Rags to Riches . . . or Ruins?

I am back after a long hiatus. I had (re)cycled through my musings and grown bored with myself. As a public service, I discontinued blogging. Instead I followed the advice of a friend suggesting a departure from my routine. That resulted in pursuit of a degree which I am only 15 credit hours shy of completing. So some progress has been made. I have done quite well in my course work but nothing in my economic status has changed other than accruing more debt from student loans. I may continue with yet another degree on the heels of completing this one. That is a pending decision.
So, a quick status update is on order:
• I gained weight/lost a good amount/gained most back . . am now losing, again.
• Not yet returned to a full-time job.
• Not able to secure a part-time job.
• Almost out of the woods on my credit smudges that preclude consideration for hire.
• I gained several new friends that are dispersed around the globe but are closer than my immediate community and previous acquaintances.
• I retained all of my true friends and am glad that poor judgment only applied to other areas of my life.
• I continue to be supported and kept fed and sheltered by these friends.
• I have some contact with my children but have still not been in the same space with them for over six years.
• I am closer to my own parents and wish I was taking care of them rather than them me.
• I had a friends with benefits relationship that was her idea - not mine. I will say that it put a lingering smile on my face and brought temporary clarity akin to the fitting of a new eye glass prescription. It did not last and opened an area I had successfully suppressed. Bothersome.
• I remain gravely single and this is not from emotional scarring, mistrust of women, or other such non-sense. It is purely from a lack of means - both financial and transportation-related. I am simply not free to come and go as I need to much less as I would please. This, and this only, prevents me screwing myself up further by returning to dating and mingling.
I suppose I consider my circumstances to be a cocoon from which I will eventually feel inspired to struggle free and not realize how I have changed from when I entered it. Age is advancing, though, and time is another thing that I do not have in surplus. However, most days my circumstances are more like living in a box, sealed on all sides. With no light from outside, I can only be certain of "up," and "down" but nothing that confirms whether I am moving left, right, forward, or backward. All persons and conditions outside of my confined space are hidden from me. Sounds are muted, dangers and rewards are unknown. I have to trust in the muffled encouragement and directions of those outside the box and also determine which voices are reliable from those merely amused, blindly optimistic, or malicious. I have yet to tumble any further down but neither have I advanced. So many have insisted I have been just a little while away from "things" turning around" for the past five years but I also am near persuaded things are changing. There is just no measure to determine whether the changes will bring riches or ruin.

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Thread Bare - I Can't Hold On (A song lyric of mine)

I have been in an increasing turmoil and what occurred to me to be the psychological equivalent of a flood; holding onto any random object not being flushed away by the currents. The result, quite by accident, is this rough draft of a song. The music is quite good and appropriate for the theme. The ideas are all being expressed but I do not know if I consider this the finished form. Nevertheless, it is my work and I claim rights to it. It is entitled "I Can't Hold On."

When life rages cold,
A relentless storm;
And you cling to what holds
As you're wearied and worn -
You know to hold on
And adjust your grip.
But your strength fades too soon
And your grasp starts to slip.
Then you wonder how long
'Til you'll resign and let go.
If it's right or it's wrong?
Only then will you know

And I can't hold on
No, I can't hold on
No, I won't let go
But, I can't hold on

I've stayed in this place
Against all of the odds;
Tried to finish the race
Run on broken glass shards.
I've done all my bleeding
And I've pushed past the pain.
Now, I've lingered past feelings
And nothing remains . . .
Those with no answers
Still struggle for words.
(I've argued far better
For their point than I've heard)

And I can't let go
No, I can't let go
No, I can't hold on
But, I won't let go

I imagined my funeral
And the few that would care;
And, wondered what honor all
Would contrive for me there?
They'll pay their respects -
Do the best that they can;
Through their grief and regrets
To portray me a man.
They will find from their heart
Each a fond memory
and remember from parts
The man I never achieved.

And I can't hold on
No, I can't hold on
No, I won't let go
But, I can't hold on

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In Defense of the Cold-Hearted Bastard, Part 1

I’m on a bit of a theme, once again. The thoughts I let tumble around in my head are something like the way an American football quarterback leads the receiver with the thrown pass. As I have an idea, and as it becomes a little more clear, someone comes into view that catches the gist of it or is living out my observations in their actual life.

As a preface, there are obviously times to execute discretion and hold one’s tongue but, you know what? That option is relied upon far too many times by most people. I must include myself in that, as well. Now, those who know me will find that laughable as I never seem to be very aware or mindful of tempering my reactions. I am not known for withholding my swift wrath in a verbal lashing. Anyone may inadvertently step on the numerous tripwires in my psyche for intolerance toward opposing views or what I find foolish. So, whenever I mention that something hurt my feelings or that I was exercising caution the usual response is, “Oh, you‘re so sarcastic.” A recent but not infrequent example is when I was told how someone endured unbelievably clueless instructions or admonitions from an employer and simply allowed it to happen without addressing the issue. I replied, “You know I would never let something like that go . . .” to which my friend responded, “But, that is why I still have my job.” Now, although that may have the ring of truth it really does not take all factors into account. How fortunate for us all that I am going to belabor my point.

This same friend, as well as another from among the sea of humanity whom I shall use for examples, live their lives in subjection to the whim and will of others. They do this at work, at home and in all social situations. They do this, I would argue, to their own harm while thinking they are protecting themselves and the feelings and well-being of others. This notion, while appealing, is utter nonsense. The primary thing to understand is that a great number of people are manipulative and self-serving. Shocking – I know. Understanding this about people does not automatically imply any personal sentiments of mistrust or harbored bitterness or animosity. It simply means that you allow a person only enough leeway to make their intentions obvious. If their motives are genuine, there is more allowance made and so forth. However, if their intent proves to be some form of gain at another’s expense it is time to clamp down and interpose in order to prevent such abuse. Secondly, most people are not as alert or incisive as we are want to give them credit for being. It is not an exaggeration that ALL people are stupid. Each and everyone are missing vital pieces of information or have allowed perception to replace reality when making decisions and then acting upon those volitional choices. The normal individual’s behavior when first confronted with evidence they are not infallible is to - as in most human responses – take an extreme polarized position ever afterward. A few resort to denial that they have or will ever make a mistake. The majority retreat into themselves and warily hope others with the proper training, experience and authority will step in and address whatever has suddenly taken focus. The insecure human being has an unfathomable depth of thirst to emphasize their inadequacies rather than to reinforce and strengthen their image of self. Most people surrender arguments and even their worth as a person in exchange for having no one call attention to their deficiencies. Conflict stirs the pot too much and causes too much introspection and acknowledgment of people’s short-comings and weaknesses. The desire to avoid conflict is the foundation upon which tyrants build their power.

The greatest wrong fomented by the desire to hold one’s tongue and allow something patently “wrong” to go unchecked is that it validates negative influence. The unintentional approval of a false premise or skewed conclusion by the imposition of another’s will creates a chain of events. Those events encourage the wrong thinking to be practiced with greater confidence. The lack of opposition causes the deficient in self-esteem to accept the premise of the allowed thing as being significant and awarded undue importance. This leads to a wrong idea becoming the cornerstone for entire edifices and institutions forming around a false principle. The person that has allowed themselves to be silenced also consigns themselves to a subordinate role from then on. Without checks and testing of people’s actions, especially those in managerial functions, operations and policies are incorporated that simply never should have been. Unfortunately, a silent voice is a vote of approval and encourages more and more action without measure or proof of concept. Ultimately, the snowball effect escalates into an avalanche. The passive person needs to be certain they are not so out of a poor self-image, fear, or cowardice but because they are in agreement with the choices being made.

Also, the need to resort to seeking an expert or insisting that a highly specialized education or experience is a guarantee of good judgment negates the inherent fly in the ointment. It counts for something but only because if you insist that your only source of wisdom and knowledge is humanity then it is pretty much the only thing you’ve got to cling to for hope. Whenever a person believes their own press reports and resume fluff it is time to distance them from any active choice making exercises, and to remove those that embrace them without blushing, as well. In a disheartening way, it is amusing to consider the smug, know-it-all behavior of a teenager with a wry smile but be intimidated by the same behavior in an esteemed adult figure. Have you ever gotten a satisfactory answer from a doctor, for example, who insincerely listened to your description of what ailed you or your own hypothesis? Likely, you have not; as that mere human being already concluded what course of action they would take when you entered the examination room. There are two types of practicing physicians, essentially. There is the sincere practitioner that has an inquisitive mind and real desire to assess your individual needs. This sort is still aware that they must always be studying, observing and learning. They are the kind of doctor that makes medical research successful. They are rarely found, however, interacting with people. The price of such service to humanity comes at a high cost. The other and more common type of physician is the textbook scholar that has done their time and is paying their dues and their tuition loans and practices medicine from memory, patterns of symptoms in their experience and, too often, whatever promises the drug manufacturer representative claims in his sample packets. That doctor has subscribed to the dogma that it is best to rely on the expertise of others. The downside is a lack of direct understanding and any real applicable action for specific instances. The textbook scholar has believed and subscribed to the knowledge imparted from a handful of authors and lecturers. If a three-dimensional map of their collective comprehension were modeled it would resemble Swiss cheese. Why? It is because they do not have full understanding of their subject, individually or collectively. Subsequently they will each concentrate too much on some things, not at all on others, and perhaps arbitrarily dismiss some information and stubbornly cling to other refuted ideological inconsistencies. Here is a bankable truth borne out by historical record. When it comes to human enterprise and endeavor, success is most often accidental and unintentional. If considered in another vein, success often proves to have been the failure to fail as most efforts involving people are unsupportable in their theory and practice.

What people lack in competence is compensated for with bravado and style. Being attractive or presumed powerful is yet another device to manipulate the intimidated. Once a person believes that they are less than other people in value it is over. They relinquish the fight or the desire to challenge the curious and suspicious ideas others are hell bent to act upon. The imbalance in self-worth also causes the quest for safety in numbers and the seeking out of democratic means to determine and/or assess worth and validity. Such subjective foolishness is no way to establish functional standards of behavior. This is why opinion polls are an outright crime against humanity. Seeking the collective mindlessness of the masses also removes the authority of the individual and forces one into the morass of a legislated morality and socially acceptable behavior that is as predictable and secure as a tornado. The result requires having to accept, with a religious faith, the belief that many wrongs make a right. It is wrong to speak up. It is wrong to disagree. It is wrong to question the thought process behind an edict. It is dangerous to become recognizable as a solitary figure . . . and so on. This order of “reasoning” has distorted what is actual selfish behavior and what is selfless action. The most important aspect overlooked in all of this is that inaction has just as severe a series of consequences as arrogant behavior. There is also need to consider that passive folk are not actually entirely passive. They exert indirect influence by subversive, covert, and other negative means in response to their frustration with themselves. They are also prone to irrational outbursts and lashing out at even more passive people to vent their exasperation for failing to express opposition when it was appropriate.

In the case of my friend and the silent resignation to the criticisms of an uninformed assessment, their choice to not correct the misconceptions and supply supporting detail has resulted in at least the following:
• Established the notion in the superior’s mind that their work performance is sub-standard
• Lost credibility for future interactions
• Allowed for an unfair neglect to consider a proven record of exceeding performance expectations
• Rewarded co-workers for their mediocrity
• Caused personal stress and inner conflict that has lingered while all other parties have entirely forgotten the whole affair
• Reinforced a negative system of behavior both personally and professionally
• Cheated the company out of the valuable insights my friend has to offer that would benefit not only a department but an organization
• Held up inefficiency and vain effort as the new standard
. . . and I am sure there is more but you get the basic house of cards relationship.

Now, not to single out my friend but they allow this same sort of situation in all of the institutional environments in which they are participating. All of those scenarios result in a passive-aggressive mess. My friend is trapped and stressed and a good deal of it is self-inflicted. None of that builds confidence, self-esteem, or independent thought and action. I do not subscribe that there is any deliberate conspiracy behind all of this other than the peer pressure to not be a “trouble maker” by voicing opposition to folly. But, I must insist that the truly vested and interested party in any endeavor is the one that takes the painful steps to act on their beliefs with the full support of cause and reason to evaluate what to accept and what to question. Blind rejection is ignorant and arrogant. Blind acceptance is a paralyzing toxin.

My second exhibit is the hyperbolic reflection of the first. I have a friend that is now involved in the scattered business obligations of aging parents. The burden to rectify the justifications for why certain things were done the way they were is a Rubicon to navigate.

As in so much of human forecasting, the value in the endeavor was long ago absorbed in the undertaking. My friend will not gain in any way other than to try to unknot a tangled and confusing series of decisions so that everything may finally and completely unravel. The profit was lost in the translation and only the consequences and ramifications of finding liability and financial accountability remain. It is assumed by onlookers that my friend stands to inherit a small fortune of properties when the father passes. There is really no fortune, or properties. All of that has already been dispersed and the short-sighted but well-intentioned decisions that have been made have all but nullified any assets. My friend is simply a responsible and loving child doing the best they possibly can to accommodate parental wishes and ease the painful results of bad choices. The fascinating thing for me to observe, when I detach my personal feelings for all of the participants, is how at the same time that my friend recognizes the stupefying consequences of good intentions mucking up the ebb and flow of life, their own actions are being hamstrung by the same sorts of considerations. At the bottom of all of this fiasco is that for a decade, a tenant has unsuccessfully applied for disability insurance and has yet to obtain it. In that period of time, they have managed to live fairly well and even maintain a newer automobile. My friend only discovered, last week, this was able to be achieved by paying no rent. That means that the owner has taken on the burden of all expenses for the property, including maintenance and taxes without receiving any income to do so. My friend was introduced to this situation with the simple admission that so much is now owed that the home is probably going to need to be sold. No one had the heart to go to the renter and ask for the agreed and contracted rent., nor to expel them and select a paying tenant.

The reason why nice guys finish last is because they are left holding the bag full of burdens for obligations and responsibilities shirked by others. The nice people, the good neighbor, and the law-abiding citizen are like sheep to the slaughter. What is required is the recognition that one may still demonstrate compassion, concern and understanding for others but take on the dispassionate, thieving and conniving at the same time. How is this possible? One must be able to assess themselves and others, honestly. They must not be distracted by wit and sparkle. They must not be offended by the hideous diseases that infest the human soul. They must be immune to pain when it is the only means to end suffering. They must be unconcerned for being branded as cold-hearted bastards.

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Look Away, I'm Hideous!

I have admitted something to myself more important than convincing everyone how truly terrible a person I am. By the way, some have absolutely no trouble subscribing to my awfulness while others spend too much time refuting my arguments. My friend, Evan, simply interjects, between my very protracted pauses for breaths, things to the effect of I can’t fool him or that my claims are unsubstantiated. It is important to highlight that he does add the qualifier that I am not as bad as I would like to present myself. So, he has left the door open to attribute some degree of rottenness, through his deliberate phrasing. Meanwhile, another friend has me branded as someone that entered an arena and was embraced and loved and respected so readily that I have gone out of my way to destroy my own popularity and reputation. It is true. I have done so deliberately. She rightly observes I am more comfortable as an undesirable scoundrel or untouchable. I know it is because otherwise I doubt I will be touched as much as I require.

Being discovered to actually be nice and to demonstrate regard for others is so contrary to my desire to be a threatening figure of a man that it really derails my ambition to alienate myself from the human race. I may be brutally blunt and obnoxiously direct but I care. I care to tell the truth. I care to not allow myself or others to hide. I care to listen and be involved. Caring sucks. When one cares, the want to help and to fix things is constantly thwarted either when someone elects to forsake the offered assistance or because no amount of help is sufficient. I hurt for others far more than for myself and I do not spare myself the luxury of wallowing; so, I carry this burden like a thorny crown. Fortunately for us all, the One that actually wore that crown has the power to overcome. I simply am asked to live rather than die. As has been said, “Dying is easy – Living is hard.” - In as far as this world dishes out misery, I have a good life. But, I live to help. I can’t resist the pull of jumping into the fray; even if I exacerbate the fraying as the result of my rough edges. I do not know how to remain neutral. I can not mind my own business or keep my mouth shut. For someone that cares so much I certainly don’t have much sensitivity when it comes to people’s personal space and preferences. I do not respect boundaries and I do not honor limits.

All of that was simply introduction to the utter dichotomy of my nature. I have a general contrariness and intolerance that borders on dictatorial. I am an advocate of executing martial law – MY edicts, of course. Yet, beneath the gruff and growl and the scowl and snarl has been a very tedious desire to embrace, accept, and conform to the prevailing view surrounding me. This has been an arduous and often insufferable vexing of soul and anguish of spirit for me. Simply put: I want to ”behave” and be a non-descript goo that is not in any way discernible from the masses. I have striven for that but it is the most monotonous of vane pursuits. I yearn to be invisible and homogeneous and . . . I must surely fail. The admission I am only making at now nearly forty-seven years of age is that I am not a conformist. I will always be distinguishable no matter where or with whom I am found.

The truth finally has to be faced that I am seeking to do precisely the opposite of most other people. Where others are looking to elevate themselves, I am attempting to disappear. As many wish to be found unique, I am struggling to compress myself into the cast. The similarity and the paradox lies in the fact I am engaged in the normal human wrangling to find comfort in my own skin except in reverse. I am trying to become a part of what most are trying to escape. I have a peculiarly inverted relationship to other human beings. Evan also insists that everyone claims to adore and wishes to emulate the Maverick and the independent thinker until they actually encounter such a one, personally. It is never a meeting of recognition and mutual admiration but of resentment and conflict and a feeling of threat and suspicion toward the unique, the individual, the “different.” Only historical figures are lauded and exalted while contemporary figures are ridiculed and despised. I must admit he is extremely observant. The thing that I have had to face has not been the shunning by others or even open hostility. That which has afflicted me has been self-contempt for being self-aware.

One finds escape from most of the unwanted identification as an individual as long as they may be conveniently packaged and branded. The largest umbrella to attempt to overshadow the fact that some project rather than reflect is found when labeled as an “artist.” As long as any term inviting explanations that can be encompassed by not quite all of the five senses of sight, taste, touch, hearing and smell may be applied (more out of convenience than supportable evidence) the lone figure may be contained, defined and deemphasized. There is a sort of normal desire to mar the clearly distinctive characteristics of others so that they become a blur in a faceless human smudge. A “visionary” is not as distasteful as the notion of a stubborn, insistent and willfully selfish magnate. One “listening to the beat of a different drummer” is far cuddlier and much warmer a character than when considered marching in a never wavering straight line to their objective. A “philosopher” is a much softer figure than the leader that shuns decision based on consensus or conventional “wisdom” who shuns the attempt of others to color his thoughts. In all of these, and especially in recent societal “developments” and “cultural influences,” feeling has supplanted thinking.

Currently, to stand out from the crowd really does not require that one necessarily exhibit any extraordinary abilities. All that is needed is to claim any abilities at all. It is expected that one must accept and make subjective value judgments based on the collective impression of feelings rather than on reason and carefully measured and repeatable standards. There is a strange duplicity of demanding accountability for others while apportioning deniability to one’s self. This is the grounds for intolerance of an individual because their very singular behavior threatens to reveal the whole machine a fraud by not subscribing or needing to find association with others. It is quite educational to demonstrate that ignorance is encouraged due to the subjective, collective pooling of tactile inputs as acceptable; but, the objective outputs of the individual mind are discounted as arrogance for daring to claim understanding. There is an actual preference to shun the notion there can be absolutes. There is nearly a religious fervor to imagine a world in which nothing may be stated with any certainty. This has been the futile struggle in which I have engaged for most of my life. I dare to claim insight and am punished for doing so. I have innocently identified common behavior and have been found guilty of crimes for failing to omit or overlook the folly of my fellow man. Many wish to identify with the child that told the truth about the absence of the Emperor’s new clothes, yet spend the majority of their efforts making whole cloth out of fabrications and falsehoods.

I must acknowledge that my desire to conform has only succeeded in creating a conflict between reason and action and Pavlovian response and reaction. Feeling is not thinking. Transient impressions are not keen observations. When one is mindless there is little to identify consequence for being thoughtless. I am at odds with a culture that seeks to remove any discernible and permanent markers and that refuses to recognize a fixed graduation or scale against which to examine the world outside or inside them. I can not, and in fact, will not waste my energy applying cosmetics to fit into some mask of reality. I am through with finding diversions and distractions in order to hide from others the unattractive things I see. If the need to allow the light to shine on human stupidity makes me an ugly person then I am finally able to articulate without apology, “Look away, I’m hideous.”

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To Whom It May Concern.

I still suck.

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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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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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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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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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You Scratch My Back and I’ll . . . Never Mind.

When I was first starting out in the business world I was a draftsman for a computer company just at the birth of the Personal Computer. That meant that my compatriots were all significantly older – basically the age that I am, now, and perhaps even a decade more. I have nothing but gratitude for each and every one of them as I was the typical brash, cocky, arrogant, life-will-never-hold-me-down punk. I bragged and strutted around and really had no ill experiences to quench my fire. These people embraced and loved me anyway. There are still times I wonder about what happened in the rest of their lives after we no longer worked together. Some of them were of World War II vintage. In fact, Fran, the only draftswoman in the crew, got her chance in engineering because of the war. She had become a drafter because of The Draft of all able-bodied young men to go off to battle. This was way before affirmative action and equality in the work place. There was no glass ceiling when Fran started her career. It was steel and concrete and stenciled with the words “Keep Out” when she decided to take on the system. I winced as she tolerated an endless stream of demeaning and sophomoric sexual innuendos and constant barbs and jabs. But everyone respected her knowledge and skills and there was no man her better. Once in a while I would act my age and get a frown of disapproval or a comment like “grow up” from the pit (typical reference to a pool of designers or draftspersons) only to have one in particular apologize and say, “I’m sorry, I forget that your only 19 because you usually seem so much more mature.” I could live off a comment like that for a week, at least.

But, what I did most of the time while getting the benefit of all of their collective years of knowledge was to study their lives. It was such a cross-section of America represented in that group and every personality and temperament was on display. Each had or was having their own trials and difficulties but the disturbing trend among the men was a general expectation that relationships – both professionally and romantically - were disposable and not expected to work out. There was a classification of contract employee known as “job-shopper,” or, “jobber.” These were temporary assignments and basically free-lance arrangements. One jobber, in particular, stood out because he was an artist that spent most of the year on his small yacht, island hopping in the Caribbean. When money would run low he would take a short-term circuit board design assignment. His art was to paint large canvasses using multiple colored paints and the naked bodies of women as his brush. His work was not slapped together during drunken orgies. It was very well thought out, laid out, and executed. A memorable example was one in which the full length of one woman represented the body of a butterfly and two other women in curled postures formed the wings. He represented the full caricature of the job-shopper mentality. No authority was recognized or given more than obligatory lip service and no responsibility was too important that it could not be abandoned. This was the prevailing attitude of most of the men I worked with in that department. Nearly to the man, all were divorced. Some had been divorced several times. I wrote the whole group off as immature, irresponsible, lazy and quitters. There was, however, one peculiar similarity shared by the very different personalities. I observed that lonely men had back scratchers.

A previous post discussed my attitude to losing. I equate losing with failure. The last place I intended to lose was in love. I had my share of dating women that were totally wrong for me but irresistible nonetheless. I had some very specific ideas and a checklist of requirements for the compatible future mate. I got all of those and more with my wife. Neither of us had come from families with a history of divorce. Both sides of our families had preserved marriage through every obstacle and struggle. I would never divorce and my wife believed that about herself just as strongly. Fifteen years after meeting we were over. She moved 1900 miles away and left me stunned. I had failed in every area most important to me as a man. I had become those losers I had disdained two decades earlier. All of the ensuing stages have followed. There was a very eager participation in the belief I could woo her again, as I had at the start. There was no involvement of third parties to make it messy. Surely I was worth her love? There are no such guarantees. That it has been over five years and she has gotten along seemingly effortlessly without me is its own proof. Even if she has done so stubbornly she has succeeded where I have failed nevertheless.

So although I still don’t have any higher opinion of those men or view them less harshly I must count me among their number. And of all of the myriad things I miss of living and loving with my wife – such as turning around to share an experiential moment with someone no longer in the room . . . I miss her enthusiasm when scratching my back. I even miss those preemptive words, “Pick, pick, pick” used to give me less than fair warning she had found some blemish to dig into. Gross, maybe; but a fond, bitter-sweet, and painful memory. I will always miss the heat of her closeness, the fire in her fingernails, the glow in her voice and the delicate warmth of her touch. And I have invested in a back scratcher. Mine is made of the über grass, bamboo. It adds comfort to a solitary man’s day where the flame has nearly gone out.

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I Love You , Dad

Today is my father's birthday. Fathers often get taken for granted. Well, I don't know so much if that is what it amounts to or expressing to a father how you feel is not usually as easy and comfortable as the same conversation and admissions with a mother. There are all sorts of built-in barriers to a lot of that sort of emoting to Dear Old Dad. My father spent his entire career with the telephone company (when there was only one, in the United States) and told me with a smirk on his face that Christmas Day and Mother's Day vied for the highest single day of telephone call volume each year. Then he let the other shoe fall and told me that Father's Day held the record each year for highest number of collect calls in a single day. "Hi Dad, Happy Father's Day and thanks for picking up the tab!"

I've never done that but my father has certainly had to pay for being my father in many costly and painful ways over the years. He has never held that against me. I have probably dangled my own feet over the fire much more than he. I am so proud of my father. He's by no means perfect but I wouldn't change anything about him. Warts and all - I love to point out to people that, "That's MY Dad." As I shared in my post on my Mom's birthday, I have parents whom I am proud to share and lend out to my friends. Not everyone (and it seems way too few people have) has as healthy a relationship with their parents as I have with mine. There's plenty of room in my parent's hearts and home for anyone that needs them.

I learned at a very young age that my parents and particularly my father garnered respect that was never sought or demanded. I even had to contend with some of the kids I knew that wanted to nudge me out of the way and be my Dad's "favorite." That is really and truly funny because my dad is a man of few words, even less tolerance for nonsense, and does not like social gatherings. He basically lives in the downstairs family room of his home and I don't think he'd come out unless a fire flushed him from his "Man Cave," as my mother refers to it. The sounds of flipping television channels and the rustling of snack wrappers are the only audible signs of life. There is nothing more comical than when my mother invades his sanctuary to snag chips or soft drinks and bring them upstairs to give to members of the family or guests. She is a towering figure of 5'-2" tall and about 112 pounds. My father is 6'-4" and in the 200's. It's like watching a Chihuahua yap at a Great Dane - hands on her hips in defiance and neck bent all the way back on her shoulders to make eye contact with him. She, like all of my friends, think nothing of invading his personal space or gravitating toward him wherever he is. He just attracts people. They want to be with him. They want to impress him, and, they want his approval. That's just not something he has ever been comfortable doing. But, he does it anyway. My Dad may be uncomfortable in social settings but he fears only two things: God (as in reverence and respect) and failing to act responsibly. In other words, my father has nothing to fear. He is the most honor-bound, duty-bound, responsible person I have ever known.

My mother sometimes feels slighted that he can not express his love and devotion but I remind her that he demonstrates those, without fail, every moment of their lives. He never experienced that in his own family. He is the equivalent of emotionally color blind. He just doesn't get the nuances and subtle variations of emotional interaction. I remind my mother, as well, "That's what he's got you for." His own upbringing never made any space for expressions of love and caring. I experienced it as a grandchild and can only imagine how much colder it was as a son. But, he knows how to show love by his actions not by his words. He may lean too heavily toward practical gifts like washing machines and vacuum cleaners but my mother has never had to fuel her own car, deal with any maintenance, ask for a dollar, doubt his fidelity, or worry when or if he were coming home. Just the other day I told her that his calling her every day at lunch, from his office, made me want to do the same thing when I grew up and had a wife. "That showed how much he loved you and was really important to me, as a boy," I told her. Her response caught me totally off guard. "Yeah, I used to think that, too, when he first began calling - then I realized he was only making small talk until I told him what had come in the mail that day!" I am still laughing uncontrollably because *THAT* makes sense! My sister is three years younger than I and has that gift all daughters possess in relation to their fathers - they can melt a man to a sappy puddle of goo. He had a little more trouble being the strict disciplinarian with her. He had no such reservations with me - and no recourse, to be honest. But one evening while getting ready for bed my sister started crying that "Daddy doesn't love us . . . He never tells us . . . He never hugs us . . ." and my Mom, interrupted with the most important words that I, as his son, needed to hear. "Your father never does anything for himself. He only thinks of us, first. When we have a meal, your father waits until we have all taken everything we want and have had our pick and then he takes what is left. Your father won't even go buy himself underwear if he isn't sure you and your brother and I have need of anything, first. Other fathers go to bars and drink their paychecks and don't care about their families. Your father loves you and he might not say it out loud all of the time but we are his whole life. Take a good look at your father and see what a man looks like." Preach it, Mom!

My Dad had been a Marine and missed being selected Honor Guard at the White House because he was 1/2 " too short. He was an expert marksman and possessed all of the necessary skills and attitude to dispatch any deserving target. The alterations to his psyche by the Corp were so ingrained that when I was in my late teens and came home very late from a night out he had stayed up to meet me. He looked very uncomfortable which was not normal. It seems that he had watched a movie called, "The Great Santini," which is the relationship between a Marine sergeant and his son. My father apologized to me. He said he saw things in that movie that were too close to home and that he was afraid he had harmed me. I am the one that needs to apologize to him. I have never become as much a man as my father. He never pressured me to make me think that way. I just so want to not be a disappointment and a worry to that man. My father has a brilliant and reasonable mind. He is gifted artistically and mathematically. He was a successful engineer. My father was actually offered a full scholarship to the U.S. Naval Academy but my unexpected conception sort of spoiled that. Neither of my parents ever blamed me and my father claims that I saved his life because the graduating class he would have been in all died in Vietnam. So, as a child when I was trying to learn to write, my father sat down with me and I watched him teach himself to write with his left hand (because I am left-handed) so that he could instruct me. At that early age that told me everything I needed to know about my father. He never tried to change me only make every opportunity for me to be the best me that I could be.

So let me tell you the other things you need to know about my Dad. My mother's brother was a Green Beret and is about eight years younger than my father. They have been buddies forever. My uncle would come home from a training mission and my civilian father and he would test each other. My uncle would come in and say, "Hey old man let me show you what I learned." And my father would say, "Bring it on, Junior." The next thing would be a bunch of out of breath laughter and my father would have my uncle pinned to the ceiling. They were like kids. Then leap forward about a dozen years to a near fatal accident for that same uncle. My father could not deal with that at all and hates hospitals as I came to discover. Only because it was my uncle could he muster the resolve to go to that hospital room. I have never seen my father so shaken but at the birth of all of his grandchildren he was just as much a mess. He has nine. None of them is fooled by the big, pretending to be fierce, man. They've got his number and he's everybody's giant teddy bear.

He doesn't speak much and he tries to stay sequestered in his "Man Cave" but he's always listening and ready to spring into action. I learned that the hard way at about 14 years old. My mother was telling me to do something and I mouthed off. Before the words were out of my mouth, he was up those stairs and I was having a lesson on respect and the proper attitude toward authority and women "administered" by the big guy. That same man also took me aside when I was an awkward adolescent and a distant female relative had just spent ten minutes going on and on about how my curly hair and eyelashes would make me such a pretty girl. He punctuated that conversation with the word, "Son." That was the first and only time in my memory that he ever called me that directly. As I mentioned, earlier, he had no personal experience from his upbringing to know of love being expressed or many of the other things that he taught and willed himself to do and be for his own family. Just as an indication of his side of the family we only referred to his parents formally as "Grandmother and Grandfather;" no pet names like my mom's family. By pure accident I picked up another phone while he was speaking to his parents after we had moved to another state. My father was 35 years old at that time. In wrapping up the conversation with his parents I heard him struggle and finally blurt out the words, "I Love You." There was silence on the other end of the line! Never did I ever hear his parents tell them they loved him.

Well I Love You, Dad. I want everyone to hear it.

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