Here It Comes!

As I close in on my 84th, um, I mean, 48th birthday, I have to ask myself, what is the problem? Huh? What?

I've been fairly successful at a variety of avocations, done some pretty good art, made money in business. Like a kid bored of his toys, I've set each down in turn in favour of "people." People and the relationships that arise from interacting with them are a great source of drama, humour, trial and tribulation. The fact is, though, that they don't get me and, well, I don't really get them. I mean, I do get them, but I don't understand why it has to be so complicated. I blame the smaller brain - I guess being a Braniac is my ultimate downfall.

Spent the last year working past my singing problems (stopped singing for five years as I was getting sick after every rehearsal) and getting back not my old voice but a new one, with a little more power and control, actually, less range but more expressiveness and versatility. Unfortunately, I have no one to sing with, or for. My old band-mates are off doing their music thing - I got invited to "guest" but declined because I had a job, divorce, child . . . I heard this, "I warned you about that day job shit. Why do you bother?"

Performance was like a drug for me. I can't quite explain it, but those of you who have done it well, will understand. You step forward to the mic and the world disappears. You can be standing in front of god-knows-how-many people and they are simply not there. Everything that's in your soul pours out of you through your instrument. To me, it's more sexual than sex, with the intensity of a ten-year-old on Ritalin. There are certain tunes that I can't do because they break my heart every time I try to perform them and I have to stop mid-way. I know the lyrics and the music, but it's not a mechanical experience at all. The performer becomes the channel for the emotion behind those words and notes and that can be devastating. And it's an addictive experience. Even after I stopped, I could never set aside that base need to perform. And I recognize that my most successful periods came when I was not in a relationship or when I discounted a relationship in favour of art. It's as if all of my creative energy is emotional and when I use that for art, there's none for people and vice versa.

People can require a lot of energy. I mean, a lot. I used to have a different attitude, called destructive by some, in dealing with the vaccillations of the Others. There's a problem, set it out and resolve it. Yes, easier said that done, but, God, why all the drama? And then, I would lose my patience. Now, I'm more tolerant, in part because I realise that others are very tolerant of me. But, as you performers out there well know, there's the factor of the Groupie Syndrome. This is what that is: a person will adore you, think you are a god, as long as you're performing, but when the lights come down and you're busy picking your nose or you're not attentive or you're busy practicing, their illusion is disturbed and that's the end of that ticket, ain't it. Why can't you be this, why can't you be that? Because I'm not, okay - deal with it. Uh-oh, another one bites the dust. That's not what people want to hear. They want love songs, nothing but love songs.

Unfortunately, there has to be an Edmund Fitzgerald and All Along The Watchtower every so often and, in life, actually that's mostly what it is. There will always been some tension in a relationship, at least in a relationship that has life in it. Just like a good movie keeps the tension at a certain level through to the end, and sometimes after the credits rolls. Like an anticipation and the afterglow.

I have a girlfriend who is, by my estimation, rather wonderful. I love her, I really do. But sometimes, I just want to use Jedi Mind Control on her. Yes, I know that there's this and that problem, that I hardly ever see you and I barely talk to you and you only rarely now talk to me through e-mail and we spend 99.99% of our time thinking and talking about our "relationship." Okay, so I don't agree with the facts exactly. In the past, I would have fought for those facts but now, I listen and try very hard to truly feel her "lyrics." Clearly, it's of critical importance to her, so I must make it critically important to me . . . or I will lose her. Nice - an in-built "basic" that I missed in Relationships 101. It actually does not matter whether I'm right, she's right or it's somewhere in-between. What matters is whether I want to accept who she is and what she's saying. After all, she has given me her heart as a gift, which is a big deal in of itself. It wouldn't matter if I didn't want it. I want to make her happy. At the same time, I know there's a limit to what I can do, given my f*cked-up life at the moment. That doesn't mean I will stop "selling" myself to her, trying to get her to hold on just a wee bit longer.

In turn, I know that she, like every other People, has limits. Those limits do not take into consideration my limits and are generally, I have found, not accepting of who I am. Simple as that. I find myself adapting and accepting and not seeing that in return. Why? Because there's a sense of entitlement and obligation that's mostly one way. I've given you my hear, why can't you be everything I want you to be? Because, Lady, I'm not and I never will be. I yam who I yam. You are who you are. Can you not accept me as I accept you? And if you can't, why do you keep torturing yourself and why do you keep me hangin' on?

I'm not angry. I'm not upset. I want to a) please you and b) be happy with you. That's all I want. You've explained yourself pretty well, I feel. I have told you, perhaps eight dozen times, that I (we) will get to where it's better (not perfect) eventually. When will that "eventually" be? I dunno. I've already known you for a year and what's happened in that time frame? Plenty. Plenty will happen in the next year to come. And sometimes, I think you've had enough.

Look - I'm no idiot. I know that my girlfriend wants what every Red-Blooded American Girl wants: Leif Garrett. In other words, hearts, flowers, sunsets, walks on the beach. Would I like to deliver that? Sure - it's an opportunity to express my caring in the way she wants to see, hear and feel it. And, no, it's not too much to ask. But that's hardly the point. She will likely not accept that my life events are part of who I am. She will likely find that increasingly distasteful, even when things begin to improve. Why? Because it can happen again. That's right, folks, the logic of history does not come into play here. And that's my fault because I started something during an abnormal time, sucked her in and now, by virtue of that malpractice, am obliged to "do the right thing." Which, I will, only, not today.

I've said to her that even I'm tired of my own drama. It's enough already. I just want to live. Just to go for a Sunday drive to nowhere or somewhere, to watch a friggin movie, for godsake, to go food shopping with her, like I see so many other couples do. I don't want to talk about "our relationship," I just want to have it already. I know she wants the same thing, hence, the endless laments and deep sadness, beseeching me to make it better. The callous, asshole-y side of me wants to point out that there's no Bactine for these kinds of issues. The sweet, warm and fuzz-loving side of me wants to hold her tight and tell her that it will work out. Neither is entirely true.

In the meantime, I see the gears whirring in that womanly skull of hers. Is this worth it? He's always late, he never manages to schedule time with me reliably, he is barely intimate with me and we never do anything because he's always showing up past the babysitter's bedtime. He's forever tired and stressed out, broke much of the time and moody. What I really want, she's thinking, is Leif Garrett. Or Tom Cruise. Or, heck, even Colin Powell. What do I love here?, she ponders. His potential as a good mate. But, what about now? Right f*cking now?

And she's right and I know she's right. And that's why I can't trust her completely. Just in the sense that if I allow myself 100% emotional invicititude that she will, in no short amount of time, simply decide that there must be someone else, someone better suited to her needs. Of this I am sure. So, I remain close, but not that close, because I already love her too much. More than she can understand. Because she gives me the "heroin" of performance, that very same feeling of the world falling away, of oneness with the moment. "I just want you," is what I hear as sound coming from her but what I also hear is "or someone like you who may have different features but is principally similar in at least a preponderance of points but who differs in affective aspect as well as base functions regarding libido, appetite, personal finances and general social skills." So, I get it. I'm working on it. But don't do me any favours, either. If you're going to break my heart, get it over with. I have enough tsouris as it is.

E Is For Empty

I don't know anymore. I just don't know.

Just when I think I'm picking myself up off the floor, some other stupid sh*t comes around and cums in my face. Now, so people like that sort of thing, but I don't. Yuck. And I really don't like to swallow . . .

It's a metaphor, you dolt.

In short, here's what happened: got all in line with lawyer to dirch the old lady, papers ready, tried to negotiate one last time as dropping the hammer will instantly cost me $2500 that I don't have and it's a waste, opened up a line of comms, no real response, I sensed the usual game, she's being TFN (too f-ing nice), earlier in the month, I discovered no bills paid since October and they were all late then, in the interim, I dished out $8200 to her to pay those bills and the mortgage, though I was unemployed for part of that time and I still don't know if the mort is paid though I did bring the other bills up to date, including my debt which arose out of me "holding on" and not paying things because we were short and the other bills were high . . . lies, all . . . and I buy the food, pay for my fuel, etc., beginning of the month, she said she was going to put in her resignation by the 31st, and now, lo and behold, she gets fired and I am reminded of all the times that she has threatened me this way, "I don't care if you have to work three jobs, you will pay me, take care of your child and pay the bills here or you will wind up in jail."

Now, this is not Central America and that's not the way things work here. But, as this is Amerika, anyone can sue anybody for anything at any time. What's worse, a woman can sue her man for the legal fees if she's suing because he is making her destitute and she will be automatically awarded those fees even if the payment of same impedes the defense by the Defendant, eg, me, since how many lawyers can one pay at a time and actually feed the household.

It's not reasonable - she wouldn't do that. That's the whole point, egghead - she is insane and she will do anything to express her rage and paranoia. Yay. What fun.

So, now she's out of work. In her head, she thinks I'm obligated to pay her money so that she can support herself. She believes that she is entitled to my paycheck, free and clear - she has said so. She is, let me repeat myself, insane. And the insanity is spreading.

She actually told me I had to give her $80 today because she owes the Taxi Driver (Travis, where are you when we need you?) and he can get nasty since he knows where she lives, which implies that I will have to deal with yet another mess she has made. Um, excuse, why would I want to do that? I know her. She's already promised it to him and if she had access to my bank account (she already calls and gets balance info but she doesn't has any other kind of access and if she can figure out the PIN, she deserves the money) she would have paid the guy and bounce my car insurance check. She is without regard - one, continuous alcoholic rage, destroying everything in her path and then, conveniently, blaming it on me. That's what drunks do.

Now I need to get out from under, the faster, the better.

Just this moment, I get a threatening call from her, "Either you loan me the money or I'll have to do something unpleasant." Click. Psycho f*ck. So, she's bombed again and violent and if I go home, it's call the police time and then we both go to jail because that's the way it works . . .

Oh, well. Guess I better go home and get it over with.

No, no, wait a minute. Isn't that buying into her craziness? Yes, it is, so I can't do that.

Release the hounds.

Zyzzyx Is Right!

RE: Change of Position

Dear Colleagues;

Our Illustrious Leader, Zyzzyx, has been roundly criticized for his management style and especially for his opinion of the "Earthlings" (please don't snicker) and how and even whether they should be dealt with. Though his concept of mass mind-freeze or extermination seems extreme, I'm beginning to see his point.

In intelligence-gathering efforts amongst the talking mammals of Target Gamma-4-a-Minor, what they call "Earth", and as we've all come to adopt this humorous moniker, I have, as is shown in my reports, found that they are almost universally confusing and confused. It's clear that malice is sometimes meant, but the inability to maintain a single, stable socio-face makes for a very rocky ride, so to speak.

They are, as a whole, inventive. This leads to an excellent set of survival skills as they are tenacious but when that inventiveness creeps into their very limited intellectual and emotional landscape, they are totally without reason. What may seem straightforward to you or I is the subject of much rumination, consideration and general blah-blah-blah, to use a colloquial term. This means that getting to the point is arduous at best and, at worst, a great consumptor of time.

Previously, I have said that it would be possible to integrate the humans into our plans for the reorganization of this world. Now, I must do an about-face (a military colloquialism meaning ordered retreat and offence in the reverse direction.) Despite their laws, teachings and Dr. Phil, humans seem to be hopelessly mired in the "experience" of existence, rather than getting to The Goal. I will grant that they are of limited understanding, but still . . . Even in my use of grammatik as shown in the last sentence, one can clearly see equivocation here even in the most stalwart.

An excellent example is the popular historical case of the soccer team stranded on an Andean mountainside with half of their number dead. It took near starvation and desperation for the survivors to decide that it would be acceptable to eat the meat of their "brothers." This kind of confused thinking leads many of their kind to disrupt the flow of progress. "I'll think about it," is a phrase endemic to daily life here and indicates that ugly cycle of pondering.

For our mission, it is clear that we are not meeting our short-term goals. He have been mired in an attempt to "understand" what probably cannot be adequately understood, as so much is hidden in what is unsaid, unseen and unheard. It has become inefficient to analyse and re-figure the Human Profile as the information gathered in the field is constantly changing.

I must now come out in support of Zyzzyx's position, though I would suggest a modification. Instead of wholesale extermination, though satisfying it would be, I must say, I think instead we should not disturb the nature of the food chain and the ecosystem here and simply proceed with DNA modification Plan 12.92.090 of last Ord Moon. All on the committee are in receipt of this memo - if not, I can re-transmit. In sum, the Plan calls for modifying the DNA of the humans so that they will function at not more that the level of their simian cousins. The current population will die off in about a hundred solar transits, or 56 Filps, and the reduced-lifespan, human-simians will self-regulate their population through SOTF results.

This scheme is not only "humane" but will also require the least resources on our part in terms of extermination (which would be environmentally messy), clean-up, food-chain and eco- restructuring and so forth. We can continue to build our infrastructure here in the meantime, in the interest of achieving The Goal. In the end, this will be a more efficient way of solving the Human Problem.

I ask that the committee consider my revised position and that we vote on going forward at our next Ord Moon meeting in 14 solar days. I want to apologise in advance to all for being so contrary but it is clear as is The Word, "Let your Loss be your Lesson."

I look forward to seeing you all. I will bring "doughnuts" for us to enjoy!

Sincerest regards,

Phllps Orgnamsi
Unit 1 Intelligence
Social Order Division
Terran Station Target Gamma-4-a-Minor

Say What?

This Yob is murdering me. To top it off, "R" just said to me, and I know he didn't mean a bad thing, since he is a rather warm-hearted UberFurher, in his highly imitable broken Englishchen,"Oh, Aht. You did a good job mit der Juicy, ya? Now your work has made you free!"

I display a photo here for your consideration. Over the entrances to most Nazi concentration camps (and I've visited two) was this inscription, Arbeit Macht Frei. It means, Work Makes Freedom. Needless to say, something like six million Jews, two million Gypsies and other undesirables, along with about a half-million political prisoners. give or take a mil, never reaped that benefit of their hard work, unless you consider getting bar-b-que'd after a long day of starvation, forced labour, torture, disease and murder a reward and a "freedom." Hmm. Maybe they had a point. Maybe my relatives just heard what they wanted to hear. Silly Jews, freedom ist fur der Masterrrrace!!

These people seriously need some serious sensitivity training. I suggested he have a beer on me. Hey, if things had worked out differently, he might very well have literally been able to have a beer on me. eh? Ja, Ja, ist gut!!

Love In Vain

I lost you in a flash
paper afire aflame
the same wind
licking me
pushing me
with cold
thrusts

So, here I am to save the day, only the victims have left the building. The smoke has cleared. No heroes are needed. Too bad for me.

I think I have this nasty habit of making monumentally poor choices about monumental things. Rather than list my very poor track record, I am reminded of that great 1991 movie starring Albert Brooks called Defending Your Life. The premise of the story is that he is a stressed-out yuppie underachieving worrier that gets killed in a collision with a bus after picking up his new BMW and hunting around on the floor for a CD (then a new thing to have in a car.). He goes to a place that's a waiting room, in essence, where souls are reviewed and the decision is made for them to "go forward" or to be sent back for another go at it. If you haven't seen this movie, please rent it or download it (legally, for Cripes' Sake) and come back after you're finished.

The assumption here is that you've either seen the movie or you did as I commanded and are ready for the rest of this entry. Let's continue.

I strongly identify with Brook's character Daniel. At one point, his life is being reviewed in his "trial" and a scene is played back from his past where he's in his twenties, having lunch with friends, talking about investments. One friend talks about Casio, a Japanese watch company as an exciting investment and Daniel responds that it's ridiculous. People buy Swiss watches - who's going to buy watches made in Japan? When the clip finishes, Daniel turns around from the screen with a dour look to face the tribunal. The Prosecutor points out that Casio is now a multi-billion dollar company and that his investment then of a few thousand dollars would have made him a multi-millionaire many times over.

Being that you've seen the movie now, you know how it works out. But the key for me is that Daniel existed on the edge, in a way, between life and a safe life. Life for his romantic interest, played by Meryl Streep, by the way (who was more than perfect for the role,) was open, daring and easy. Daniel was in wonder of her demeanor as if it couldn't possibly be so. She shrugged it all off and just lived. Just lived.

I'm at a major crossroads today, right now, at this moment. I feel as if the decisions I make in the near term will have major impact of the short balance of my life. In the past, this would have resulted in endless worry without resolution and finally, paralysis. Now, I have a different view. The question is - which path to take? I can go the "safe" way, where I can control not the outcome, but the level of pain I'll inevitably have to endure or . . .

. . . or I can take that chance, that chance that's an opportunity, that I know is dangerous, that I know might put me out at the side of the road with both thumbs cut off, because that is the better choice, the bigger risk not with the better return, but the more "right" possibilities.

So, this is about you, really. Well, not about you but about me and you. And though I say the words, I can't describe in words how I feel about you, no matter how I try. Funny thing for a "writer" to say, or write, I guess. Yup, even now I draw a blank. And I want you, to be with you, to laugh endlessly with you, to follow you around like a love-struck puppy, to say to people, "This woman is mine and I am her man, for now and for always, no f*cking matter what, so you best not mess with either of us. Get it?" So, you make me so happy. And worried. And happy about being worried. And, in the end, if we could be together, I just feel in my gut that it would be good, decent and fine.

How would it play? What's the frequency, Kenneth? I know: we'd start out the furthest thing from newly-weds. I'd be working excruciatingly long hours and struggle in my free time to spend time with my kid and with you and yours. Somehow, it would work out - not perfectly, but sort of okay, with no one either too impressed nor too miffed. We'd start getting our money situations together, solve some immediate problems and then, begin to cast a path for the near future. A year of so down the line, we'll have had some bad fights, but not that bad and they'll have always ended up with us, no, not making love, but with a clearer understanding of each other, with acceptance and an even stronger bond, as soul-mates are wont to do.

In the summer of '09, we'll have stabilsed our household and families and we'll decide to go away as a kind of mutual reward. Oh, money will be tight, but we can swing it and I did okay in the prior few months with my investing stuff, so, we book it together. We'll dwell on a tropical beach for a week, guzzling strawberry daiquiris and simply admitting that we've done okay so far, or, at least, good enough for government work. I turn to you on that beach and I say, "It's settled, then. I want to be married to you. I want to make it official. I can't love anyone else like I love you and I've never loved anyone else like this, either. Would you be kind enough to agree to meet with my lawyers and then promptly consent to marrying me?" You would laugh, and say, "I'll think about it." I would settle back in my lounger and continue to be broasted by the Costa Rican sun, satisfied inside and out that a good thing happened there that day. I would reach for your hand and your fingers would dance teasingly in my palm. And there would be silence, except for the tentative water, and it would be quite good.

When we returned, it would be right back to work and house schedules and paying bills and rushing around to do this thing and that and you would visit with your mother for a bit and your kids would continue to love you as much as they do and you would look at me across the kitchen and I would look back over the rims of my glasses so that you would be a mild, red blur and your smile would glow and you would glow, ever so slightly. We would have that moment and then others, and our lives would be bound up by the glue of those moments. We will have got to a better place, together, and no man could tear what was in our very souls asunder.

Our kids would grow up. They would have kids. We would work and jump in our eco-friendly Explorer (my idea) and hit the road in Friday evening, pointing ourselves in whatever direction - it simply wouldn't matter. Maybe we'd have a little cabin upstate on Golden Pond . . .

After a few years, my knees would give out and my long-standing heart problem would catch up with me. Oh, I'd exercise and eat better, thanks to your persistence and annoying-ness, but I'd start to slow way down. Your health would decline insipidly. Diabetes, a heart scare and high blood pressure that would finally convince you to eat Rabbit Food exclusively and take many, many supplements. In fact, you'd become obsessed with your Juicer, which would make you all the Juicier, I might add. But that's just a dirty old man talking . . .

So, our money and kid struggles would be replaced by health struggles BUT, we'd keep on keepin' on. And, in the twilight of our time, we'd be together, in that cabin, and I'd still be peering at you over my rims and thinking, how fortunate was I to have leaped onto that freight before it made its last trip across the Plains . . .

That's a fantasy, though. It's not going to happen. Just look at my track record.

So, you'll be gone soon enough, in a flash, practically. The right guy will come along presently, hopefully with some of my extraordinary qualities, but without all of the luggage. He'll love you, in his way, sure, and take care of you and be a good friend to your kids. He'll be passionate at the right times, buy you flowers and he'll be on time. He won't keep you waiting and he'll be your regular Friday night date. He'll come over and stay over, when you're ready, able and willing, and he'll make you feel like you're floating. He'll laugh with you and enjoy you and you, him. Oh, he won't get you and you'll only be a woman capable and useful for womanly duties, but, you can't have everything. You'll feel normal and whole once again, glad to be away from the craziness, glad to be on track, glad to know you can call him and make actual plans, like normal people do. And I'll be a bittersweet memory, fading, fading over time, much more quickly than you thought, left behind at the station, where I belong.

Love In Vain
by Robert Johnson
And I followed her to the station
with a suitcase in my hand
And I followed her to the station
with a suitcase in my hand
Well, it's hard to tell, it's hard to tell
when all your love's in vain
All my love's in vain

When the train rolled up to the station
I looked her in the eye
When the train rolled up to the station
and I looked her in the eye
Well, I was lonesome, I felt so lonesome
and I could not help but cry
All my love's in vain

When the train, it left the station
with two lights on behind
When the train, it left the station
it had two lights on behind
Well, the blue light was my blues
and the red light was my mind

All my love's in vain

Meowsville, Daddy-O!

The one on the right is the now notorious White Cat, probably preggers. The one on the left, with the big mouth, is the Latest Addition AKA Spork since she has a club paw (never seen that before.) She's about six months old and her most endearing feature is that she has the lungs of Pavarotti. What the heck, he's not using 'em? I wonder if there's a La Scala for Pussy Cats.

So cuuuuuuuuute!

Believe Me When I Tell You

The title of this blog is the first line from an absolutely brilliant, heartbreaking song called, "Through The Morning, Through The Night." The first verse goes like this, if I remember right:

Believe me when I tell you that I'll try to understand
Believe me when I tell you that I'd never kill a man
But the thought of another man holding you tight
Hurts me little darling
through the morning, through the night

Now, I'm all for sappy sentiment in songs, but this particular song strikes me right in the face because the singer is begging, angry, hurt, sad, frightened, lonely, all at once. This is love, for sure. The doubt, fear, happiness and loss all at once, amalgamated into a single idea, which is why love is so hard to describe.

It's not "butterflies in your stomach" nor is it a migraine headache and sweaty palms. That is, not just those features. And when it goes away, the void that's produced tears little bits of emotional dendrite from a thousand different places. Further, it's one thing if someone does it to you and it's entirely different if you do it to yourself. It's sort of like suicide but instead of dying, one continues to be tortured with regret, doubt, sadness, loss and loathing for the rest of one's days.

Isn't that a cheery thought for this sunny Tuesday? Not.