.”

This applies likewise in the negative. I should do another chart to be clear, but I am hoping that the reader can get by with one visual. By the negative, I mean that your perceived or actual need cannot run afoul of the other person’s desire not to be subjected to your perceived or actual need.

There is actually a very real consequence to ignoring these very basic rules. In human interaction, it is alienation, loss of love (if it existed), and resentment. The damage to the aggrieved is even worse: feelings of powerlessness, helplessness, and trauma.

I have watched people rationalize their actions of placing their needs or desires over those of others. I have heard the argument, “it is a matter of right. I can do this because I am allowed to.” “Allowed to?” Ignoring the impact on others? “Allowed to?” Watching another suffer because you have the “right”?

I have the right to many things in this world. I have the right to practice law, but I chose not to because I find that it makes me feel dirty. Doesn’t matter how much joy I would get out of the income or the thrill of talking to a jury or wiping up the floor with some punk-ass opposing expert. It makes me feel dirty. The gratification I get is hollow. I chose to honor the profession by training others in how to do it well, but I stay out of it. I don’t like feeling dirty. I don’t making others feel dirty.

I don’t do things against another’s will, be that grounded in their needs or desires. It makes me feel dirty.

But I have watched many people live contrary to this basic precept. I have heard those same people say later in the game, with the greatest look of astonishment, “I didn’t know.” To which the rejoinder comes, “You didn’t want to.”

I often think of animals when I look at the actions of humans. Why would someone act so deliberately contrary to human norms in the name of “right” or “I didn’t know”? We are a higher-life form, after all.

Consider personalities.

Markings on animals do not alter over time. Personalities embodied therein do not morph into something inapposite of where they began. Changes that do occur are gradual, can be traced to their previous state, and rarely wander far from their origins.

If an animal is mean-spirited or passive, self-serving or supportive, takes flight at danger or stands ground, either because it always was or because of some formative event early its life, it will remain that way its entire existence. The only change is not a change at all, but an evolution: the animal will experience decreasing energy as life extracts its pennyweight or there will be an increase in guile. Both lead to the same place: the animal will choose its timing with more circumspection.

Any material change will be only by the greatest force of will, and will dissipate rapidly over time. It matters not how important or deeply held the impetus. Change is foreign and uncomfortable. Animals always return to their origins. Always.

Consider an animal that stalks to achieve comfort, compelling others to do its will only after it has cornered them. If the stalked revolt, the stalker will change tactics. But therein lies the first lesson: the tactic changed, not the strategy or the goal. The goal remains the same, which is achieving comfort. The goal never altered to be the one giving comfort. That is foreign. That is not within the stalker’s ability.

If the stalker does change to giving comfort, it will soon grow weary without its own needs being tended. It will wonder why it is not at least treated equally, that is, why its needs aren’t being tended. Therein lies the second lesson: see how quickly the changed role becomes uncomfortable, how quickly change again is sought?

Animals do not change. They are cast in a mold. They exhibit changes only as a shift in tactics. They will always seek that which they have always sought.

Humans, in these ways, are no different than animals.

I suggest that to be a human is of a higher order than being an animal, yet most of us blow past the distinction when it comes to satisfying our needs or desires. We follow our own personality, room temperature or lower.

The difference between humans and animals is supposed to be our capacity to reflect. Reflection requires understanding someone else’s needs and desires, and changing our behavior based upon those things.

Oh well.

little willie john is noy-vous

Nights can often be a time for filling hours. I’ve written for most of it tonight. Such incredibly redundant questions in an accreditation document. It is as if they expect you to give incompetent answers, so they ask for another variant of the previous question, then repeat the process eight or nine times. Painful. Finally hit the wall.

I’ve been listening to blues lately. Muddy Water’s Champagne and Reefer has a line in it that I have always missed a few words. Somehow, as I was putting gas in the car the other day, it clicked – “there oughta be a law against arresting people cuz they smoke a little dope.” Rather ironic, eh?

Got Buddy Guy singing Black Cat Blues now. I kept on blowing past Buddy Guy as I was stealing mp3’s online because I confused him with that drummer that used to show up on shows like Johnny Carson in the 1970s. Buddy Rich? Talk about a dying breed. And when was the last time you saw some guy come on stage with all the hardware and whistles from Aisle 5 at Home Depot strapped to every possible body part and call himself a “one-man band”? You had to love the small cymbals attached to the inside of his knees. I think the main instrument was always an accordion. You have to love accordions, such happy sounds.

I never liked clowns, circus or otherwise. Very low clown tolerance. I wonder if there is therapy for that. I guess it would have to be classified as a syndrome first so insurance would pay. For someone who liked clowns too much it would be Clown Aversion Therapy (CAT). Clown Anon. Meetings. Bunch of Steps. Calling clowns you got stalked to make amends. But what if you wanted to get closer to clowns? They are (gag) people, too!

It would be like over-coming any other phobia, I guess. They have fake airplanes that you can sit in to overcome that fear. Which I think is so stupid – it ain’t 30,000 feet up propelling like a tossed rock at 500 MPH. And when it is, then I am going ballistic and the federal marshall guy is going to have to subdue me with a stun gun. Anyway, clowns. Do they start with blow-up doll clowns? Would they be anatomically correct? The fallacy in that approach would be instantly known by any clown hater – the problem is the make-up. Grease paint on greasy skin. Makes my skin crawl just typing it. No clowns. No therapy. No, “Hi, my name is Clyde, I haven’t hated a clown for 23 days.” I will always hate clowns, circus and otherwise. Rehab is for quitters.

My twin disappeared for the night and it is really stressing me out.

I wrote a few weeks back, maybe a month, that I quit reading the news. Talk about jonesing! I spent at least two hours every day reading the news. At least. Would use a news site to clear my mind. Talk about irony. I found myself not able to delete my news-related favorites. Instead, I hide them out of sight on the list. Literally, I honestly told myself, “just in case.” Just in case of what? I had it bad. I was going to science sites and looking for news updates. Then I got angry with myself. I stopped watching ESPN because since ABC bought them, there is news at the bottom of the screen often. However long it has been, I haven’t visited a single site in I cannot remember how long. I am a news survivor! Just to test my resolve, when I was driving home from Rhode island last week, I let the sports radio station go into the news cycle. I learned nothing. It was great. What a complete waste of time the news is. Want proof? I heard all this doom and gloom about the Dow Jones Industrial Average. Doom and gloom? It was trading at 12,500! Get over it! That’s a lot of wealth creation over the last several years. Relax. Geez, news – done.

Jerry Lee Lewis, Great Balls of Fire. The movie of the same name is worth getting just for the scene where Jerry lee thought he was being dissed by not getting the last stage time, so he played this song and lit the piano on fire. Gotta love Jerry Lee. Unfortunately, you better write your fan letters soon. I have him in a Dead Celebrities Pool for 2007. Time’s running out, Jerry Lee, you have a little bit over four months before you have to expire. Sorry, pal. Saw you play in Scranton in 1971. Good show.

I think family is funny. So much drama and intrigue. No wonder cheap television does so well. It reflects the lives of so many people.

Little Willie John is so cool. I’m Shakin’ (1959).

When ya touch my hand
An' talk sweet talk
I got a knockin' in my knees
And a wobble in my walk

I'm tremblin'
And I'm shakin'

A-when ya take me in your arms
To talk romance
My heart starts doin' the St. Vitas dance

An' I'm pantin'
An' I'm shakin'

Early in the mornin' time
Late in the middle of the night
Whenever this chill comes over me
I wanna hug you with all-a my might, ay-ay

An' I'm sweatin'
An' I'm shakin'

A chill an a fever
So I've been told
Makes your head spin around
An' your feet run cold

I got fever
An' I'm shakin'

Feel like I been run through the mill
I can't move around an' I can't stand still

I'm so jittery
An' I'm shakin'

Samson was a mighty good man
Strongest in his day
Then along came Delilah an' clipped his wig
An' it looks like you took me
The same old way

So, I'm 'noy-vous'
An' I'm shakin'

Well, a storm rocks a ship on a sea
The wind shakes the leaves on a tree
I'm like a nervous wreck
I'm all shook up
And that's what you are doin' to me

'Cause I'm jumpin'
An' I'm shakin'
An' I'm jumpin'
An' I'm shakin'

Sha-aaaa-kin'
Shakin', shakin', shakin'
Shakin', um-mmm-mmm
I'm shakin'

FADES-
Shakin'
Shakin'
I'm shakin'

So incredibly cool. Night.

11:11

the time seems to find me at the most difficult times. i see it on bank clocks, in the car, on my computer. it always startles me when i see it.

the first time it registered on me i was at a funeral, a tragic unexpected death, maybe 24 or so years ago. i stood behind the widow graveside. i looked at her hands on her lap. she wore a digital watch, "11:11 AM." i wasn't even wondering the time. i just saw it there. the picture is still with me.

everytime i see 11:11 i quickly try to change whatever i am doing. it isn't as conscious as those words suggest. sometimes me hand jerks. if seated, i find myself standing to leave the room. i cannot co-exist with that time. i just don't know why it has such a profound impact on me.

lately, perhaps the last two months, i have seen that time in countless number. it's been unsettling.

narsissisticly obsessed. got a problem with that?

So no posts for weeks, and here I am twice in the same evening. You must be special. Stirring memories of warmer days when my heart was not as cauterized as it is now, days when I actually cared. I am not uncaring in the least, but I remember a time when many things moved me deeply. I remember my shell not seeming so hard and my core not feeling so rancid.

Can you be the opposite of something? I sure ain’t narcissistic. Here’s the definition I pulled.

1. Has a grandiose sense of self-importance (e.g., exaggerates achievements and talents, expects to be recognized as superior without commensurate achievements)
2. Is preoccupied with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty, or ideal love
3. Believes that he or she is "special" and unique and can only be understood by, or should associate with, other special or high-status people (or institutions)
4. Requires excessive admiration
5. Has a sense of entitlement, i.e., unreasonable expectations of especially favorable treatment or automatic compliance with his or her expectations
6. Is interpersonally exploitative, i.e., takes advantage of others to achieve his or her own ends
7. Lacks empathy: is unwilling to recognize or identify with the feelings and needs of others
8. Is often envious of others or believes that others are envious of him or her
9. Shows arrogant, haughty behaviors or attitudes

Well, it isn’t all that far off in some respects. Let’s deconstruct it.

Grandiose sense of self-importance? I am important, dammit. But the disproportionate aspect of effort to reward doesn’t apply to me. In fact, I work hard regardless of the reward. Narcissism 0, Clyde 1.

Preoccupied with fantasies? Isn’t everyone? The issue I have is with the word “preoccupied.” If I am here thinking about something, I am occupied with those thoughts. To be “preoccupied,” is it asking what I was thinking before I was thinking? That is very confusing to me. I am taking the point. Narcissism 0, Clyde 2.

Well, I am special. That’s what the lady on the short bus told me as I entered wearing my foot ball helmet. She was nice. Gave me cookies sometimes. Associate with high-status people? You mean the beautiful people? I would rather have my colon removed, again. My point. Narcissism 0, Clyde 3.

Admiration? Try this. Shut the fuck up; leave me alone or I’ll call the cops. Narcissism 0, Clyde 4.

(I should be a psych. I’m good at this!)

Entitlement. Seems a close variation of number 1. I do, however, think that people should automatically comply with my requests. It only makes sense, because I am right. Exceedingly so. OK. Narcissism 1, Clyde 4.

Exploitative? No. I use people for my own bitter purposes – but exploit them? That’s cold. My point. Narcissism 1, Clyde 5.

Lacks empathy. No argument here. In fact, we’ll give them a bonus point! Narcissism 3, Clyde 5.

Often envious? I could give a rip if the person next to me spontaneously exploded. My point. Narcissism 3, Clyde 6.

Arrogant? Moi? It is to laugh. Fine. Be that way. Narcissism 4, Clyde 6.

Conclusion? Borderline Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Very cool.

My twin said to be today that I have a bit of OCD in me. I think if she thinks it is “a bit” then she doesn’t see me enough. I’ll look for a self-diagnosis checklist for Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder and continue this discussion.

Can I write my own scripts?

OK, back. Sorry for the delay. Had to find the American definition for OCD. Isn’t it comforting to know that between use and Europe, with two different standards, one could be saying, “Oh, he’s fine!” and the saying, “Medic!”

Obsessions as defined by (1), (2), (3), and (4):
1. Recurrent and persistent thoughts, impulses, or images that are experienced, at some time during the disturbance, as intrusive and inappropriate and that cause marked anxiety or distress
2. The thoughts, impulses, or images are not simply excessive worries about real-life problems
3. The person attempts to ignore or suppress such thoughts, impulses, or images, or to neutralize them with some other thought or action
4. The person recognizes that the obsessional thoughts, impulses, or images are a product of his or her own mind (not imposed from without as in thought insertion)

Compulsions as defined by (1) and (2):
1. Repetitive behaviors (e.g., hand washing, ordering, checking) or mental acts (e.g., praying, counting, repeating words silently) that the person feels driven to perform in response to an obsession, or according to rules that must be applied rigidly
2. The behaviors or mental acts are aimed at preventing or reducing distress or preventing some dreaded event or situation; however, these behaviors or mental acts either are not connected in a realistic way with what they are designed to neutralize or prevent or are clearly excessive

Ut-oh. We better not go here yet. My leg is tapping and throat getting dry. Boy, my left thumb aches so badly. I gotta go.

oh, canada!

I went to bed last with all sorts of layered emotions. Life can be so challenging sometimes. Emotional drain can be as exhausting as any physical challenge. The difference, however, is that physical exhaustion yields sleep; emotional exhaustion doesn’t slow my mind. I lay for hours watching this wrestling match in my head, listening to the competing voices that each hold and spew forth logic. My efforts to stay a spectator never seem enough. I get drawn in and find myself taking emotional punches that cut deeper than any knife. I woke up this morning fully engaged emotionally: body tense, mind cutting.

As much as I am not at ease, sometimes it is useful to compare myself to others. I did not know, but as the throes of my own torment rose higher and higher to the surface within me, a woman (presumably, I sure hope so) sat in front of her computer. Outside, it was close to midnight in Victoria, British Columbia. She was mostly likely without human companionship. She has a pet, perhaps more than one.

As her own twisted self emerged, she went to google and typed in words no pet lover would consider. My site came back number one on her search. Her conscious did not slow her down. She clicked through to find the answer she needed: Advice for masterbaiting with snake.

My life sucks at times. Other people’s lives are suckier. It’s a small consolation, but one I will take.

stones for others, but not for me

I went to a graveyard today, but not because it is Memorial Day weekend or I had any family to visit. I don’t have family; what was left of them threw me under the bus a long ago and I since moved away. I went because I had nowhere else to go.

I noticed a lot of Russian names and symbols, a lot of old and worn gravestones. Among the barely legible and illegible engravings, mostly from the 1800s and early 1900s was a brass plaque on the base of a stone that led to a cross. It read, “Francis Hugick, September 29, 1929 – May 3, 1930” on two lines, and in two lines beneath that, “Walter Hugick, November 3, 1921 – May 11, 1930.”

She was born the day the stock market crashed and died eight months later. Her brother died at age eight, just eight days after she did. It may have been a fire or some other tragedy from which he lingered beyond death for a short time.

There were no other graves bearing that last name anywhere near the children. Perhaps the parents left the area and rebuilt their lives.

Being Memorial Day weekend, I saw several people come and go. An older couple sat together at a gazebo then walked slowly to their car. A woman in her 60s placed flowers by one grave then walked to another and stood. She came and went in less than five minutes. Others walked in places far from where I sat.

Next the Hugick children’s grave was another child, died at age 12. A brass statue of Mary leaned at an angle against the stone. In another graveyard, perhaps, that statue would have been stolen long ago. Here, a small graveyard in a rural area, the statue braved the weather through the seasons, probably being propped up often by visitors or workers.

Enameled pictures of couples adorned some markers. They usually died within a few years of one another. One man died at age 63. His stone was marked with his wife’s name – she was 57 when he died. Although she would be close to 90 if she were still alive today, her death is not inscribed. She must have found favor with another, and buried her remains with him.

The newer stones lacked character. Names were deeply engraved on large rose-colored stones. No words such as, “Mother,” “Father,” or one older stone of a gentleman that died at age 31, “Uncle.” The new stones were simply functional, no better than an “X” on a map.

I used to visit my father’s grave, but don’t anymore. I imagine I will see it again, but only to show someone else. I have no interest in seeing it myself. Perhaps strange to others, but I feel more of a draw to the resting place of people I never knew than to those who I remember in life.

I have memories of my dad, and I can relate the worst of them all. His family, my genetic relations, was spineless in the death march from his passing to his planting. They did the happy shit. I made the phone calls from his address book. I went to the parlor to make sure everything was set before people arrived. It was there that the worst memory comes back.

I sat alone in the viewing room. His head was tilted towards me. I looked at him and saw a man sleeping. He used to be intellectually vibrant. He could analyze a situation in moments, could size up a person instantly. He had a razor-sharp wit that would cut deeply at times. As he aged and his processes slowed, I got to see him more clearly. I knew the intellectual direction he would go before he turned. I sat in that viewing room and watched a man that lost the game at age 71. He gave up. He was in so much pain and so viciously unhappy with his wife that he just gave up.

I had a t-shirt purchased for me (privately, to me, in his honor) years later that reads, “Rehab is for Quitters.” He never went to rehab, perhaps he should have for his drinking; instead, he just gave up.

I don’t visit his grave because when I did I knew where to stand. I knew were his head was titled. I still see it every time I think of him.

I will have no viewing. I will have no grave. I want no one to see me dead.
No one will remember me but as a living person, eyes alive, mind engaged, wit cutting in seeming random fashion.