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 - Is It Time?

I intended to write about my feelings, yesterday, but was too close to the moment. I had simply watched a relatively sophomoric movie that tried to encapsulate all the misfitting pieces of the sexes. It actually did a pretty decent job and although it became a bit pandering and leaned too far into the realm of “chick flickdom,” nevertheless it held some nuggets to extract.

Mostly, it caused me to let my guard down and fall into that sleep that romantic notions always induce. It made me consider the possibilities if I allowed for a woman to be in my life in any capacity beyond conversation. As a recovering romantic, it was too many swallows when I should have never taken the first sip. The problem with being a man is that women look good, they sound good, they smell good, they taste good and they feel good. Some women (I’ll even allow they number in the majority) even try to be good. That is the problem; humans trying to be good. We put so much hope and anticipation into something that is a magnificent notion but impossible to apprehend. I was once more lulled into the dream and when I awoke from it I felt the loss of the rest and peace it had promised.

I have known nice women. I have known kind women. I have known all sorts of women but I have also known the core creature. I was never ignorant of the tremendous pain their absence could inflict and have often experienced it in their presence. That has never deterred me. I have always approached finding love with not only my eyes wide open but also my heart. As a young man seeking out a match and counterpoint to myself I was unencumbered and willing to contort myself to fit the objects of desire that crossed my path. That may have been an exciting adventure and a stimulating wealth of experiences but I lost myself along the way. When I married, I married very well. I married a woman of character and strength and intellect and beauty and purpose. I also married a very damaged and fragmented person. I have absolutely no regrets. I would marry her again and again and again. But she married a lost soul. She married a mirage. She was the first to see it and I didn’t live in denial but was actually so far removed from my true self that I could not see it. I suppose to a great extent I was a parasite, sucking the life out of her to propagate the illusion I had of a life of my own. Because I had lost myself in the journey to find a mate I lost her, too.

It has been over five years since she left me but I have yet to fully leave her. I have tried to reclaim myself as it is superior in every way to redefining me. I am anxious to relocate myself, as well. Several years ago in the middle of an otherwise frivolous conversation I blurted out that I never wanted to inflict me on another woman. I was startled by my own words and have mostly adhered to their conviction to this day. Some things have become clear. I recognized that no amount of contorting me or remaking me or redefining me would win her back; or produce a positive result for me alone or in tandem with a new love. There are simply parts of my being that are who I am. I am powerless to change them and only moderately successful at restraining them. All assume they can be their own savior, or if not, that a lover will fill that job description. I tried very much to not look to women as my salvation and I did not portend to be theirs. However, I have succumbed in small and even large ways to the allure of letting a woman complete me, revive me or revise me. My past does not haunt me but has placed me where I am this day. My present does not define me but has left me without a step to trace or a sense of direction. I do not dwell on her or all I have felt as lost even though my conversations would contradict that on the surface. I am really involved in my current struggle to establish a stable and prosperous place for me. What I am about is being wholly me in order to have something to contribute in a relationship.

There are many that insist I am hiding and have a fear of intimacy. What I actually fear is that I have no capacity for intimacy. I am aware that my interests in women are not all that deep. I am a far better man as a friend than I have ever been as a significant other. In actuality I have been too successful at being the insignificant other. I have complex passions but simple needs. I do not allow myself great expectations yet set lofty demands on my person. I am aware of a great many things. I am keen to my own contradictory behaviors. I have developed quite a reliable façade that manages to keep most at bay. There are always those persistent creatures, however, that ply into my life and ignore my saber rattling and all of my fortifications. I have a precious cadre of men and women that refuse to allow me to exclude them or push them out of my life. I love them all and am grateful for them.

I am also aware that I need new encounters to replace stale memories. I am not a person that desires to relive or regret the past. I have enjoyed being me through almost all of the stages and changes. Usually I only look back with fondness (while bitching and complaining in the present). I am very much unhappy with the current situation and do a tremendous amount of bellyaching. Still, I am not without anticipation and hope and I always make plans. Sadly, so many recent plans have been still-born. For too long I have been suppressed in addition to being depressed. I have also digressed and failed to impress. Not the foundation for a stellar performance. But there are a few odd sparks in the ashes and embers of my desires. None burn very hot and barely any radiate much light. I am not anywhere near the dynamic and energized force of nature I was as a single man or visionary rebel. I have an image in my mind that I am currently still being delivered deadly blows although I am stooped on one knee trying to shake off the daze. The one thing I do know is that I will only stay down if someone can finish the job and kill me. Otherwise I will get back on my feet and one day unclench these fists and teeth. In preparation for that defiant stance I am trying to make allowance to find a lover. All of this is still very sketchy as the hell fires by which I am being pummeled have produced a fog over my vistas. Finally, I have longings once again. I am very cautious at this juncture because I do not want to turn on the charm but inflict harm. The thing that distinguished my love for my wife from all other encounters was that I had arrived at a place of maturity in one significant region when we met. I saw her for all that she was not just as much as for what she was. In that realization I discovered I was excited about what I could do for her and not what she could offer me. The intent and the nobility of my gesture were sincere. My execution could not have promised more and delivered any less. I do not want to be that ineffectual in my next found love. I would love to boldly state I have learned from my mistakes but I have “living disabilities.”

So from all of this structure and all of this need to explain my ruminations on the idea of loving once again; what can it possibly have to do with the longings induced by a romantic movie? I am not looking for pacification. I am not looking for a topical application of sex or warm fuzzy feelings and walks on the beach. I need to have it all. I cannot have what I crave in bits and pieces. I want it all assembled and not artificially sweetened. I question my ability to be intimate. I question the ability of a woman to be intimate, too. There is a thing inside the feminine soul that measures a lie as a shield against the pain of the truth. That is not good enough for me. There is a switch inside the feminine psyche that can erase all initial intentions and forget she ever claimed fidelity, loyalty, passion and affection. That is entirely unacceptable. That sets off alarm bells that I cannot trust. I can trust. I would not ever be hurt if I could not trust. Betrayal, not trust – is what I cannot do. I cannot be anesthetized by seduction to accept betrayal. I have found that relationships become a list of demands or a wasteland of compromise. Compliance replaces compassion. Passive surrender supplants active submission of both to each other. I have intimacy issues. I feel a liar and a thief because making love means so much to me. This has become such a problem that I have not dated and certainly have not copulated in over six years. Now, I do not even look at women. It started with not being able to look my lover in the eyes for fear of the rejection I would find there. The empty space between us made me hollow. The act of making love made me shallow.

There is a whole lot of ground to be recovered for me to be intimate once more. But all that it would take is the genuine acceptance of one woman. I only want one. I am not greedy but I am selfish. I do not want to be considered tolerable or accommodated conditionally. I will not be good enough until something better comes along. I do not treat others that way and will not excuse it from a woman that professes her love and devotion to me. Co-dependent? You had better believe it. The greatest love is a complete dependence on giving oneself entirely without reservation and it is completely dependent on reciprocal action. I have wants and needs and desires and passions that are requirements – not suggestions. Anything less and I will be less.

I am absurdly romantic in my heart of hearts. I am merely absurd in my day-to-day attempts to be productive and useful. I have always resented any idea that strips a man of the ability to be complete in and of himself. I have actually been angered when the suggestion that a man is only as good as the woman in his life seemed valid. It has always been a slap in my face and an attack on my dignity. It has not escaped me that we often respond with rage when we are defenseless. I have pushed women away from me on nothing more than vulnerability at the slightest hint there is truth in the fact that a man needs a woman. Well. I do. As ashamed as I am to admit that, I need a woman as I am incapable of making it on my own. It crushes me to write the words. I can be strong for others but I am weak and helpless if it is for my own benefit. I despise being used by women. I despise being manipulated. I resent the dismissive idea that a man is a slave to his sex drive or lesser for it. I loathe any look of disdain or disgust a woman casts toward me. But one word or look or touch of reassurance from a woman and I am invincible. I am nearly alright with this. Allow some room for me to retract that last statement and withdraw, though, should any woman approach me with any love in her voice or eyes. Those damn eyes. How I love to look into her soul through them but shudder at the man they reflect back to me. It is far safer for me to create turbulent storms and raging flashes of lightning in a woman’s eyes than to let those tranquil pools drown me in the depths and undercurrents. I have been pierced too many times and the wounds have never sealed.

So where does this leave me? I am too attracted by women to keep a safe distance. Despite the soul-wrenching, twisting and draining aspects of false women there remains the hope of the life sustaining feast of the true woman. Sometimes I am almost persuaded I simply need release and any woman would do. That moment of desperation is so quickly removed by the knowledge that spilling myself into her may leave me more empty than satiated. And, although I will not use a woman for my pleasure I too often use them all for my amusement. Despicable; a detestable thing. It is all about the healthy place I need to achieve to look any woman in the eyes and to let them see me all the way through. Then I want to find myself free to love and to express it better than I ever have before. I want to be so far beyond a staring contest. There is always the need for a man to rescue a damsel in distress. But, I am in distress and in need of a damsel. What I long for is someone that will hold my gaze as I hold her in my arms and always hold me with the same desire between her legs. Then I will be able to let go of my pain and hold on.

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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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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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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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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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Give My Creation Life

I have never been one to shy away from pain nor have I ever been a masochist. Physical pain is easiest to handle in my purview. Bodily threats and risk of injury are taken in stride. There’s a certain acceptable risk factor and beyond that it comes down to whether one has demonstrated through skill and sometimes blind luck the management of the threat and avoided serious consequences; or, through inept and foolish effort, endures wounds or trauma as a consequence to their folly.

Emotional pain lingers far longer and can not have any real remedy directly applied. This causes most to avoid matters of the heart over what matters to the head. Emotional issues are more like a toxin spread throughout the organs of the body. The smallest prick of the soul and the complications can become unmanageable in a moment of time. The symptoms mimic so many possible causes and obfuscate any honest diagnosis. A physical scar is often able to be accepted or forgotten but the emotional scar may never actually heal. One forgets the intensity of physical pain and reflexively avoids experiencing any unnecessarily but emotional pain can be remembered in full and actually hobbles the sufferer ever after. The rational mind wants to find patterns, hazards, and dangerous behaviors to identify and avoid in order not to make the same mistake, twice. Unfortunately, the heart tries to provide the mind with the same sort of list of the intangible issues of living and the results are the avoidance of a singular event as if it were indicative of a predictable cause and effect. Subsequently, the desire to avoid hurt generates a list of occurrences that overwhelm the ever shrinking expectation of desirable experiences. People shrink back and become afraid to touch or be touched. Memory no longer serves but enslaves.

There was a time when I was undaunted by challenge or threat. The possible risks held no sway over the urgency of my passions to obtain whatever I purposed. Any opposition was faced down with defiance and blood in my eye. I took what I wanted, who I wanted, when I wanted. A shift of perspective corrected some of that inordinate self focus and I was not afraid to explore feelings or experience the rough handling that exposing them would guarantee. It was deemed an acceptable level of risk. Those experiences did not adversely affect me because I had put myself in the line of fire deliberately and anticipated the consequences with a fair approximation of the causality and cumulative disruption to my comfort.

I was smug and I was arrogant and I was defining the rules of the game so there was really little chance of me suffering all that greatly. I put that entirely aside and left myself completely open and vulnerable . . . and I was torn to pieces. I wasn’t betrayed by an enemy. I wasn’t deceived by a friend. I wasn’t left to rot by a stranger. I was wounded to the same extent that I had wounded her. For neither was it out of conscious effort or vengeance or self- protection but out of simply living and getting burned by singular events that had nothing to associate them but that they were grouped together because the pain was the same. That pain overwhelmed our senses and left us numb and shattered. Rational escape from the wounds was warped by the struggle to get free of the pain. Once pulled apart there were no remaining threads left whole to affect a proper mend but the pain remained intact.

She moved out and moved on. I dug in and went under. I have spent too much time sifting through the dirt for traces and shards of the life we had together. The pieces I discover are ugly and mangled. The slivers pierce and cut me but no matter how many I gather the restoration is incomplete. Too much of us and too much time has been lost. It doesn’t matter that I continue to bravely face the pain; there is no substance behind it. I am not afraid of a broken heart. I am afraid of our broken promises. She may have been the one to leave but that does not mean that I was wholly there before her decision. Promises were broken; I failed and she failed and we failed. I am not afraid of failure. I am afraid of our surrender. Where was my defiance against our common enemy? Why did I shrink back from the challenge? Why did we believe the journey to be so daunting? I am not afraid of the journey. I am afraid of stopping to rest and never starting up, again. I mustn’t be afraid of the pain. I mustn’t rest to try and escape it. I can not allow what I mustn’t to prevent me from doing what I should.

I am starting with something that is emptier than starting with nothing. I keep insisting upon reviving that which is dead. How do I put aside the emptiness and the hollow echoes of that which once fulfilled me? Let go. Get up. There’s nothing left alive there anymore. I have sewn together a figure of straw and stuffed it with my memories. My tears won’t give it eyes or my cries a voice. My wasted breath won’t give it life or my blood a beating heart. I stand in this place, alone.

The journey is not over. I’ve rested long enough.

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There's Something In My Ire

I am going to barely contain the swearing that wants to surge from my rage from my reaction to an article I read only moments ago. This will be my first instance of a post that deliberately piggybacks an earlier entry. Excuse me; I am pausing until I come back to a simmer from a rolling boil.

In my posting, “Women SUCK – You’d think THAT would be a GOOD thing,” I highlighted instances of the feminine compulsion to control and manipulate men. A friend of mine found no fault with my thesis but argued that my tone softened as the narrative unfolded. He also rightly observed that this is the natural flow for men – we express what really offends us but try to reign in the emotion and consign our outrage to the constraints of reason. It is necessary for the preservation of the species. To not allow for the infuriating and contrary nature of women would ensure violence or extinction. Some men opt to forego the strictures of polite society and actually do physically express their inner turmoil in grappling with the necessity of allowing women to be what women choose to be. A great many men compartmentalize their feelings (and consequently women) to effect an approximation of tolerance while other men take the least tumultuous course of action and withdraw as far from the pain as practicable and avoid interaction whenever possible.

Since violence towards women is still distasteful to me (on the majority of occasions) and trying to understand and cooperatively interact with women is still a beautiful, although recognizably unobtainable dream, I am faced with defining my navigation in these turbulent waters at an agonizingly slow pace. While on my quest for the perfect gender- balanced land of Atlantis I drift back and forth between two shores – between the craggy, compartmentalized, utilitarian coastline and the barren desert island that would result from avoiding women altogether. But every now and again I encounter the eddy currents of a woman with no fear of recrimination for dashing men on the hostile juts of her cold, stone heart. So today I bring you the soul-less musings of a practiced control freak, Elise Nersesian. Ms. Neresian submitted this particular article to Happen magazine (www.happenmag.com) which then ascribed to it the misnomer of a “courtesy” passed on to me as I was assaulted by it upon reading my email. She has also written for Redbook, Stuff and other publications according to the byline. I will quote to you the entire piece as I do not wish to be accused of taking any of it out of context. I will highlight particularly galling excerpts, however.

“Your Man’s Mood Swings - By Elise Nersesian

Trying to figure out the best time to broach a touchy topic, ask your guy a favor or convince him to do something you know he’ll dread? Well, it’s easier than you think if you learn how to tune in to his body clock, says Gabrielle Lichterman, founder of Hormonology.info and co-author of 28 Days: What Your Cycle Reveals About Your Love Life, Moods, and Potential. While women, we all know, experience hormone-induced mood swings on a monthly basis, Lichterman attests that men, too, are affected by hormonal highs and lows—only their levels fluctuate daily. Want to get his hormones working for you? Read on.

If you need his help moving, fighting, or fixing something…
Ask: from 9-12 a.m.
It should come as no surprise that guys wake up bursting with testosterone. And aside from the obvious frisky factor, this surge in hormones makes him ambitious and determined, says Lichterman. This is the perfect time to ask him for a favor, particularly one that makes him feel like Mr. Fix-It. Buying a car? Indulge his competitive streak, and drag him along to help you haggle with the salesman and score a great deal. Or, cash in on his peak in spatial thinking and ask him to move your couch, or measure your closet space. He’ll feel heroic, and you’ll reap the benefits.

If you want to get him to agree to your plans…
Ask: from 3-4 p.m.
Trying to convince him to sign up for ballroom dancing lessons, commit to your new book club or otherwise agree to do something that would normally send men screaming in the opposite direction? Then this late-afternoon window is the perfect opportunity, says Lichterman, since his super-low testosterone levels will make him mellow and amenable to pretty much anything you throw on the table.

If you want to broach a touchy topic…
Ask: from 8-10 p.m.
At this hour, another hormone called oxytocin — a.k.a. the “cuddle hormone” due to its intimacy-inducing effects — is on the rise in his bloodstream, says Lichterman. That means this is a prime time to resolve a lingering spat (“It hurt my feelings when you didn’t call today”) or get a grievance off your chest (“Will you please shave your goatee?”). You’ll probably get met with nothing but a sincere apology and the promise to change his ways. Sure, his sweetness may be as much due to timing as a true desire to please, but hey, who cares as long as your wish is his command?”

Wow . . .

This article really should have been titled, “Empowering Your Inner Sociopath - Learning to Control His Psychopathic Tendencies.” It may surprise you that I actually agree with her fundamental argument. However, she left out one important time segment.

Don’t Ask: from 5-7 a.m.
This is the period of heightened sensitivity of senses and reasoning ability – which is when I read this provocative article. My olfactory system was acutely sensitized to this offensive cowshit and my mind reeled with the blatant assertions that a man’s biology explains all of his behavior and should be used against him. In yet another hypocritical act, a woman is advising others of her gender to pull an option right out of the “Insensitive, Dumb-ass, Man’s” playbook. If a man even suggests that a woman’s hormones have anything to do with her behavior or decision making processes he had better run for his life as he will find no amnesty.

The mention of hormone cycles was also evaluated under a very soft light. Ms. Nersesian’s claims are a reiteration of another woman’s theory that a woman is predictably stable over a sweeping phase that requires 28 days but a man is a highly volatile and unpredictable creature changing by the hour. This is the equivalent of claiming that the sky is green and the grass is blue. She has inverted reality with a reference to Gabrielle Lichterman’s non-doctoral thesis in a single sentence. That means I have license to counter just as succinctly.

Not only are women identified by their constant state of variableness but it is the very fact their behavior is so unpredictable that women may rightly argue that where they are in their cycle has no bearing on their current deportment. Meanwhile, it is in fact the very constancy of a man’s behavior that makes the need for an article such as this one attempting to manipulate him and change his behavior seem significant. It is because men are predictable that women complain about us being “set in our ways,” or as being inflexible and unyielding. Women want to have variety and not be “stuck in a rut” and then they look at their guy and he’s “a stick in the mud,” right?

So what this article is really trying to achieve is to find some new spin on the old problem of a woman getting what she wants. If someone dangles the carrot that men are actually flexible – it’s just a matter of timing – then there’s renewed hope of manipulating a man and bending him to your will even if it’s only temporarily. Am I making this up? Go back and read the first paragraph of her article, again. A woman’s hormone cycle needs to be viewed as a tool for empowerment while a man’s cycle should be used to plan your calendar so he will work for you to get what you want. Manipulative, and completely dismissive of a man’s opinion or whether his negative position toward your ambitions may have sound judgment to support his reluctance; But, what the hell? According to the article, “Sure, his sweetness may be as much due to timing as a true desire to please, but hey, who cares as long as your wish is his command?”

Why This Bothers Me So Much
Her attitude of getting what she wants no matter what is what burned my biscuit to a cinder. You certainly know not to allow children such leeway because they are not able to make reasonable choices. What makes us believe an adult is anything more than a child with more means to get their way? This kind of thing never used to bother me until it cost me nearly everything by subscribing to being compliant. I bought into the notion that being the guy that stood on principle and dug in my heels was some form of cruelty to the woman in my life. What being true to my convictions actually would have done is demonstrated my love and active participation by cherishing and protecting with words like, “No.” When I became complacent about choices that were being made I failed in my responsibility to keep record of the cumulative impact of every seemingly insignificant decision. When it seemed to be “no skin off my nose” whether we did or did not pursue a course of action I was surrendering my duty to guard the life we were building together – and it tore us apart. I had the moral obligation to be set in my ways and to resist change for the sake of change only. I had the power to direct our lives toward permanence but weakened my resolve for what seemed convenient and less strenuous efforts to realize our mutual goals. Because I didn’t want to be the one hurting her feelings by not trying to give her everything she wanted I lost her, instead, to failing to meet her expectations. I traded the reality of pain and effort and struggle for the easy compromise of “going with the flow”. I now have more pain than I can bear. Because she was and still is everything I ever wanted; because she already was enough for me I tried in vain to be everything I couldn’t be and became nothing that she wanted.

I know that because I did not say “No” on every occasion when that was the appropriate answer that I doomed my marriage. I had the right and obligation to be unyielding without automatically becoming unreasonable or being accused of being insensitive. She had every right to challenge my decisions as much as she had the obligation to make sure I was aware of the things of which she was innately sensitive but without resorting to manipulation and coercion.

It is a man’s role and I don’t give a damn if that offends you – to make decisions and lead a family. All of the “traditional” elements of male and female that have been defined as “roles” in a marriage are more real than hormone cycles. Men are very influenced by the heroic. Women are very influenced by being nurturing. We have a lot more to apologize for in our lives than those labels for our natural bents. Why would either gender apologize for being associated with those two things, anyway? They are good and powerful measures of virtues we wish we possessed all of the time so we should celebrate that we exercise them at all. The problem always occurs in establishing the means to exchange the value of men and women in trade. Most people would rather steal than deal.

Relationships should be based on improving our ability to interact. Each type of relationship, from parent-child or between siblings or classmates or work associates on up to political parties and national interaction, function only as far as the others involved may be trusted not to lie, cheat, steal, manipulate or otherwise bully to force their will to dominate. Dating and ultimately marriage require the greatest demonstration of trust and self-denial of all relationship types. It is no wonder that people rebel and take drastic measures to avoid playing by the rules when one allows for the priority of self. Afterall, "all is fair in love and war" has proven a sad commentary on the human race. If you miss the irony of that quote . . . the impact of love should be the opposite of war, yet, somehow we accept each as being capable of limitless destruction, pain and suffering.

People have a great deal of trouble with marriage. Actually what they have is a great deal of trouble accepting the effort and conditions of marriage. It should not be confused with the requirements of any other relationship. Recent cultural anarchy has removed the obvious value for having an institution called “marriage”: to distinguish it from lesser levels of intercourse. My choice of words was intended to really focus on what currency is being traded and at what rate of exchange. In the hierarchy of relationships, marriage, is defined as the supreme exchange and it is intended to cost both genders everything. The trade is made worthwhile by the exchange of one soul for another and the mutual sharing of all assets each brings. With the wealth of treasures that is unique to each gender it is sad that we so quickly forget the euphoria of first discovering the bargain giving ourselves to get the other truly is. We further devaluate the wealth of the experience by coveting what others appear to have or by trying to steal the benefits without the contractual obligations outside of marriage. Marriage should be viewed as a bank vault and not as a prison cell. It should be perceived as an investment and not a possession. Marriage needs to be recognized as something not obtained but always just beyond our present grasp. We need to be mutually growing, stretching, yearning and reaching to obtain.

As a man, among my assets include the provisions of a husband. Did you know that the definition of “husband” is “gardener?” When is a gardener’s work ever complete? If he is a good gardener, he is always planning and preparing for tomorrow while he’s getting his hands dirty and sometimes bloody, today. What is my objective as a gardener? My job is to prepare a fertile and safe environment to allow for the healthy and abundant, fruitful growth of my seed. To do that, I must attend to and nourish the soil that will sustain my sowing of myself into her. I will be rewarded for my efforts by beauty that is only limited to the amount of attention I have paid to her. I must be vigilant to see to her having the things necessary to bloom – light and warmth and space and protection from destructive influences. I must break up fallow ground and weed out anything that would interfere with the well-being of the garden. Some of the methods are harsh and blunt. Others require precise, sharp cuts to accomplish the best results. If I am not methodical and constantly practicing my skills the garden suffers from inconsistent care. If I neglect my responsibilities or abandon the garden entirely the consequences are the same – the garden withers and dies. I also may not allow the variance of the weather and seasons to distract me from my achieving and completing harvest. No matter the effort or how willing or resistant the garden is to fulfilling its purpose, the gardener must lovingly persist. The effort is exhausting but the rewards are fragrant and sweet and the promise of another generation of good seed is worth the labor.

That description of marriage is more than poetic it is appropriate to the real purpose for which marriage was established. My garden has run wild and I am in a world of hurt to try and restore it and nurture such a desolate landscape back to health. I don’t care. It’s worth the personal sacrifice and I willingly face the pain that such a struggle will require. So when I survey the surrounding fields and assess the negative influences that want to poison the soil and deprive me of the unspoiled beauty I once held in my hands I get angry and I actively root out any destructive element no matter how seemingly trite and harmless it may appear on the surface.

Articles about manipulating men are weeds and thorns that I can not allow. The same goes for any of my own thoughts that cloud my judgment and erode the straight furrows I am struggling to replant after the storms of divorce.

Women should try having the courage and strength to demonstrate their resilience in the face of their man’s objections with something called "trust" – not merely dismiss him as an obstacle and bulldoze over him if he fails to be persuaded by your need to have your way.

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