quick note

OK. Compromise done. Clean. “See your butt in five years,” the doc says. “Yeah. Looking forward to it,” I reply. I thoroughly plan on having a virtual butt reaming next time. Seems reasonable to presume the tech will be better by then. And that’s my story for the next five years until proven otherwise. I am so done with this topic.

So this kid gets into an ATV accident or something. Went isoelectric. Also no cranial blood flow. The boy’s toast. Declared dead. As was he listening as they said it. Forced himself to twitch. Dang.

Good thing I read that article before my emasculation. My twin had very specific orders about what to do and how long to wait – and all the papers needed to back it up – before I went under. I don’t mind dying, but I want to be dead before they start to harvest organs. Seems like a reasonable request.

Baseball season is here: The start of the road to the World Series in October. I wonder what life will be like when that time comes. Seems so out of reach.

Mind wandering. Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose – Janis (via Kris).

thanksgiving, part two – remembrances

I have a hard distinguishing my earliest Thanksgiving meals from Christmas-Day meals. The menus were always the same – turkey, stuffing (in and out of the bird), mashed potatoes, jellied cranberries with the indent of the can molded into them, canned corn or peas, applesauce, and gravy. There may have things like sweet potatoes, but I don’t remember because I didn’t eat them.

From my earliest days, I always sat at my father’s left hand. Not sure why that started, but it never deviated up to our last meal together about five years.

I remember enjoying dark meat more than light, probably because kids like juicier hunks of flesh that was subjected to high temperatures to interrupt the decaying process. My last course at every meal was an island of mashed potatoes into which I would create a huge hole. The hole would be filled with corn or peas, then applesauce, and finally gravy.

My father shared a secret with me one time when I came home from college. It was the first time that I cut the turkey (which I did every year thereafter until he died). On the underside of the turkey (and all fowl) is two pockets of meat, set in as if they are tiny breasts. It is the moistest, sweetest meat on the entire bird. I stopped eating meat about 20 years ago, and have cheated only twice – both times to take a nibble of this underside meat.

I don’t remember the last meal with my father’s family. I haven’t seen any of them for five years, and all forty-some years of it, from holidays to social time, is reduced to two or three still photographs that lack affect, depth, or voice.

I view holiday meals with just my family differently than I viewed just meals as a child. They are more functional following a full day of cooking alone, and a moment of respite from the pressures of daily life – as if a several-hour ceasefire has been declared. I think it was probably very similar for my father.

This year marks the first time that the kids that live here – biological and in loco parentis – will have Others with them. My daughter is the exception. She’s a mountain range of individuality, and is probably clueless of the depth of personality and strength she possesses. So there will be seven here at some time or another. Meatless turkey, apple and cranberry stuffing, and the rest of the usual suspects. My boy is with his Other now making pies. He has found his first real second family. It’s the start of the period when he’ll compare me to other fathers and find me lacking. At the other end of this period, be it five or twenty years, he’ll see me as person for the first time. Should be interesting.

No more.

reality bumper stickers

... and ne'er the twain shall meet

I read a book once that was co-written by Peter Straub and Stephen King, The Talisman. I was curious to read it because I was, at the time, a big Stephen King fan. The first book of his that I read was Cujo, and I remember being immersed. By the time I got to Salem’s Lot I was unable to either stop reading or be alone. I remember Wife No.1 left bed to go the bathroom; I sat in the hallway outside the closed door. It was humiliating even then.

I read Danse Macabre, wherein he wrote of the genre of horror writing, and paid particular attention to his affinity for Peter Straub’s Ghost. (I subsequently read On Writing, A Memoir to the Craft, and gained a lot of appreciation for his talents – an appreciation that had waned when the kid in some book spoke with the reflections of an octogenarian. My new-found appreciation wasn’t enough to have me read any of his subsequent books, I stopped somewhere around Pet Sematary and The Talisman.)

I bought Ghost and dove right now, full of anticipation. The first several pages built into the first few dozen. I am all, “WTF? Where is this going? Doesn’t make sense.” Then something clicked. I never went back to re-read the opening portions to understand why I was so adrift. Maybe it was just his writing style, and I am much more adept now at discerning styles and meaning within than I was 20-some years ago. But when the tumblers fell into place, I was mesmerized from that point forward. Salem’s Lot was good, Stevie, but the premise of vampires is harder to dwell within than ghosts. Ghost is the singularly most frightening book I have ever read.

So when the joint book, The Talisman, came out, I was eager to read it. On balance, my recollection is that I enjoyed it. I recall at the time, however, that allocating the writing between Straub and King was not very difficult. Two people writing apart did not make for a cohesive whole.

It was that thought which prompted this post in my mind.

Two people can sit in a room, each creating a single story, but if they write on different pieces of paper, the story will never be one. In the end, they go their separate ways, each continuing to write, each prolific in their own way.

In the end, two stories can never be combined into one.

Ron Mueck: Hyper-Realist Sculptor

I was on a friend’s site and saw the most amazing pic. The one on her site is 3d below.




Isn’t the realism and scale amazing? How about these two pics …



The guy is incredible. Here’s the site with more pics. This wiki has some more links. Seems the guy doesn’t have his own site.

There’s a video at the bottom of the page that I couldn't embed. Worth the look. Probably runs about 30 minutes. He places every hair individually? I’m way too ADHD to even think about that. Just typing it has my left eye twitching.

escape

flight instincts are wonderful. i always think of white-tailed deer that i see so frequently in my area. they're good eating, if you go for such things - i'm a veg for the last 20 years, so i don't anymore. but even before we hunted bambi and served her up with a dark sauce riddled with garlic and fragrant herbs, there were plenty of predators in the wild. (side note - the good news is that aliens stopped anal probes; the bad news, they discovered we're made out of meat.)

how did deer adapt to a dangerous environment? long legs for running swiftly; nocturnal so they roam in darkness and hide during daylight.

i have my own flight instincts, my own predators. i find that when the pressure is great i sleep hard. i create diversions when i am awake. i do anything to avoid dealing with the situation at hand. i protect those around me by letting them live their lives in blissful ignorance. then slowly God presents the problems to me one by one, usually with workable solutions. somehow He manages to show me the ram in the bush.

the frustrating part is that He shows me - as has been said - just enough light for the next step. i can see the multitude of problems out there, can understand that just this one is being resolved. i continue to feel the weight of all the problems.

sometimes i find solace in remembering the weight of previous times. i recall that no matter how heavy it felt, somehow it all got resolved. somehow, God presented the ram in the bush, however piecemeal, until all the problems went away. new problems, new weights always came, but the old ones somehow got solved.

i need to remember that more often.

even when i do remember it, i can easily defeat its comforting message. God is in charge. if He wants a major change in life, then it happens. when i look at solving problems, it presupposes achieving the status quo ante. i know enough to understand that sometimes that historical position no longer exists. so i brace myself for the unknown around the bend.

sometimes, from a well-considered, dispassionate view, life just sucks. sometimes, and this is one of those times, i wish i could get nietzsche out of my head.

asshat

i am really maxed out today. maybe 4:00AM i awoke with a bad stirring in my chest. one of those emotional stirrings, ugly and deep. i took as full a breath as i could and was pleased that my side didn't hurt. i moved towards my right and, slice, the pain was there. i had to breath shallowly to keep it at bay. every breath added to my building cranky mood.

i found a position and was able to sleep again. i don't remember the times or frequency, but i awoke a handful of instances, finally giving up at about 7:00AM. i didn't exactly "give up"; i allowed the anger to hold me, and that prevented any more sleep.

i tried friendly ground to quell its tightening grip. i wrote a few e's to my twin and felt better as i wrote, wonderful as i hit send, then right back down as the seconds ticked by.

i did some physical work, and was amazed that i was asked to help, then wound up doing it alone. that just added. so then i found my trigger. i had asked for something in an e several days ago and that e was ignored. so i went in search of the recipient, and found myself being questioned. so i informed said recipient the actions i would take to achieve my end if it was not done as i had asked. still, resistence. so i proceeded to complete my promise. not even a third of the way into ripping apart a room, i escalated the promise to a specific asset. i finally got what i had asked for in the beginning. "will you clean up this mess?" i was asked. "of course not. i told you what i wanted and what would happen if i did not get it. so you made an informed decision and this is the aftermath. not my problem."

i had to leave the house before i got more angry. i do not cotton rebellion in the ranks.

upon my return, i informed said rebelling party of my desire for future non-communication. the prestinely preserved historical response came of sheer wonderment enveloping a complete lack of understanding why i would be as cranky as i am. i refused to play. sheer wonderful, part two. refusal, part deux. finally, i gave just enough information to ensure that notice could be had if it was desired.

i will not be the other end of a candle burning at twice the normal speed ever again. i am quite angry that such a presumption was even made. there shall be no empathy accepted in any form. that has been stated clearly enough for me, and in sufficiently clear words (with response) that no intention to begin or continue that process is at hand.

i have spent almost 20 years of my life in a train wreck. my only hope is to get out alive.

sometimes you have to wear an asshat to get your point across.

stupid is as stupid does

I had a transient ischemic attack about a month ago. The prognosis for something bigger hitting for me is termed "moderate." There are only three categories for future big ones as predicted by a TIA and its aftermath: Naw; Probably; and Brace Yourself. I'm in that middle one.

It is interesting to me to watch myself now. I am in a period of aftermath declination as I write. It comes and goes. Ordinarily, I am focused and ready for whatever life feels like kicking me with today. Then comes the wave. I feel it settle over me like a wool blanket. My typing just sucks - missed letters, slowly typed, reversing letters constantly. I am forever going back on the post and correcting stuff.

I also can't seem to type without speaking the words. That is really annoying. My physical movements right now are greatly slowed. My balance isn't good.

I think of the next thing that I want to type, and by the time I start, I remember only the first two or three words. Sometimes that is enough to spark the thought back to life. Other times, I have to bail.

What I observe most in these times is my inability to recall virtually anything. It is profound in its scope. If I want to remember something that happened this morning, yesterday, or, God forbid longer ago, I have to stop all of my physical activity and let pictures come. If I concentrate, I get nowhere. If I think around a memory, then a picture comes. I stare at the picture, and then a second more comes or that first one goes 3D for me. Then I get the time and place of the memory, but still, few specifics.

What I have learned is that when this hits, I need to just sit and push away as much stimuli as I can. I have been dealing with this - do you call it an episode? - for about two hours now. My daughter has a friend over and we were watching the Yankees. I couldn't handle the low level of conversation between them without getting frustrated. I had to block as best I could the announcers, too. What happens is I have to think to interpret the words, and that thinking precludes further listening, so I fall behind. I just got up several times to be alone, to blank my slate, then I was able to go back ... for a little bit!

I have to move my hands and arms slowly as I sit here. That was not so much a lesson, but merely a limitation. I can't seem to move them quickly, and something inside says that it would not be a good idea anyway.

It is all rather peculiar to me. It is much more fun watching myself like this, and following my brain around, than it wouldbbe to watch a loved one go through it. At least this way, I have a good measure of intellectual curiosity that I can satisfy. It is just no fun watching someone else when they can't tell you in any detail what is happening.

They termed it a TIA, but most of those resolve completely. Mine has not. This period I am having right now occurs a few times a week. It was two or three as often before, so maybe there is some measure of resolution occurring.

I am out of words.

train wrecks to observe

Been an interesting couple of days. Have watched old, familiar train wrecks in continued slow motion. Have watched continued bonding among others occur behind closed doors and at long distances. Have gravitated back to The Beatles in my music, just now mixed with the blues, melancholy, and Johnny Cash.

Speaking of music, my current mix: BB King, The Thrill is Gone; Johnny Cash, If You Could Read My Mind; U2, One; Neil Young, Philadelphia; The Band, I Shall Be Released; The Beatles, Yer Blues (2d take from the Rolling Stones Circus, with Eric Clapton, Keith Richards, John Lennon, and Mitch Mitchel (Jimi Hendrix Experience), Ballad of John and Yoko, You Never Give Me Your Money, and Two of Us; George Harrison, All Things Must Pass (Demo version from the White Album sessions, so actually it is The Beatles); John Lennon, Old Dirt Road, Real Love (Demo take 7), and Free as a Bird (John on piano, late demo); Ringo Starr, La De Da; and Creedence Clearwater Revival, Who’ll Stop the Rain, Have you Ever Seen the Rain?, Lodi, and Someday Never Comes. 72 minutes, fits on a CD. Send me an e me if you want one.

Ringo is there so I don’t blow my brains out. Ripped the stream from Beatles Radio, so there is radio talk after the song. Just haven’t gotten around to clipping it yet.

I have been having fun watching trips up and down the stairs tonight. Wasn’t counting, just watching. I am such an asshole – nothing slips by me. That’s why I need to live alone. No one to observe. Safer that way.

I sat outside tonight and saw a shooting star. Same thought as always came to mind, always for another. Last night was my favorite night of the year – the Perseid meteor shower. Just didn’t have the heart to watch it this year. Shame, too. I was looking forward to it. No moon, clear night. But I was blessed with a leftover tonight, so that was very cool.

Gotta snap outta the funk. Just fucking grabbing me by the intestines and refuses to loosen. Anger came and went. Tears tried to rise, won for a while, and then gallantly lost to fight another day. Anger again? No, now it is fantasy. I can feel the detachment welling, however. That has always been my best friend. Complete detachment resulting in viewing the world in bright-eyed wonder. I love detachment. I can float above everything for weeks or months, even years at a time. Nothing registers. Every body blow is painful but evokes no response or even emotion. I’m inviting it. Oh, how I have missed it! It has been years since my friend came to stay. Please come now, I have longed for your arrival. Tell me you love me still.

There is real skill in keeping this friend from the view of others. I got through my late childhood and teenage years, the mid-1980s, and about 1996 until 2004 with it holding me in its loving caress and barely a notice by anyone. Then I let it go almost three years ago. Let my guard down. Exposed myself.

But as I write I am beginning to smile, because I feel the rust leaving my bones. I feel my old friend settling in, telling me that I am still loved by it, it will keep me safe. Wow. What a great feeling it is. Just amazing. I had forgotten, really, forgotten what it actually felt like. Funny how memories can seem so real but are just two dimensions.

No more exposure. I have my circle drawn. Within it are fellow protectors.

la fille avec yeux de kaléidoscope

I am fighting writing so much. A thought struck me, a picture came with it, so I grabbed someone else’s words that ran with it and tossed them into the post below. It felt good, but as I sit thought after thought after thought races in, each with its own picture, each running somewhere in my head. I opened Word, wrote two lines, and bailed. Now I find myself with fingers to keyboard again.

The past 72 hours have been redefining in a very core way. I dislike such changes. I dislike passages. I dislike the lonely side of being alone. I dislike what it portends for the future.

The path I walk has narrowed. The forest is closer to my sides now, and that is unsettling. There’s always an issue within me of safety. I’m perfectly fine for long stretches, but then a moment arises and I need – need – reassurance. The path I walk now isn’t wide enough for anyone else.

What is interesting, purely from an observational sense, is the unknown length of the journey. Does the path end around the next bend? Is there a resting place? Did you ever get to a stage in your life where it really doesn’t matter? The commitment was made to walk, so I walk. What is there is there; my conjecture won’t change it.

LES AUTRES parce que vous n'avez pas gardé
Ce voeu profond-juré a été des amis du mien;
Pourtant toujours quand je regarde la mort dans la visage,
Quand je grimpe aux hauteurs de sommeil,
Ou quand je grandis excité avec le vin,
Soudain je rencontre votre visage.

a man's dying wish

I want nine men going to the graveyard.
I want eight men coming back.

Blind Willie McTell
Dyin' Crapshooters Blues
1932

living in the shadow

Twenty years ago this week I made a mistake. I am still paying for it.

As with all mistakes, the aftermath is mixed. Certainly some good has come of it. And good beyond the flippant, “even a blind squirrel finds a nut every once in a while.” But I wonder if the good could have been achieved without the mistake. The purest of conjecture. It is also clear that the very best of what came from that train wreck of which I am still entangled could not have happened but for the carnage.

Oh well.

I think Barry Bonds is refusing to hit the next couple of home runs on purpose, so that the putz Commissioner Bud Seling has to follow him around the country for a week or two.

That was my op-ed piece on the news. Hope you enjoyed it. Now back to our regularly scheduled programming, joined in progress.

Twenty years ago my father told me he had colon cancer. He’s been dead five or six years now. Twenty years ago I was just starting to think about law school. I’ve since practiced for a decade and moved into education. Twenty years ago was the relative fast pace of Northern Cal. Today, I sit in Bumfoq, Pennsylvania, writing to no one in cyberspace listening to my twin’s favorite, Billie Holiday.

Twenty years is a long time. I aged. I can’t tell if I hardened or am too jaded to discern. I still hold my optimism, but now I expect to be kicked and don’t get terribly upset when I do. My focus is rather narrow these days – give me enough money to pay my bills, land leave me alone. That’s not being cranky or anti-social. But I seek to engage society when I want to engage. I have grown weary of societal dictates.

Alright, enough cranky – although I am not cranky.

I recently discovered the music of Blind Willie Johnson. The first song I heard was, “Dark was the Night.” I thought of a New Orleans funeral procession. Remarkable song. I learned in the article (yes, that bastion of peerless-reviewed writings, WikiPedia) that the song was about Christ’s crucifixion.

Three of his songs are available on the Internet Archive (which, btw, has a lot of old blues free for the taking without having to worry about liberals asking for royalties).

Let’s roam the Internet Archive, shall we?

Today on Gender Talk (if today were February 12, 2001), “Zantui Rose has been a contributor to the trans community for 7 years as a writer, workshop facilitator, therapist and visionary. She co-mothered the Bodhi Tree House, a trans-sacred retreat space, and last year delivered the keynote address the Southern Comfort conference. She has been partnered with a transperson for 4 years, and speaks with us about transcending gender as a spiritual imperative, and about transcending the gender paradigm. She also talks about the various workshops and retreats that are conducted by she and her partner Holly Boswell, as well as Mrak Eden, in beautiful mountain settings of North Carolina. For more information about BodhiTree House retreats, email: BTH395@juno.com

“Ethan St. Pierre is a transgender man whose aunt, Debra Forte, was murdered for being a transperson. We met Ethan when he participated in the National Gender Lobby Days effort in Washington, DC. Ethan's partner, Karen Martin, is a transsexual woman and they have been in a committed relationship for a couple of years. Ethan talks about his relationship with Karen through his own change in identity and gender.”

You can’t make this stuff up. Ethan is a dude that was girl; he’s with Karen, who’s a girl that was a dude. Does that make them gay? Like some special classification – not bisexual, but like hetero-gay. I wonder if Ethan helps Karen with her make-up. Who has the prostrate?

Speaking of prostrates, I gotta get mine checked on Friday. I am whining big fucking time about it. If I’m going to stick something up my ass, it had better be connected to or somehow controlled by that one special loved one. A stranger just doesn’t do it for me. Medical exam or not. And they use so much of that goop that you fart it out later. I hate that.

Back to diversions. Let’s see, what else?

You gotta love this – the original 1928 Orson Welles War of the Worlds Broadcast. Runs about 51 minutes. Less than an hour to throw the country into a panic. Based on a book. People, get a grip.

Remember the old radio show, “The Shadow”? No, neither do I. That was years before me. But my dad used to do the laugh – something like, “The Shadow knows (insert dad laughing).” He seemed to enjoy doing it. I tried to look something other than impassive. Here are 98 episodes of The Shadow! “The Shadow knows! A-ha-ha (cough!) ha-ugg- (wheez!) ha-ha .. mmm.”

Not sure if these are good, but I presume they are. I used to love to listen to the suspense stories on the radio. WGBI in Scranton used to play them late at night when anyone who knew how to change records every three minutes was long gone to bed. This is a link to hundreds of these suspense stories.

Enough. I went back up and read about the prostrate intrusion. Can’t get past it. Gotta walk around.

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.