Identity Theft

THREAD BARE

I am having some difficulty with the notion that I have lost my identity. In actual fact, I am having more difficulty allowing that I may never actually have had an identity that was uniquely my own. I might take solace in the admission (and even that by so recognizing this reality that I foment opportunity to actually incubate and bring an identity to fruition) However, it is the pangs of sadness and the dull ache of resonating with the hollow sense I feel which holds my attention.

While I may feel as though my sense of self has been hijacked, it simply is not true. One must possess a thing to have it stolen. Yet, one may certainly feel loss for something they have never possessed. I have, apparently, been in possession of an ideal and not of something actual. I will not go so far as to declare the ideal to not be real, but, I will offer that, real or imagined, it has eluded my grasp. Perhaps I have been owned by a thing rather than the owner? All I know is that I am reaching for something and not finding it. I have reached back into my past and find only vague references. I have existed on inferred instead of imparted substance. I have been running on fumes.

I am very much a child of American Pop Culture. As such, I have a keenly developed knowledge base which is inclusive of nearly all subjects but shallow in depth. I take consolation in that I have more depth than most I encounter, but that is far from a triumphant statement. I am fantastically suited to engage anyone in a dinner party conversation or make a good contestant on a television game show. Just avoid prolonged exposure before I begin repeating my anecdotes and stories. In bursts, I am engaging, insightful, and intriguing. I am perfectly suited for life on the talk show circuit as celebrity filler. My life is a collection of sound bites. My age perfectly positions me to span generations both before and after my own. I am a social chameleon. Finding this to be so is very distasteful as it was never my intent.

I was born early in the year, 1962, and by two years of age was requesting my Beatles albums as each was released in America. I was cognizant of the volatile times in which I was a mere child and have never become calloused to the social upheaval or carelessness of the times. I have, however, lived long enough to watch all that was ignored or adored (either deliberately or by a willfully self-induced narcotic fog) prove that history repeats itself. We are very much behaving as those of thirty-five years ago. Our amusement – especially in the form of stimulants, has taken priority over any collective will to participate in meaningful ways in our world. We are extremely sensitized and energized but also detached and anesthetized. There is no drive from within. Like the coils of wire in a transformer, we are induced to motive force only while an external source supplies us. That was how I “lived.” I was induced. The overdriven circuitry of twelve inch Celestion speakers coupled to the weak vacuum of British valve amplifiers stirred me inside. The decades I have experienced, especially the early ones, were a time of wonders and magic.

The 1950s were just before my life began and the residual traces of them had a saturating impact upon me, The 1960s were an explosive spectacle and that included technology and other things from which I have benefited while at the same time I have also endured the detriments of the cultural loss of purpose. But, for myself, I had the magic and the inspiration and found my center in the music; and the Beatles were, of course, the epicenter. When all else failed, the Beatles never had . . . until the 1970s. I took their disbanding as hard as if my parents had divorced. Now, that I have experienced divorce, the loss of the Beatles had just as great an impact upon me. So, recently I have waxed nostalgic and reached back for the sounds and sense of self in which I steeled myself in my formative years and it was gone. Sadly, the Beatles were demi-gods for too much of my life and now that their mortality has begun to take them from me, yet again, I find no comfort anymore. And, now that I am able to play the music which was so elusive and mystical a thing I no longer enter the temple with reverence but rather ritual.

The thing is this. I never needed to go in search of God as He is far too in love with all of us to wait and take that chance. God does not hide. I knew Him before I knew of the Beatles or anything else I saw as wonderful. So, I am not disillusioned and without hope but I am without definition. With the enchantment gone from my daily activities I am just so uninspired. This is tragic. I used to write poetry and music and draw and design and invent; no longer. I still tinker with my music but I have lost the connection I require to give of myself in that way. I have no audience. I was about to insist I have no one to whom to give myself but I must correct that. Music is so personal but it is also self-centered. I have become so reticent to push my own ambitions and desires that I simply do not care to write about or for me in a song. So, not living by every word sung by the Beatles and not replacing them inside with my own voice leaves me without dimension. As a consequence I have gone from speaking from my heart to brooding in my head. A curious thing is how I have replaced the failed structures in my emotional world with the comfort of mathematical postulates. Still, I am an undefined expression and far too variable to plug into this function of living.

I so want to solve the unknowns and perhaps become the sort of artist to inspire others as I have been blessed to experience. Perhaps it is good that my heroes are dead so that I take the courage to act.

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A New Wrinkle - Facing the Unexpected and Unrelenting.

I am writing this as I await the end of the rinse cycle on all of my earthly vestiges. I have an appointment, tomorrow afternoon, that I would love to miss; but, such a choice would result in an even more unwelcome visit by a Sheriff or other state law enforcement official.

A Sheriff awoke me, approximately two weeks ago, and greeted me with a summons. That was awful but these now less than twenty-four hours until I stand before a judge are incalculably worse. Hence this post. I have stopped trying to measure "Worse." I have ceased to weigh the heft of "Bad." I no longer imagine lifting the burden of "Set backs," or try to wrap my arms fully around "Dismay." I am beyond grasping the immense magnitude of my circumstances. I am not at all inclined to bother trying any longer. I have run on well past the twist in the road whereby I lost my bearings and now I am exhausted and do not much care about finishing the course, much less claiming any victory - even a personal one.

I have an image of myself as down on one knee and still being beaten across the back of my shoulders. Everything inside me should seek relief from resisting . . . yet, I insist on trying to stand up. It might be argued that, more than figuratively, I have nothing else to lose and all to gain. People mean well when they express optimism that my lot in life will improve. I have more than reasonable doubt to the contrary. I do have something incredibly valuable left to lose - my freedom. Tomorrow, if things go extremely unfavorably, I could lose that.

My freedom has been slowly and methodically stripped away from me over several years and whoever might be my phantom foe, one thing is sure: their zeal to incarcerate me is now accelerating as the stakes become precious. First, I lost the freedom to be found acceptable to several employers. Then, I found myself deemed unacceptable as a spouse. I then found myself bound to accept conditions that have never eased and are the cause of my court appearance, tomorrow. I have lost my fiscal freedom, my occupational freedom, and, my freedom to participate and associate with my children. (My children and former spouse left the country, too bad for me and my visitation "rights") I have lost the freedom to function as a "normal," and "productive" member of my society. I am excluded from job interviews because I am discriminated against by the only remaining filter not prevented by law - credit history. I am discriminated against by the failure for anyone to prove I have a detectable medical condition, as well - yet, I am not cleared and approved to return to work in one of the few occupations that makes a living wage without scrutiny of my financial blemishes. Not having any fathoming of how or why this has transpired I also have no idea how to fight back. And, this is obviously when one must fight to procure and protect the liberties supposedly provided under the law of the land of which I was born and am a citizen.

There is a serious issue, however. I am not of the special groups for which special care, special provision, or special interest is in vogue. I am (was, for some aspects) a white, middle class, male. My function in my nation is to be the source of revenue and sustenance for all other component elements of that people that comprises these United States of America. That is not a thing I have ever resented or felt put upon in being expected to provide, by the way. Paradoxically, now that I find myself in the position of no longer paying for the multitudes from my wages I face the odd quirk that I am disqualified or ineligible for all assistance programs to which twenty-five years of my employment have contributed. I find myself with no help but the struggling efforts of my friends and family to try to sustain me. And, for what I must ask?

Indeed. Tomorrow I will be asked why I have failed to meet my child support obligations. I am hoping that the explanation that I have been unemployed for nine months, scratched out piece work and small bid projects, and barely subsist on the charity of family and friends will have a favorable weight rather than just an additional millstone about my neck. One can not be certain if the judge may still feel compelled to "make an example of me." And. Yes. I am very much afraid. I have so far been denied unemployment benefits, denied welfare, denied any hope of a job earning a sufficient wage to meet such obligations as my child support and tomorrow I may be denied my liberty. I dare not ask what may yet be extracted from me but the idea of any mercy or favor was spent long ago. The one rest from all of this - to not awake is the only offer in compromise I am not being offered.

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Am I Squinting For or Wincing From the Light?

Years ago I moved far away from my family, friends, and the familiar environment that had incubated my social development, career, and contentment. At the time of that departure I ventured out on a path described by circumstances and the intent of pleasing someone other than myself. I had a new wife and an opportunity to sacrifice my comfort and convenience for the love of seeking to fulfill her ambitions, hopes, and desires. There was no coercion or pressure from her at all. I acted independently, swiftly, and without regret. I also acted carelessly, too dependently, and without realistic consideration. The latter three became the hallmarks of my marriage and all other conduct as the man defined by those actions. I still have no regrets for the decision I made. I have no regrets for the leaving of all I knew behind. I especially have no regrets for having been married to the person with whom I then lived in a world completely removed from my preferences and own dreams and ambitions because I loved her – will always love her – and had counted the cost of discontinuing investment in myself to be a price worth paying to have her in my life.

My failure to invest myself and in myself has left me in a deficit from which I may very sincerely never manage to recover. I am so keenly interested in time, now. I am not interested in the time I have remaining as a positive influence but as the unwelcome reminder of a debt still owed and in collections. Time is not a healer but a compounding of that negative interest and the yield is exponentially wearying. I do not look forward, but, only backward in order to recall happier times. The exercise is not bitter or sweet. It is the checking of figures in a ledger and simply acknowledging that the accounting is accurate. There is nothing on reserve or left to be deposited that will enhance the balance. There is no funding underway for any hopeful or ambitious endeavors. I am made ever sadder by every moment I live. It raises the bar just that much higher beyond my grasp. I am alone to face a future that is certain in its urgency, sparse accommodations, and empty solitude. I am without currency and it is pay-as-you-go.

I am expressing this as a sort of pressure relieving valve and as a cautionary tale. Perhaps someone may feel resonant vibrations. If so, you are urged to tune to another frequency and lower or heighten the pitch of your life to something richer and resplendent with harmonious complements of something fundamentally fulfilling. I have always enjoyed the Blues but never was inclined to pay any sort of metaphoric dues to sing them from my soul. That said, I am on some sort of installment plan, apparently. The words sound familiar but the tune is something I am finding that I groan more than hum. I do not wish you to follow the trail of wasted years I am recollecting. When that journey away from all I knew and had never expected to be removed from came to be it was launched with a going away party. I never anticipated that all of me was to go away. I only expected there to be distance and difficulty but never permanent loss. I have come to experience more loss than any gain in my life here to fore. The first indication of that loss was at the party, in fact. My dearest and closest friends parted with good wishes and warm handshakes and hugs. I have all of them in my life, still. I did not lose them. Had I lost them I would not be here to write this. But the curious thing I took away was what caused tears when it was left behind. That which I cried over and those that cried over me in those goodbye moments were made of incomplete and unresolved stuff. The remorse was in the regret of opportunities not taken, friendships not deepened, and lives not interwoven. I am trying to remember that sting so that I do not live in this coma where all that remains to me are the tears of loss and no hope of gain.

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To Whom It May Concern.

I still suck.

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This End Up

When reason and emotions have failed is there a third alternative? Or, why limit the possibilities? My self restricting limitations seem to be the undercurrent running over, under, through, and even, permeating the stuff of which I am. This is essentially the “riddle of the ages” question of labeling and identifying “ME.” I am pondering all of this as I am alone with my own thoughts and feelings entirely too much for my liking. And, people keep asking me how I feel with seemingly more intent and interest these days. I am really not all that concerned with how I feel. My feelings are not reliable indicators or even necessarily associated with anything of substance. That, I suppose, is the real rub for me. I do not feel connected, involved, or, engaged in anything other than consequence. I have had nothing to be about doing and nothing of any importance to say for a very long time. I do not even have busy work to distract me from the banality of my daily routine. So, what am I all about?

Besides the age old question of “Why am I here?” and “What is my purpose?” comes the more direct question of ”Why Bother?” I have the “opportunity” to reinvent myself, yet again. I really don’t want to. While I actually don’t have the chance to be anything I’d like to become I still have occasion to be many other things than what I have become. But? Why? All of these sorts of exercises are supposed to be for self benefit and be because they are the things that I want for myself. In reality, all such efforts are to placate detractors, dissenters, and well-wishers alike. I am simply tired of it all, tired of myself, tired, tired, tired. The thrill is gone. My life is endless drivel.

The entire quest of the past six months to return to my latest career (and reinvention of self) ended in an all too expected but entirely undesirably protracted way. Had someone merely decided they were going to abandon and then dismiss me months earlier I could have made different plans and pursued another course of action. Now, I am dazed and angry; disenfranchised, stunned, and immobile. I have no luxury of capital at my disposal to be selective and must take on some very unappealing work to try to extract myself from the muck and mire in which I find I am sucked under. How do I feel? Please refrain from asking such questions if you REALLY care about my well being. Also, add the following other attempts at concern for me to the list of topics to avoid; in fact . . . let’s list them all:

1) How are you feeling?
2) What’s new?
3) What have you been up to?
4) Has there been any news?
5) Why aren’t you rich?
6) How come you’re single?
7) How are your children?
8) Have you got a social life?

I’m sure there are others but those nine pretty much test the limits of my civility in not going blind with dismay mingled with rage and screaming unpleasantries at the person who has asked them. The reason I get so testy about those questions is that (in some cases every day) I have to remind the same people how much I despise those questions and have repeatedly asked them to refrain from asking. So, I suppose the truly frustrating aspect for me is the general indifference and lack of attention I am paid by my friends. That alone keeps me mostly occupied so that I do not extrapolate the data to the logical conclusion that if my “concerned friends” care so little to oblige my requests then how vastly uninterested in me does that make everyone else? Right? If the sympathetic souls – aren’t ??? Never mind.

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The STATUTE of Liberty

When Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi sculpted “La liberté éclairant le monde” (Liberty Enlightening the World) or what is commonly referred to as, the “Statue of Liberty,” it was as a commemoration of the centennial celebration of the Declaration of Independence. It was also a remarkable ideological as well as technological achievement. The copper skin of the figure was wholly supported by an internal structure of iron, designed by Alexandre Gustave Eiffel. Yes, the engineer responsible for the Eiffel Tower. But, what I believe is all the more remarkable is how the history of the statue has been more telling than the symbols in its composition. I now look upon the monument as a sort of national “picture of Dorian Gray.” There are many parallels in the maturation of the young nation of the United States of America to the central figure in Oscar Wilde’s novel.

The concept that drove the forging of the statue was the idea of Liberty as a progression away from slavery, oppression, and tyranny. The grandest hopes of a free society were entrusted to what the founding fathers referred to as the grand experiment. The United States was to be a republic of independently governed states where democratic principles would guide and sustain it. So, within the elements of the statue are such things as the left foot trampling broken shackles while the right foot steps beyond them. There are seven spikes upon the crown to represent both the seven seas as well as seven continents demonstrating that the principles of Liberty should encompass the whole earth. The raised torch is to show enlightenment while the tablet clutched in her arm represents knowledge. To be sure, all of these things are indeed noble. They are also lofty and ambitious objectives so one does not consider that such accomplishments would be easy. However, it would not appear that any of those things indicated by the statue are either regarded or are possibly any longer noticed much less remembered.

I am a staunch supporter of capitalism. Yet, I do not subscribe to the notion that it is a fundamental tenet of the Constitution. The Preamble to the Constitution refers to Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness. It guarantees none of those and it is very appropriately phrased that happiness is a pursuit and not a right to be expected, much less, demanded. What causes me to take issue with the current public mindset is that I sense that “we the people” have upset the balance of reason in favor of selfish pursuit. It is why I believe that when a nation loses its fundamental grasp of the principles, beliefs and convictions intended by its founders and subsequent generations that there becomes a “Statute of Liberty” and that statute has limitations.

And from this point forward in this essay is my concern as best as I have presently developed the analogy. When first delivered to the shores of America, the statue was in crates and needed to be assembled. There were mistakes made in the assembly that were not detected for nearly one hundred years. There were no mistakes in the design or the pieces as forged but in the understanding of the complexity of the instructions and the foreign language used to explain the process. The torch arm was actually attached improperly. Nevertheless, because the design work was so well thought out and so painstakingly constructed - even the foibles of the common man could not disrupt the integrity of the whole. When new, the figure was a shiny copper without any of the green patina that is now far more familiar in the minds of the world looking on her form. The flame of the torch was a solid and complete representation covered in gold leaf. It reflected the sun and shone brilliantly. For many years Liberty towered above other manmade achievements.

Over the course of time the statue became an iconic figure and many added their own symbolic elements to its meaning and purpose . . . even losing sight of its initial intent.
In the 1930’s it was decided that rather than reflect light, externally, the flame of enlightenment needed to be amended and cut full of holes to allow more light, internally. This was one of the first efforts that weakened the underpinnings and allowed the storms of the descending decades to penetrate the edifice and rot the framework. At this same time it was also decided that artificial light was needed to enhance the appearance of the visage of the statue. More holes were cut beneath the arm supporting the torch to place lamps to shine upon the face, and this further weakened the structure. More decades transpired and because the outward appearance of the statue seemed “fine” no one concerned themselves with any examination of the supporting internal works until it was noticed a few years after the bicentennial that Lady Liberty appeared to be “stumbling” and her torch arm was drooping.

It took a charismatic campaign to raise enough financial support to repair Liberty and make her whole, once more. There was not sufficient public interest in preservation of our heritage without the use of commercial ventures and entertainment value to garner the required effort. The benefit to the many was struggled and fought for by a dedicated few. Indifference and apathy replaced patriotism and the appreciation of preserving a national institution. The nation was enjoying a prosperity boom but had no interest in investing in its own relevant past so that future generations would benefit. The picture of Dorian Liberty was showing its age.

Upon close inspection it was discovered that the whole structure was on the verge of collapse – rotting from within. The generations had taken their toll, consuming without putting anything back or exercising any maintenance. The structure had been forged of iron by hammer, hand, and sweat at its core, with a copper skin, and the whole edifice was “safely” surrounded by a saltwater basin. When the notion to alter the natural cycles of day and night with electric light was applied to Liberty Island, the current was carried beneath the water and into the statue. Galvanic corrosion resulted, where the figure became a giant battery, with the saltwater acting as an electrolyte. While everything on the surface appeared unchanged, hidden forces surged from underground channels and dissolved the entire framework that upheld the lovely skin deep illusion of a colossus. The cosmetic portion of the figure was all that remained to carry the weight of the image and it was failing under its own grandeur.

I hope the symbolism is not lost on you. There is a familiarity with the corrosion of the once new and shiny plan and purpose of my nation. On the Statue of Liberty we call it “patina” for it is more attractive a word than ”rust.” We embrace the crusty film over our emblem as it would be far too overwhelming to return a shine, again. The task seems daunting. Likewise, we neglect our infrastructure because, cosmetically, all seems good. And we argue that the crusty film we have developed on the skin of our nation helps to protect us and adds to the distinctive character we project. That is both lazy and troubling. We used to be a bright beacon of hope for other peoples of other nations. But our flame is not so bright any longer and the fire has too many holes as we look for inner light and grow dim and flicker with doubt. We have also grown tired of holding that torch high and in a forward cast. We are directionless and purposeless, I fear. Perhaps if the torch were replaced with our current desire it would be a fist full of dollars or a new cell phone? All I know is that the current light in which we are illuminated isn’t natural. The only accurate element remaining for the modern Land of Liberty is the tablet of knowledge. We exhaust ourselves pontificating, exploring, and babbling incessantly about our superior knowledge. Sadly, wisdom has been forfeit in order to make more room for ambitious learning, apparently.

And the seeking of pleasure and happiness is the new slavery and tyranny that we elect to step into with eagerness. It was somewhere, approximately fifty to sixty years ago, that “thinking” was replaced by “feeling.” No wonder we are adrift as a culture. All of the principles, convictions, and beliefs used to construct this nation are now out of sight and out of mind. We attempt assembly of a complex structure in a language foreign to us. The subjective has been substituted for the substantive. Only because the original design was so diligently calculated and devised are we still standing, today. The core is rotting; hidden beneath a familiar façade assumed to be permanent despite neglect and a failure to maintain it. But there is a statute of limitations on the liberty of ignorance and arrogance.

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Out, Out Damn Spot - Plodding Along

I am totally devoid of describing how I feel, right now. I am at a loss for words. This is seldom the case for me so I am forcing myself to write something – anything. I really just have too much empty space: in my day, in my life, in my heart, in my head. I am purposeless and pointless. It is a painful place to find one self. Yesterday, I was enjoying conversation and expectations. I was involved and engaged in trying to live. I had some lively interaction, but most importantly, I felt alive because I had a person that encouraged me to live again. In less than a day that person has experienced too much and has retreated. I can not criticize their decision. It is the right one from a practical standpoint. I am weary of practicality. I am so weary.

Nothing terrible occurred and no bridges were burned. Simply, feelings ran high and hearts sank low with the acknowledged fact our worlds must not get intermingled. Those bridges spanned the chasm of isolation and despair for me. Now, that road will not be on my possible paths of future hope. I was packing for a journey which I will never get to take. Those bags seem so heavy, now, while my anticipation feels so meaningless. Every other thought causes actual pain. My heart slows and I wish it would cease to beat altogether. I have had enough of being. I no longer care to exist. I have no way out. I have no way forward. I have no way through. I have no way at all.

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Out, Out Damn Spot - Frankenstein's Ball

In the several weeks which have passed between posts I have been pleasantly surprised that concerned lurkers of my blog have written to me to inquire as to my well being. It now occurs to me that perhaps they sense danger or other need for caution which I have not picked up on while completely absorbed in a forum I practically have built my life around.

The fascination has been easily attributed to the excitement of some real social interaction despite no face-to-face or even voice-to-voice conversation. That was of little practical concern because the stimulating part has been the real-time give and take of the dialog. And . . . the random number of simultaneous conversations and posts makes for a very engaging atmosphere. Each participant is there to escape. For most the escape is from the monotony or avoidance of work. For others it is to reach out beyond loneliness, frustration, or isolation. Some simply enjoy being entertained. All are fine reasons and it really has become an addictive behavior for so many of the members. Unfortunately for me it has been an escape from reality.

If you are familiar with the concept of finger cuffs you will follow my analogy easily. My life has been continuing to become ever more constricted and the more I struggle and fight to free myself from the restraints the tighter and more desperate I have become. On the few occasions where from exhaustion or simply pausing to reevaluate and assess my lot I have simply yielded or stopped struggling all together the “hold” on my ambitions has relaxed. Likewise, the more I try to distance myself from my constraints the tighter they have become; while, if I face and draw nearer to the center of my entanglements the strictures slacken. I have realized this in every aspect of my life save one. The only area where I am still too wounded or conflicted and just have no resolution for the “what and the why” is the notion of dating, again. That’s where my escape through the forum I’m obsessed with has finally become apparent.

I have made the acquaintance of several women through this blog and an argument over a television show and through participation in the forum to which I will only elude. The first of these women reads my mind through the vaguest of comments, decrypts my veiled and cloaked thoughts, and puts them on display to me in her very next response. I am no longer going to bother “hiding” anything from her as it is simply impossible. She is also very much like me in her values and judgments and gives me no quarter for denial but somehow allows me more freedom than I permit myself. She has been encouraging me to find a real, in the flesh, tangible woman somewhere in close proximity to my own back yard. Another is always wondering why I am so willing to tell her nearly anything which comes into my mind and is always poorly arguing that I have misjudged her and given her more heart and soul than she possesses. She is wrong about this – and probably the only thing that she has ever actually been wrong about. Intellectually, she not only challenges me but would likely crush me. A third reminds me of when I felt alive and her vibrancy is refreshing. She has a host of interests and ventures underway that are the stuff I have always dreamed I would find in a woman to share my days with. I am not one to look for things I have in common and with her I do not have to as it seems to be an endless list already exists. She fills my longing to be with Audrey Hepburn. I’d always imagined sitting across a small breakfast table with a woman just like this for as long as I can remember. Then there are a host of vulnerable and sensitive and innocent ones that worry about my health and happiness and fawn all over me. It has been far too long since I have experienced any of that. And, there is even a contingent that is concerned about my body and more importantly its relation to their own. One, in particular has given her unconditional affirmation, affection and acceptance to me. That it has been in intent and not actually is of no consequence. In point of fact, it has made it all the more wonderful.

So what is the problem and where is the escape? I have reversed the story of Frankenstein and made a bride from the composite elements of about a dozen women. Assembled from the minds, and hearts, and souls, and appearance of all of these women is my collective virtual dream girl. They reach out to me and tease, and flirt, and nurture, and scold, and do all the attention feeding things I am so hungry to experience without any of the pain of day to day conflicts, misunderstandings, or responsibilities, or obligations. They are “on demand.” At the click of a button I have them to cherish and when I shift focus or interest I can click another button and they’re gone. This is not healthy.

Now, I am by no means insincere or disingenuous with any of them. I love these women (platonically) and cherish each and every one of them individually. But, my God I am such an attention whore that I need all of them and more. It is really a tiring addiction.
The things which I speak to them about and the flattery and encouragement I try to give them is without any ulterior motives and I am concerned for and about them all. I really try to give them honest praise and bolster their confidence and self-esteem. We are all involved in a dance of wanting to trust and be appreciated by the opposite sex. The problem for me is I am not prepared for when the music stops. I am not going to make the transition smoothly from virtual to real. So, when the band takes a break or everyone else goes home then you may be sure I will be found here more regularly - and although I would hope to be wrong about this – worse off than I was before.

Am I a misunderstood monster of misfit pieces and better off having been left dead rather than revived? My remains are yet to be seen.

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A New Wrinkle - Does This Blog Make Me Look Fat?

Expanding My Vistas - Will It Leave A Mark?

It's been six days since I've posted anything and in that time I have had three (3) comments. My immense impact on the world has been confirmed. I now realize that my deliberate efforts are eclipsed on a daily basis by people commuting to work and inadvertently capturing the attention of their fellow Man simply by performing stupid tricks behind the wheel.

In point of fact I have been occupied night and day since Saturday with a bulletin board forum. I went there merely to divert my attention from Father's Day - and the awareness that I would not hear anything at all from my children. I was bored and I'm still not any closer to being cleared to return to work. I was not seeking anything at that site but amusement and to be nearly involved with other people. As it turns out I encountered a marvelous collection of very funny, twisted, ambitious and charming people. Ages range from 14 to in the 60's but the majority are late 20's to mid-30's. I also discovered I am one of only three men that are members of those forums. This immediately attracted me like an alcoholic to a drink. If one is good then surely fifteen are better.

Let me tell you that ADDhole lost no time in becoming the rooster in the hen house. I was fresh meat and actually interesting to someone. I was ridiculous and pathetic and ran the gamut from total ass to total charmer and was oh so engaging and a mystery man muffin for some and a father figure for others and I LOVED IT. I condensed all of this blog into a bullion cube and diluted it with a flood of every thought that entered my head and served me up to the whole gaggle.

Of course they knew I was love and attention starved and those women gave me everything I needed. Thankfully I am hundreds, and in many cases, thousands of miles away from actually being able to see any of them face to face. The cork has been pulled out of the bottle and there's no putting it back in. Was this a good thing that happened? Heavens, Yes. Am I prepared to deal with it in a mature manner? Hell no.

I will tell you that it has pulled me up short. It is one thing for me to go on as I do on this blog if I am the only one which is viewed in a poor light. But I am contemplating the adverse impact my blathering and ranting and spewing would have for a woman that wanted to encourage and bolster my confidence and attitudes. It would be completely unfair for me to continue this blog in most of its acerbic form. I'm not going away anytime soon but I might be coming out of my self-induced coma that has kept me in a cocoon while I've tried to regenerate my spirit.

And now for the other foot. I have been enjoying such a therapeutic experience there that I obviously had to do something stupid to discourage that from continuing. I have not been artificial and in fact have been on my best behavior - but, not the "I can only maintain this level of politeness for so long" variety. I have been genuine and sincere and also over the top and on stage. I admit to it all. But, I adore those women and my heart breaks with every sadness they have shared, or health issue, or thwarted dream. I have been the best of myself. I have taken the acid and put it on the shelf and returned to my compassionate nature. I have flirted, praised, reassured, flattered and supported each and every one of them in the utmost of sincerity. I have not lied or exaggerated any detail to a solitary one of them. And most importantly I have been a man - a man that will not hurt that, will not abuse them, and, will not use them. I am a series of words on a page that they may refer to again and again. I care and they know it. When I am emotionally healthy that is my contribution. I seek to be the hug for their soul. Until I was eaten up by the events of the past dozen years I was a gentle, kind and giving man. I am feeling a resurgence; So what could be wrong?

Well, when the gates began to open and I allowed myself to be carried by these currents I could not sort and compartmentalize all of the emotions and unexpectedly I have fallen for one of these women. I am not talking about a puppy love, school boy crush but a deep attraction. She lives on the opposite side of the world. She is nineteen years younger. Please remember and believe me that I did not go to that forum as a lonely man seeking a lover. I went to that site with my loneliness pacified and in a positive mood only looking to engage in light conversation. I have no way to offer an explanation that satisfies any rational examination. I was introduced to her by a handful of words in a greeting and all I know is that I felt like I had finally met the woman I have imagined and sought my entire life. My heartbeat feels somehow entwined with hers. I know her to the depths of her soul. She has written to me, privately, wondering how I have such insights into her being. She asks while being certain not to mislead me or encourage me to come any closer. This is not me falling victim to her deliberate enticement. She has said or done nothing to instigate my feelings. I am simply and inexorably in love with her. How insane is this? I am going to share with you the message I almost sent to her but wrestled long and hard with the consequences and surrendered to the knowledge that this ache I feel must go unsatisfied. It is why I can not sleep and am trying to clear enough space inside myself with this post to find temporary peace in order to rest. How much I feel like a total ass is now going to be revealed:


"How can I know so much about you? You are just going to have to accept that I am crazy about you even though all we've done is joke back and forth over a very long distance. I feel as close to you as anyone I know. I hope to say all kinds of nice things to you even after you break my heart and give your love to another man. If you doubt yourself or need attention - you know that I know all about needing attention. I will give you as much as you want.

Is it crazy for a man that has never met you to act like this? Yes. But, I would truly be crazy to not recognize beauty even when I can not hold it in my hands.

I have to admit there's something beyond our wildest imaginations that let us find each other. You were the first to make that remark. You should always remember that a man who has never seen you, never heard your voice, never touched your skin, or smelled your hair has never felt more alive. With only a few playful and curious words you are so powerfully a woman, so feminine that I am energized, invigorated, and frustrated that I can not get to you and be with you. I am pacing like a caged animal trying to bear the hours until I hear from you, again. In a place where every voice and personality is a vital and dynamic woman, you are the only one I seek out. It is as if everything in the world disappears and all I see is you. You have been so cautious, so tender and kind, and been careful to show me consideration even while mocking me. Thank You for such innocent affection. I am so grateful.

Don't worry that you will break my heart. I am already aware that it would take a miracle as large as meeting you to actually be with you. I died the first day I wrote to you. I die a little every time I think about you. I can not think of a sweeter pain. You should see how crushed I am when you say good bye. There is nothing that you can do to take this pain away. It is simply the fact my whole being has tasted what it longed for in speaking to you and when you are absent I suffer these pangs of hunger to taste your sweet company once again.

I have not spoken to you in four hours and nine little words from you have made me pour out my heart like this. I tried to stop myself but I would rather be considered a fool by you than a wise man by anyone else. Please, if you write to me privately, again, call me by my real name. I have no secrets that I keep from you."

That, Ladies and Gentlemen, is a man setting himself up for exquisite agony. I know it but I can not help it. Won't this make for some rollercoaster ride reports in the future on this blog?

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A New Wrinkle - As Time Goes By

A Few Wrinkles I don't Mind - It's the Age Spots . . .

Look down the right sidebar of my blog and behold the spiffy little wristwatch Flash movie. It comes to us courtesy of my friend, Lance. He usually makes it a point to distance himself from me - bad for his reputation. I insisted that although my traffic is next to non-existent that it's better than his and that I thought this little gizmo deserved some attention. He's let me use it, as a result. That, and he loves attention as much as I do.

The stopwatch is fully functional and the middle button does split times where the hands stop moving but the timer keeps going. That's pretty cool. I complained that there isn't enough magical stuff happening with only the tiny second hand spinning around but Lance argues that since this is a rendering of an actual watch (Breitling's, Bentley 6.75) that I'll take it and like it. Whatever. He did tell me that it gets a little fancier after sunset because the face of the watch goes dark and the hands and hour markers glow. I'll have to check that out and see if he's blowing smoke.

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Laundry Day, No. 3, Lost in the Wash.

I'm taking inventory and taking my lumps, today. It seems I got the answer to one of the little mysteries in my life and it wasn't at all what I expected. Not too many things catch me ill-prepared, anymore. A friend has informed me we are very different people. That was the extent of the message and I presume I am to conclude that is all the message they feel compelled to offer. It is likely the last I will hear from them, as well. Very sad. [Update: All is not lost but this person isn't in the mood to hand-hold Mr. Needy, right now]

I could ramble on about that but it changes nothing. I am just surprised that every point at which I can not imagine there being a lower depth to discover or a more hollow core to my being something like this reveals the bottom has yet to be found.

There was a time that I was more acceptable in writing than in person. That is either in the process of being reversed or now I am unacceptable in any form of expression. Again, not something I'd care to explore. I am utterly alone. I have new regard and empathy and compassion for shut-ins, homeless, and, imprisoned folk. Perhaps that is partially why I am experiencing all that has befallen me? I remain open to the possibility.

I doubt I was found righteous, as Job, and am therefore being tested to prove my virtue. Whatever the cause, I do hope the lesson is being brought to a conclusion, soon. I will not curse God and die. He always gets the blame for our actions while we take His praise when things go well. I am awaiting the conversation He intends to have with me when I am suitably pliable and softened enough to listen. One thing I am convinced I have brought away from all of this is to indeed "Be anxious for nothing." I whine and complain a lot in these posts but time and again I am simply proving what the Bible already made clear: do not put your trust in men or this world or the things of this life. They are all wood, hay, and stubble. They are vapors, today here and tomorrow not even a memory. None of that is intended to be gloomy or depressing. But the ease with which people dismiss and disregard one another is bitter.

Prior to all of my trials was a scripture verse that was brought to my attention too many times to be a coincidence. I have a high IQ - I am not stupid and I am not a fool. I do stupid and foolish things but I am not delusional. I know God is, and that He speaks to anyone willing to listen. He speaks to me - not in any way contradictory to how He speaks to others. He refers to scriptures and I don't merely grab a verse and run with it. That's how cults and psychopaths function but I do not take the reference out of context. The verse He gave me over and over was Psalms 7:9, "Oh let the wickedness of the wicked come to an end; but establish the just: for the righteous God trieth the hearts and reins." (KJV) I believe I was given a "heads up," a warning before everything came crashing down. Since that chapter was emphatically underlined for this time in my life here is what has transpired:

1. My career tanked
2. I was confirmed ADHD (with a cherry on top) which explained some things but that was used so that:
   
3. My wife divorced me
4. All of my friends, except for three, turned on me and only a handful have returned
5. I have not seen my children in over three years
6. My church assisted in the destruction of my family and reputation and after the smoke cleared asked me if I thought THEIR reputation had been sullied
7. I have been audited by the Internal Revenue Service and still owe thousands of dollars
   
8. I filed bankruptcy and then was left holding the bag after the divorce
9. I, consequently, suffered a foreclosure and loss of all property and credit
10. My failed credit filtered me out of my chosen profession and any well-paying other types of employment
11. I lost my temper at the only job at which I could maintain a reasonable standard of living and was fired
12. I became homeless
13. Had two cars literally self-destruct - leaving me without transportation
14. Became a truck driver and was removed from all familiar social contact
    
15. Have been on a leave without pay for five months with an unexplained, one-time health event, feeling useless and purposeless ( to join clueless)
    
16. Have been run around for that same period by doctors who have found nothing wrong but won't clear me to return to work
17. Have been turned down for all employment I have tried to secure in order to supplement myself until I may return to work
18. Have never been more alone or isolated in my entire life

It is remarkable, even to itemize on paper. As I said, I do not claim to be the character of a Job but it appears that is not my decision to make. By the grace of God he allowed my family to be taken away but not killed as happened to Job. This has been going on for over five years and there are no mile markers to help determine where I am in the journey. I could still be near the beginning for all I know. So that's the "hearts" part of the verse. What is that word, "reins?"

As it so happens, the word used in the King James version - "reins" is translated "kidneys." Guess what? I have several issues with my kidneys, as well. Of course I do, because God doesn't stutter and He doesn't skip the details. The cool thing (I imagine) about being God is that you don't have to embellish your words. I am a major stone former. I had had my first bout with kidney stones back at ages 19 to 21. I formed multiple stones - six in each kidney at any instance. These were not tiny things. No grains of sand for ADDhole. The average length of one of my stones is, 10mm, and the girth, 6.5mm (25/64ths of an inch x 1/4 of an inch) and to have a dozen of those at any given time makes for some developed endurance for pain. The peculiar thing about the male nervous system is its specific ability to target and identify pain. I can measure, by pain alone, the size and position of a stone from the time it forms in my kidney all the way through the urinary tract. I had made some dietary and stress-related changes and had not really suffered much in the way of a recurrence until - TADA! - all of these other events transpired. I also developed hypertension and it is always fun to answer the questions asked by doctors as to whether I have experienced anything recently that has added stress to my life. So now I am being monitored for an observed but not identified cause for the increase in my creatinine levels - a measure of damage to the kidneys. It's nominal but going in the bad direction. Ain't life grand???

I'm recording all of this because I need to recall and remember and reassess. I have been hit hard, with precision. There is nothing accidental about this. I am miserable but I am not suffering beyond my endurance or limits. I am not being asked to bear too much. That is important to recognize. I have also had the benefit of friends NOT like Job's. At least not to my face - no one has accused me of anything. I don't like what is going on but I can't cry foul, either. I do not believe that as bad as all of this has been and still is that it is going to be used to destroy me. It hurts - but who is spared pain? Besides, pain tells the immune system where the problem is that needs attention. I have to believe the same thing happens in the spiritual. I also can not overlook the word in that verse, "tries." That is a reference to the refining of metals. A clump of material is tried in the fire until the impurities are burned away and the metal becomes fluid. For precious metals the refiner knows when the metal is pure and free of crud (dross) when he looks into the molten mass and sees his own face reflected. If that is what's happening to me then how can I give up when all I want to do is shine? I have to consider that the things I hold to so tightly may not be anything but dross. If I am being tried for my integrity then nothing other than what He has designed me to be must be allowed to remain. By being torn apart and turned inside out I am actually being made whole.

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A New Wrinkle - Oh Where, Oh Where Are My South African Friends?

The crease that won't cease

Oh Where, Oh Where Can They Be . . ?

At the risk of slighting all of you that voyeuristically peak at my posts and never comment I am going to pay special attention to the South African contingent, yet again.

But, first - someone that gets all of my abuse, ridicule, and scorn on a regular basis needs to be mentioned. Evi (Not her real name - suspicious? I know I am?) And today, I add her blog as the first official external link that will be permanently affixed to my own. She is a terrific friend and all because she invited me to visit her site, Obsessed with Bones. She's just a very sweet person and her site is the best of its type. That's not hyperbole. Yes. I have mentioned her, before. I am overdue in giving her the first real estate just below my archive list in the right sidebar. So, sorry Evi, that it took too long to rectify that situation.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Now then. Back to those Johannesburg, Gauteng, South African characters. Helen, was the second person ever to feel compelled to comment on my posts. She was then followed by her friend, Luke. These "irritatingly" nice people took one look at my whiny, mopey, woe is me rants and decided to intervene. They may have no idea how much I like them because I never give them a break and love to make snide remarks and generally be a royal pain. They have continued to come back, regardless. That is to say, I think they are still coming back. I heard from Luke, recently, but Helen has cut me off. I think my purely all in good fun post recommending the best hat for her work estranged us? I'm not certain. There are so many possible places I could have offended her or given her creepy vibes - the opportunities to fail are nearly boundless. There is the possibility that she's not as nice as I thought - or, she and Luke are one-in-the-same person.

The latter is a distinct possibility. That brings me to, Candice. I have never really engaged her in direct conversation. There have been random passings at the comment watering holes of other people's posts. Luke claims, that in actual fact, Candice and I are one-in-the-same person. You can see Candice's picture, above, on the side of the milk carton. You may also have noted there is no picture of me to be found. I would argue that as proof but then the exact same situation applies to Helen and Luke. Helen has no picture - I wouldn't know her if I fell over her - and Luke is grinning away, just like Candice. This means that it is more likely that Helen, and I are the same person and the ramifications of that are quite disturbing because that means I have stopped speaking to myself!

What does it all mean? I'll tell you. I want to find that magic post - the skeleton key - to unlock all of the conversations I'm so hungry to enjoy. I have had the door crack open and then slam shut. What will it take to make that door swing wide open and stay that way? I have become fond of the thoughts, opinions, and attitudes of every person that has ever commented on this blog. But, I want more. I want people to let their hair down and use this blog as an open forum. I am an open book. Maybe not the best read but if you don't see it all you have to do is ask with me and I'll tell you nearly anything. I don't expect those commenting to be so candid but I do like comments.

I don't want to have to resort to shock tactics to draw comments out of people. I just want conversation. How come nobody wants to be my friend? [stage directions: dark stage except for solitary spotlight; ADDhole sits in despair, pouting and sulking; a single tear streaks down his grimy cheek . . . ] Cue the sad music! Where are my warm, fuzzy South African do-gooders when I need them? Where are the dark, sinister South African sadists when I need them? (I'm talking to you - Candice) My favorite reaction to storming into the comments of another person's post was here. When he read my comment, his reply was, "Thanks. Who are you?" Yet, he like most everyone else, isn't bothering to find out.

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Space & Time - Who Has the Energy to Know If It Matters?

Yes. I’m being oh so clever. My philosopher’s heart has turned to stone but an object in motion remains in motion until acted upon by an external force. That forced change of momentum has definitely not allowed me to remain at rest and my equally opposing reaction must be seen as the consequence of disturbing my inertia.

The terminology is so woven into our culture without any real understanding of the expressions - matter, energy, inertia, gravity, relativism, quanta. The men responsible for making these concepts common to our ears but not to our understanding were such polar opposites in temperament, personality, approach to their studies, abilities and philosophies.

I am not going to claim parity with Sir Isaac Newton or Albert Einstein but I’m not going to deny fundamental similarities, either. The real differences between their lives and accomplishments and the order of things to date in my life is simple choices and actions. It is not that I don’t have the faculties and cerebral acumen to engage intelligently in a dialog of their work – it is that I have not been engaged and they were. Newton elected to pursue the motions of heavenly bodies and to ignore the motions of earthly ones. He elected early in his studies to distract himself from the pursuit of women by engaging his mind in the study of nature. He understood his own nature well enough to know that if he dwelt on abstaining from the pleasures of female company that would be all he would think on. He knew he would fixate on that which he was denying himself. That is failure one on my part. I not only dismissed anything as being more or equally important to the company of women but then I became equally fixated after their departure. I have frittered away decades on the fleeting pleasure of a woman’s company. I could have invested myself in something with perhaps less promise but more substance of thrill, discovery and satisfaction in the exploration. The universe is measurable, predictable, and reliable and demonstrates behaviors that hold constant. None of that can be applied to women. I have squandered energy on creatures where the investment never matters. Just as Newton was frustrated in his pursuits of alchemy I have been frustrated in turning the love of women from lead to gold. I’m left with only the weight and toxicity of the attempt.

Einstein was a great visual scientist but not a mathematician of the caliber of Newton. I am similarly wired. I understand advanced mathematical concepts with far greater ease than I do the rules of exponents. My right hemisphere dominance allows me to see trigonometric relationships in three dimensional space. I see sinusoidal motion as a helix, for example. It’s simply a matter of phase to represent it as either a two dimensional wave or as a circle. But, I struggled through my math studies because I had no application for the knowledge. Now, I am going in reverse. I have the application and am going back to study the math relevant to describe phenomena. It is in dispute whether or not Einstein’s first wife, Mileva Maric, was his scribe for translating his conceptual thoughts into mathematical language. When they divorced, he latched onto a doctoral student in Mathematics at Princeton where he was installed. What is important to take away is that recognizing personal weaknesses is the means to act to overcome them, and; the women may leave but the work remains.

Everything measured about matter is applicable only in the context of an environment defined by space and time. The infinitesimally small is used to describe the incredibly large. The forces acting on the fundamentals apply to the complex. Newton and Einstein were scientists but they were also philosophers. Their pursuit of the relevance of mankind in the universe recognized a design and purpose to it all established by a supreme designer. The laws of motion and the measure of energy are also related to the conduct of human beings. Newton and Einstein devoted their time and allocated space to pursue understanding of the behavior of the natural worlds. I find myself compelled to follow. I have not been as wise as Newton to make the choice voluntarily which revealed the nature of light. I am not the visionary that was Einstein to quantify the light. However, it is possible that I may have as little as 40 seconds or another 40 years on this planet. There is still time for me to experience the light.

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Discount Rack - Random Style 3-Pack

A few T-shirts that haven't had an inspired post. As it has become painfully obvious that whether or not I make targeted comments that people will draw their own (often unintended) conclusions I'm just going to toss these out there like remnants that didn't sell. Those looking for a bargain will probably come back for more and be surprised when I'm out of business . . .

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A New Wrinkle - A Font of Information

Now Certified Lint Free!

As if I didn't have enough little distractions, FontStruct has come along. I have always had an addiction to pens, calligraphy, and creating my own fonts and, apparently, at least concerning the last of those, I am not alone.

There is a type creation and generation application on the FontStruct web site. It started as a tease to get people to notice the products for purchase but was almost instantly so popular that the number of visitors crashed their servers. You may convert your compendium of squiggles into a True Type font, selfishly keep it exclusively yours - or, do what thousands have done and, make it available to the world.

I would venture to say that the majority of efforts will not be consistently reliable for use in your doctoral thesis or job resume but they might inspire you or spice up some email correspondence.

I have so far resisted the urge to fritter away the hours I know I would devote to stems and serifs but the tools are there to create as simple or elaborate a font as you please. I will not be held responsible for your claims of being an enabler. I'm just sharing the wealth.

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Out, Out, Damn Spot - The Unspoken and the Small Things

I live in a large American city. This particular city neither appears nor conducts itself as a large city. I was born and raised in Baltimore, Maryland. That’s a city. It’s loud and it’s dangerous and it’s old and it’s home. I haven’t been in Baltimore in decades. My teens and twenties were spent in suburbia, in little burgs of New Jersey among the privileged corporate executives and their families. So, now I have lived in three very different worlds. Baltimore is an industrial town, a port city, blue collar – nuts and bolts. The artificially maintained and manicured hamlets of New Jersey are the bedrooms of industrial management, closed communities, white collar – stocks and bonds. Now home is not really home but where I lived with my own family, and since their departure, no longer consider that I live; No longer think of anywhere as home. I am in San Antonio, Texas – a market place town. Cattle, memories of oil, ranchers, Spanish flavor, open collar – bucks and boots.

San Antonio, is a warm town. I claim we have nine months of summer, three weeks each of spring and fall and a little winter. But its real warmth comes from its down-home nature and is in no small part due to its survival based on tourism and the military presence. Life is very simple and reasonably direct in these parts. There is a thing called “Texas Friendly.” This is the same attitude that prevails throughout the southern portion of the United States, but as this is Texas – it believes it has something special to contribute. There is something to recommend about southern hospitality – unfortunately, the South relies too heavily on this commodity and has done nothing to bolster the supply in many a year. And it comes in all sorts of distinct flavors and variations depending on which part of the South one happens to visit. There is a sweet spot for this sort of hospitality in states such as Tennessee, Mississippi, and Kentucky. I find it real and genuine, there. But there is a saccharine flavor to the brand that comes from, say, Georgia, as only one example. Unfortunately, no matter where one finds the friendly and polite sparkle of the South they will also find the backstabbing hypocrisy that comes with a lot of those slaps on the back. The Texas Friendly variety has its spicy flare but I don’t believe it is disingenuous, only unaware that it lacks some of the emphasis on the “friend” part. I have a theory as to how this came to be.

The unsettled West was a rugged and unforgiving place. A great portion of it remains the same to this day. The requirements for making one’s way across the hostile and merciless terrain required self-reliance and absolutely no expectation that help or assistance would come from any external source. That attitude never was replaced by anything more communal. So, the most accurate way for me to describe getting by in South Texas is the following analogy. A man and his friend are sitting on their porch looking out across the sprawling scrub desert before them. Among the rising waves of smoldering air shimmers the figure of a man crawling on his belly into the endless basin of sand and rock in search of water. The men on the porch never move, never change their gaze, never so much as shuffle their feet or shift their weight in their chairs. After a while of observing the unfortunate fellow the one friend speaks. “That’s that John Roberts guy that works in plumbing supply or general contracting or something. I’ve met him a couple times.” Meanwhile, our hapless Mister Roberts continues his useless efforts to drag himself to a better place. He’s starting to hear angelic voices and is drawn toward the light . . . “He’s a nice guy. It would be a shame if he doesn’t make it.” The other friend never even nods or speaks, instead the two go on doing nothing and watching John Roberts like a spider on a hot griddle. They’ve done everything they can. They’ve thought nice things, about John, and wished him well.

I don’t know if I can convince anyone reading that I’m not exaggerating.

That’s the world I find myself in today. If your car breaks down, if your roof collapses – you’re on your own. Everyone hopes you’re a nice guy so they can wish you well and hope that you make it. To be fair, there is also the unwritten rule that you only should help a man if he asks. That has weight. I can accept that. But, in those cold-hearted, “evil places” that I lived previously in the God-forsaken Northeast (by any virtuous Southern opinion) complete strangers will run to assist a person in trouble. Friends will cut off their own limbs if necessary. I’m not exaggerating, here, either. The contrast is so stark that I can not get beyond it even though I have accepted each place for what it is and is not. I am far more amused than reading into it anything more dire. That amusement is where I want to take this post.

I’m a people watcher and sometimes I can do that without directly interfering and screwing with people’s heads. Only sometimes.

One of those rare occasions occurred yesterday evening. I was walking home from a fine dining experience at my local fast-food restaurant. I approached the used car lot for a Lexus dealership. The lot is surrounded by a fence constructed of pipe. This fence is only bumper high - tall enough to prevent thieves from driving over it but not so high as to obstruct the view of the shiny chrome goodies. There was still sufficient daylight for a good look around and a determined fellow pulled into the adjacent lot and proceeded to head toward the displayed automobiles despite the dealership being closed. In a much less enthusiastic display of gestures, his lovely female companion also stepped out of their vehicle. “Now,” I thought, “this will be fun to watch . . .”

It may have seemed as though I was complaining about southern attitudes earlier; Not at all. Here is a place where the perspective flips 180 degrees. At least for the time being (and hopefully until time is no more) in the South, traditional roles and values are nurtured and preserved. That makes for some of the most contrasting comparisons between men and women but then also some of the sweetest interactions to be witnessed anywhere. I honestly don’t think that the South struggles with gender and identity as most of the world does. I think they’ve gotten way past that. There are duties and responsibilities as part of the day-to-day that no one but an outsider ascribes any sort of prejudice toward. I’ve never met anyone in the South lacking a clearly defined and strong personality. It always stands far above the roles they take on. Some people hung up on such things would be advised to observe people that aren’t reduced to who cooks and cleans and who splits wood and harvests the field. There is a lot to recommend people who just do the work because it needs to get done. Along with that comes this. Southern women allow their men to be men – with all of the impending disaster that may almost certainly portend.

It was apparent that my friends interested in the cars had two entirely different opinions about the choice of time in deciding to look around. In universal, gentlemanly fashion, Bubba, was out of his truck and half way across the parking lot toward the used car lot before he even thought to look back to see if his delicate partner was safely out of the vehicle and would have to sprint to catch up to him. Now, I’m certain we all can imagine what dialog preceded his parking the truck and insisting they go look at the cars. As soon as she had voiced her opinion that she wasn’t sure traipsing around the yard after hours was a good idea that was what clinched the decision for him. Right? This part of the scenario would have been identical to any similar portrayal on the East coast. From that point on is where things would differ. Ms. San Antonio poured herself from the passenger side of the truck as slowly as molasses on a cold morning. Her body language was timid. Her whole body was being pulled in to make her as narrow and invisible as possible. Her elbows were clenched to her sides and she was biting on the thumb nail of a tiny little fist with her eyes fixed on a point no more than a yard in front of her. She really thought this a bad idea but her relationship, to Bubba, compelled her to support him. She was moving toward him but hoping that the slightest gust of wind or a sudden incline in the pavement would prevent her moving forward. I almost laughed out loud as she let her knees knock together almost tripping with every step. By that point it would have been too obvious to have slowed my pace to keep observing that scene. It really wasn’t that big a deal to look around that car lot and I’m sure that once she made that giant leap over the ten inch high “fence” that she probably enjoyed shopping.

But thinking of that scene made me speculate on the same situation presented in the two other cities I had called home. The options for New Jersey would have started with whether we’re talking about a Bon Jovi/Bruce Springsteen guy and his Jersey Girl girlfriend or the other extreme which is actually more representative of New Jersey as I experienced. I’ll save Bon Springsteen and Jersey Girl for their Baltimore counterparts. It’s a shame to leave out the Bondo-bucket Camaro, but, oh well . . . Ms Short Hills and her husband would likely not want to visit after hours as it would make being pretentious and ostentatious before a respectably sized audience too difficult. We’ll imagine they have decided that their sixteen year old son with his learner’s permit isn’t getting the BMW that is automatically purchased in such circumstances. No. They want their son to appreciate such things must be earned so they will provoke his drive to succeed by looking at inferior automobiles. Since New Jersey is more about outward appearances that will surely get a fire set under their son to motivate him properly. After all, as long as the automobile and clothes and exterior of the home meet the profile it hardly matters that there are no furnishings beyond what is visible through the windows. Same goes for personality. Our Jersey couple is slumming it. Mr. Just For Men has left the gray in the temples and the comfort of his Escalade and not even bothered to glance back at his wife as he strolls toward the lot. Ms Short Hills NEVER intends to leave the vehicle. She will observe from her perch and occasionally glance up from a study of her nails, her make-up, her hair, her purse, or the thread count of her Armani jacket to make a round-about glance in the direction she vaguely noted her husband had taken. Mr. Short Hills will look at only the black cars on the lot and mostly at his reflection in the tinted glass to ensure the wind is mildly tussling his hair, his pink Ralph Lauren Polo shirt and lime green slacks are crisp, and that he is satisfied with the look and his inspired efforts as a father. He will call his wife on his cell phone for any last minute instructions and the adventure is recorded as a remarkable success.

And what of Baltimore? When their 1976 Impala careens to a stop over the curb and partially on the driveway apron for the car lot the radio will abruptly stop but the shouting at Mr. Baltimore by Ms Baltimore will get louder. As the windows are down on all four doors (because they can’t be rolled up on at least two) smoke from brake pads and tire rubber will partially fill the empty spaces in the back seat of their car. Mr. Baltimore is thinking he might negotiate a trade-in of his current automobile. He doesn’t trust The Man so he’s on a reconnaissance mission to study his options without anyone looking over his shoulder. The fact that the driveway entrance is blocked by concrete highway dividers and the lot is surrounded by a ten foot high, chain-link fence and crowned with razor wire doesn’t give him a moment’s hesitation. His children’s elementary school, his grocery store, and his church have the same barricades. Sure enough, there is a corner where the pipe has been bent to a sharp kink that makes a passageway into the lot of about a shoulder’s width where he should be able to step through. He kicks the broken glass of some liquor bottles out of the way and returns to Ms Baltimore’s side of the car and opens her door. Ok . . . Two tugs later he opens her door. She has already asked him if he’s crazy so now she merely adds emphasis with her eyes when he invites her to step through the fence. Ms Baltimore’s hips are a little wider than Mr. Baltimore’s shoulders. She is not averse to entering the lot she would simply like to do it with dignity. His suggestion that since she is in jeans that a simple assisted boost with his hand on her buttocks would be sufficient to get her over the fence is not what she had in mind and she begins to explain this to him, with gusto. Having proven that her voice will certainly carry for the sake of intelligibility, Mr. Baltimore slips through the fence and receives a constant stream of instructions from Ms Baltimore. Just when they may actually be narrowing their focus to a vehicle that both could accept, Mr. Baltimore offends the delicate sensibilities of his love and she returns to the car, arms folded across her chest, refusing to acknowledge any further questions or pleas for forgiveness from Mr. Baltimore.

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DAMN YOU, Diane Lane!?!

I have to add a third redhead to my mention of Julia Roberts and Nicole Kidman. This wasn’t supposed to be a theme but my weekend was invaded by the three of them inadvertently. As previously mentioned, Nicole Kidman, is a true redhead and Julia is a real person so that brings me to Diane Lane and I’m going to have to go with this – who isn’t really either a real redhead or a real person.

Hey! I winced, too, because if Diane Lane is in a movie I am compelled to watch. The problem is that I’ve also had the misfortune of seeing her in interviews and after all of her over-the-top, hopeless romantic roles I can’t make the adjustment and like the real person the way I love her portrayals.

Per design, every movie where I see her insecure but holding on to her dreams of loving and living to the fullest makes everything about her the most desirable woman on earth. Last night, it was “Under the Tuscan Sun.” As one reviewer remarked – just once they’d like to see her in a movie where she isn’t rich, has real life problems, and has to take out her own garbage. But, that wouldn’t provide the escape we go to movies to enjoy. And, in fairness, she often almost seems like an everywoman character. Just not any woman I’ve ever actually encountered. That’s where I have to shake myself awake and tear myself away from both the emotional and physical attraction to an actress and return to a world where I can’t afford the eye candy.

This just sucks the life out of me every time. Romance makes promises it knows it will never keep. What happens is the specter of expectation tears off a piece of our own soul and shows all the sparkling beauty of a piece of self that is about to be lost forever – but, we think it is something from outside our self. We think we are reaching for something more – something beyond; but then when the puppet show passes and we awake from the dream we find we’ve been left with our pockets turned out and our heart raw and exposed.

So today while I lick my wounds and promise myself I’m smarter and won’t get fooled, ever, in only hours I will catch the glimpse of a passing woman and be ready to fall all over again. And, the next time I hear Diane Lane’s name or voice or see that compelling face I’ll be in front of the screen and succumbing to the anesthesia. If, as according to Carly Simon, there’s more room in a broken heart than I’m as spacious as the great outdoors.

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Hampered - Is It Time To Trash This Blog?

This is going to ramble and wander all over the place. I watched some television last night. It’s not that I am above sitting in front of the tube it’s only that I get seven channels (three stations clearly enough through the static) as I’m not in a financial position to afford cable and when I get cleared to return to work I won’t be here to enjoy it so why pay for it. Anyway, I watched David Letterman (variety talk show for parts of the world where that name means nothing) and I watched an episode of Frasier.

There are very few celebrities that make me notice. I was never a guy that had posters of the super models or TV stars on the wall. It’s just not something that draws me. But, every once in a while I do take note of a personality and I hope that I can distinguish the difference between the real person, and a character portrayal that I fell in love with, if that person were ever in my world. It is interesting that I’m about to mention two names where their acting is quite good but I have never been attracted to them for that reason. I am pleasantly engaged by their real-life personalities. Back to Letterman. The first of those two women for me is Julia Roberts. I find her real and incredibly quick on the draw and last night she was both of those things and I was so wistfully wondering why I never had anyone like that in my life. I immediately thought of the other woman that I have incredible respect for – especially because she has had her fair share of adversity and has not been beaten down by it. That would be Nicole Kidman. Both redheads (although only Nicole is a real redhead) and I hope happily and permanently married with wonderful children. That’s all I ask for in this world are women with spirit, character, poise, brains and grace exhibited under pressure. Those two “do it” for me. I left the end of that broadcast . . . happy.

Then, I left the television on while I thought about composing a blog post and Frasier came on. There is history with that show and maybe that was where the first clouds started forming. My wife and I watched that show, and laughed, together. It was one of the few sweet memories I have left. I am so uncomfortable with Frasier, now, for the loss of that bond and especially for the fact I too easily identify with his pompous character, pretentious nature and total self-deceit as well as conceit. While others may enjoy the show and wonder what it would be like to know such a person I watch and wonder what it would be like to not be such a person. The episode I viewed last night hit me hard. Frasier had just broken up with an ideal woman and was on a binge of trapping his family and friends in a room where they couldn’t escape and pontificating about his woes. His father made the poignant observation that Frasier would always fail to keep a good woman. That sent him on a road trip to a secluded camp site where he intended to clear his head. Along for the ride, however, came the emotional and mental baggage of his first and second wives, a lover who had jilted him for another, and, his dead mother. The first discovery for him was that all had left him. All had abandoned him. I don’t have the mother complex. I never saw my mother as anything but my mother. She was never the model for all other women and she has never been my ideal. She was the first of a string of enablers but all that shows is I’m manipulative – nothing about anyone else. But what I couldn’t run away from and couldn’t turn off the TV to escape were the rest of his conclusions. He was so determined not to have women reject him and to be left alone that he made certain women rejected him and left him alone. Ouch. The second conclusion was that he never actually left any of those women. They were with him all of the time and influenced every past, present and future decision and especially his relationships with any new woman. No woman was ever allowed to stand or fall on her own merits in his life. Triple ouch.

I was absolutely devastated by that program. I didn’t actually get to sleep until around four, this morning, because of the demons that dialog awoke.

I am in a very inflexible and confining time of life. I have all of the guilt, debt, and responsibilities of all of my life from before to the present without any of the good things to make it bearable. I am afraid to meet people I know. I have not contacted my children in months because I fully expect to blurt out something like, “Your father is a failure and a fraud and it would be so much netter for you to treat me as if I were dead.” The love and trust of my children and their total belief in me is too painful. I can’t align it to fit into any part of the reality I am enduring. I have gone since February without a paycheck while waiting to be cleared, medically, to return to work. I have applied to and been rejected by menial jobs from gas station clerk to fast food restaurant help. How is this possible? As a consequence I have lived off the charity of family and friends. I can’t wait to get back to work to take that additional burden of daring to love me off of them. It is something I consider all of the time that I should finally surrender; just give up any last vestiges of hope and drop out to join the homeless and hopeless and forgotten. I'm not far from that at all. I am terrified of the fact that I fit the profile. I could be living in a box and engage the hapless passerby in a knowledgeable discussion of world events or Quantum Mechanics. I simply doubt I am able to continue to function on the level necessary to remain even on the fringes of society. I am isolated and alone and I am now chasing away and discouraging the few who have stuck by me. I am so ashamed and really scared all at the same time.

I lost my previous comforts and crutches and I haven’t recovered. I found a job that pays well but offers no other reward. I took that job for the money and it had just started to give me the means to settle old obligations and even to contribute in meaningful ways to my children whom I have not seen in three years. This month, June, was going to provide me a vacation where I expected to visit them and at least demonstrate I was functioning. My nine year old son actually worries that I have no place to live and no food. How can I live with the knowledge a child is deeply worried his dad is suffering? I hope he doesn’t comprehend where my real suffering is occurring. But, my health crisis in February has taken all of that away. I’ll have no vacation until another year passes, at least. It will then be a minimum of four years since I have hugged my children or heard their voice while looking at their faces. My daughter is thirteen. My sons are nine and seven. I don’t even have a recent picture of them to know what they look like and how they’ve grown. My children were literally wrenched from my arms at an airport five years ago. I have those memories of a three, five and nine year old being dragged away crying and screaming to stay with their father in front of me everyday. All they have known since is disappointment and broken assurances and promises.

So, if the tests which I am taking next week are good I will finally be going back to work. I will be driving a tractor-trailer across the country. That is the last thing I ever anticipated doing occupationally. As I said, it pays the bills and does so better than most other available legal means. That I will get caught up on my bills and obligations will be a relief but the life will be worse. Right now, I sit in an unfurnished apartment. I take advantage of an unsecured wireless router to have the internet connection that I use to post these blogs. But I hear the children play outside and the noise of people going about their day and I am still somehow connected. You – whoever you are that read these things – are my only contact with the outside world. There have been two women that have regularly commented on my posts and I have had some wonderful email traffic back and forth with them, as well. They are young, rightfully enthusiastic, energetic and busy. One shares my passion for writing but she is doing something about it and things are starting to happen for her. And, they should. She is a dynamo. The other is a scientist and appeals to all of the technical and professional things which satisfied me as a younger and ambitious man. They have both tried to prop me up. That has to stop. I can not let my manipulative ways use these two women as additional enablers in my Frasier psychosis. They also are experiencing and sharing things I can relate to in their posts. They are seeing things from the start when such things are new. I am seeing them when they seem as if they’ll never end and all things are old. One has longings and desires for both her art and her family and I believe with my whole heart she will find fulfillment in both. The other is studying her own behavior as well as that of the world around her and although she has struggled with bouts of isolation and frustration, hers have known beginning and end dates and she may look forward to known relationships in professional and private life that are secure and stable. I have none of that. I have been waging this war for decades. They have not. I wish them better success than I have had but I haven’t much fight left. They are also women. Not as fragile on the inside as I am.

I have friends and family that claim to be impressed by how I bear up under my current struggles. There is nothing there for me to take credit. I simply continue to breathe under the crush of consciousness. There isn’t any fight left – only a superstructure that has yet to yield and buckle. I am on one knee trying to catch my breath and as I continue to get beaten down I am asking why do I keep trying to stand up? My adherence to my spiritual and moral and ethical beliefs will not right the wrongs of this world. I am not some heroic figure that has the hopes of mankind in his care. When I ultimately collapse and finally fail for the last time I will go out with probably not even a whimper. Beethoven, was in a coma for the last ten days of his life. He awoke from that condition during an intense thunder storm, said, “This comedy is over,” and died. I will have no one recording anything I say now or at the end. I have not brought beauty or light. I am slipping into the ugly dark.

When I am in that truck I will be in a mobile prison. Truck driving is like solitary confinement. You are alone and alone with your own thoughts. I will be given a few minutes a day “in the yard” to get out and exercise my legs and visit with some of the other inmates and try to avoid some others. One of the first misconceptions I had to alter when I began driving was that truck drivers were the loner types who like the independence and freedom from family and normal job responsibilities. No. That’s not really true. That’s the exception and not the norm. A great many of the men I’ve met have stories similar to mine. They had families and other careers. Divorce, financial troubles and other hardships and heartaches brought those men into trucking just as it did me. I have heard stories to make my misery seem trite. But, because there is no release or escape from yourself as a driver the few moments of contact with other human beings are strained affairs. Too much or too little is said. Crazy thoughts and ideas get argued while you eat and plan your next stop. Between the racist garbage and conspiracy theories are the bragging rights and political arguments and the resolution of all the world’s problems over a glass of iced tea. The waitresses are often worn and more tired than just from a long shift. It is sadder for me to see women in the company of men like us and know they’re having it hard, too. Then there are all of the half-hearted attempts at flirting and choked cries for affection and attention from the men at the counter. And when you’ve had your fill of that there is the hollow sound of your boots to keep you company on the way back to your truck. If you aren’t wired with a TV and a laptop and a wireless broadband connection you are in for more solitude – just enough to chase you to seek refuge in sleep. The next time you awake the cycle starts all over again. There’s always that knock on the glass of your door by the pretty little drug addicts selling themselves to the drivers with money and nothing else. Depressed, yet?

Well, here’s where all of this is going. Soon. Hopefully, very soon I will be at least earning a paycheck and trying to remove some of the debt hanging like a vulture over my carcass. I do not have a television or a laptop or a broadband connection in my truck and I will be on the road away from “home” (my little apartment with the stolen wi-fi connection) for typically three weeks at a time. Despite all of that there is limited internet access while on the road but it is only sufficient to check my empty email inbox. I will not be able to post other than the two to five days I will be home per month. I am seriously thinking to let the bills continue to wait and use my first influx of cash to purchase my new lover – a laptop. Even so, I am looking at the world through an even narrower lense, at the moment, and wondering about the fate of my blog. This blog is my digital head. I am carrying all of the baggage of my unresolved and disappointing issues around and putting it on display as an attention seeking device. If I pull the plug I am in essence removing my own life support. I’m just wondering if that isn’t what needs to happen. I have an audience that has far more voyeurs than those volunteering to contribute their thoughts. What do I need that for? It is now the time to reflect on just what I am trying to do and say in the blogosphere and why I should continue, what I should continue, or if I should continue at all. I thought I was releasing things – letting go and moving on. I’m not so sure anymore. I’m tired of being kept company by only my own thoughts and the minuscule contributions by others are insufficient to make a life-altering impact. Where is the stimulating conversation I anticipated? Where are the me-changing discoveries? When will this comedy be over?

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