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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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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A New Wrinkle - Sometimes, I Am Truly Alone

I have not been writing, and that is obvious, and doesn't require a post. Actually, I have been writing but, afterward, not posting what I have written. Therefore, this is an attempt to not clamp down and edit myself with so much of an iron fist. This will almost be a simple effort with not much thought behind it and maybe surprise myself in whatever gets expressed. So, here we go.

There are many ways to be alone. One may feel alone as if misunderstood, or by not having any one around that shares the same views or ideologies. One may be alone in their thoughts. In that regard, there are many ways to elect to be alone - but that is by choice. The other immediate means to be alone (at least what springs to mind) are to be in new surroundings or a foreign environment and realize the loss of a support network. One may be alone as far as having special people with whom to give and receive affection. One may dwell on their "alone-ness" which is in and of itself a lonely pursuit that may cause a sort of "suffering for one's beliefs" alone. If any of these and more are made into a personal campaign then the very deliberate seeking to isolate oneself may certainly precipitate paranoia to validate an overactive or acute recognition of just how alone one truly is.

I have not reached the last stage but am monitoring myself so that I do not become more comfortable in being disconnected and detached from other people. As it stands all ready, my neighbors express concern that they do not even see me leave my front door for weeks at a time. I have become extremely content to be antisocial. Now, previous decisions included the need to find something within myself and not rely on external motivations for a desire to live and grow. That resulted in a conclusion that I could not date. Further evaluation allowed for no concessions in that need to sequester myself. I still believe I have not established myself to any recognizable and distinguishable degree. To pursue an amorous relationship would distract me or erase whatever attempt at flying solo I have made. As a corollary to that I am not financially established to a sufficient degree to offer stability in that regard, either. I am quite simply a mess. When I measure where I am to where I would like to be I am very singularly placed. And yet another form of being alone is to stand on the conviction that I am doing the right thing.

All of this brings me to a place of once again contending with the fact that for some of us life will never be extraordinarily pleasant. The measure of my convictions and actions really can not be compared to or judged against my contentment and happiness. Some of us have a degree of personal pain, loss and suffering that has nothing to do with anyone's preferences or choices. It is remarkable to have to allow for that. I certainly take blame for my actions and decisions having set the scene for some of what has occurred in my life but there is absolutely no accounting for all of it or even most of it as being due to my sabotaging myself or making foolish choices. I am not imagining some vain explanation for all of this but I do have strong conviction from observation that I am able to lead others away from and around such personal loss, for themselves, far more often than I must stand back and watch them go through the deepest of it. I believe it is why I have the friends that I do. They value my opinion and I honestly don't tell them so much what I think they should do (although those words come out of my mouth) but more what to consider and choose to avoid. But, in that I seem to be alone, too.

Thus, here I sit in the very early morning hours feeling frustrated, defeated and alone. I am back to feeling like I am a one man support network for everyone else and can not get one single thing I need for me. I am very horribly alone. Even to express that I feel I am giving and not getting is a hazard to me. I am now additionally burdened with concern for all of my friends who will read this and take offense. Again, I may need to soothe and comfort the wounded or try to explain to the sincerely and genuinely well-meaning that their greatest intentions can not possibly translate into tangible proof for me because they are there and I am, here . . . Alone.

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Am I Squinting For or Wincing From the Light?

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

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

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

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To Whom It May Concern.

I still suck.

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This End Up

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

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

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

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

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

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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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A New Wrinkle - The Single (Poor) Guy's Survival Kit

Tools For Living
As a public service I will endeavor to pass on the vital skills I have acquired in recent years to cope and adapt to life after the thrill is gone. When one is down and bailing out it is important to not let the urgency of the moment or the cresting waves of doubt and uncertainty cause you to make reflexive and costly decisions. Do not throw out everything not tied down simply in anticipation of adding buoyancy to your ship of hope. Do not expect to recover anything that might float after it has been discarded during your irrational panic and compulsion to try or do anything. You must catch your breath, assess your options, and methodically navigate a reasoned course.

If you find yourself needing to reduce, recycle, re-use or refuse the weathered remnants of your previous life it is best to allow as much time to pass as possible before making permanent choices. In my own situation I held onto everything left behind for a period of two years. When I prepared to move across country I used a few simple criteria to select what could be preserved and what should be discarded. I then further reduced my two categories to what would most benefit someone else by giving away the better items and ultimately what would fit in my car for the one-time trip between states. My kept items were chosen by what had practical regular use, what had been a fond memory or favorite past-time, and what had sentimental or keep-sake value. This included a few items that were the property of the ex but had been left behind symbolically to underscore the emphasis of wanting me out of her life. Spiteful actions sometimes turn to regrets and I made space to be gracious in offering small gestures of tolerance and understanding. The final category helped determine what to write-off as lost by asking the personally challenging question, “Have you used this at all in two years or even thought about it?”

All of that worked reasonably well but I have since become acquainted with other criteria as circumstances took a second spiral down the giant commode of life. I had begun to miss tools and other material objects that had been disposed of without my consent or involvement at the time of the wife’s exodus. I am particularly mourning the loss of some very expensive and specialized luthier tools – fret files and saws, nut files, scrapers, clamps, jeweler’s saw – those sorts of items. When I recently acquired an apartment it then became glaringly obvious how little I had on-hand to establish my new residence. With no furniture, kitchen appliances, utensils, cookware or place settings it was obvious I’d not be inviting anyone over anytime soon. By “anyone” I of course mean, friends. By “friends” I of course mean, women. By “women” I of course mean one woman. By “woman” I of course mean satisfied depletion of all of my pent up emotions and energy.

I’m a realist – satisfied depletion will remain an elusive dream; so from my stark assessment of my stark apartment I have assembled a survival kit. I have realized that by prioritizing the acquisition of goods with the order of multi-purpose and functional considerations as the priority I can most quickly and efficiently establish a home for myself. Think in terms of “Bang for the buck;” “Killing two birds with one stone;” or any other colloquial terminology that maximizes your efficiency for this exercise. Pragmatically speaking, the hierarchy of needs for a residence seems to be food, tools, personal hygiene, conveniences, entertainment, and decoration. My suggested approach addresses elements of at least the first four categories with a possibility of impacting the last two indirectly. By focusing on basic tools as funds allow I may positively impact the majority of my needs. The practical experience gained from this pursuit has been enlightening. It was not a discernibly direct correlation that being able to fix my car or a wall socket would also fix my life.

Here are my suggestions:

[1] A deep, molded plastic combination Toolbox/Step Stool. This is the thinking man’s ottoman. First, it houses all of the other tools for your survival kit neatly and safely and keeps them out of the way and in a known location. The stool height is more efficient and practical than a ladder for an apartment. The portability is another plus. The hidden benefit is that now you also have a chair. Instead of only having the floor for your repose you may now actually sit. Fold a blanket (also known as a bed roll) into a rectangle of several layers thick and you have a seat cushion for the rather rigid bench of the toolbox.

[2] Knives and other bladed, sharp, edged tools are obvious in function. Whether whittling a piece of wood or peeling a carrot; slicing vinyl tubing or cutting meat you’ve just saved the expense of redundant equipment.

Public Health Notice: Some may read this and be alarmed that the possibility for ingesting hazardous stuff from indiscriminately used tools is too great a risk. I argue that anyone familiar with the use of hand tools and performing their own maintenance and repairs has the foresight to clean things reasonably well and already has made a practice of regularly renewing their Tetanus booster, anyway. Risk, managed.

[3] Hacksaws are flexible devices. Every toolbox should have one. A hacksaw also makes a terrific bread knife.









[4] Files and Rasps have a straightforward application. Fingernail files are nothing more than miniaturized, cross-cut files that have been packaged to appear significant. Save the money and invest in the larger, multi-purpose variety. Your nails may actually look better due to improved leverage and control with the larger versions. They also are excellent for callous removal – or warts, for that matter. Of particular distinction in this group is the surform rasping plane. These tools make light work of body filler contouring or roughing surfaces to shape but an excellent alternative use is as a food grater.

[5] Pliers are indispensable. A slotted channel plier is adjustable to accommodate and grip large or small objects. This makes it very suitable for opening bottle caps and jar lids. This type of pliers, as well as locking pliers also make an excellent fire-proof hand for use as tongs or to hold a hot pan or pot. Since metal conducts heat you are advised to insulate the handle with shop rags or, if luxury permits, a pot holder or kitchen towel. Reaching into small diameter containers calls for the supremacy of the long-nosed pliers. If you have been careful not to splay the ends of this type it also makes a very robust tweezer.

[6] Screwdrivers should include the flat blade, Phillips and Torq style drive heads. Allen (or, Hex) Keys are also recommended but the flat blade and Phillips will not only keep the fasteners of scissors and kitchen utensils taught but may also be used to pry off lids or puncture obstinate containers when can openers are not available.

[7] A preferred but more difficult to locate tool is the Oil Can Spout. This is a tool that has become more difficult to procure due to the industry-wide replacement of cans with plastic bottles and screw caps. The steel spout has a double-edged dagger that pierces the can when pushed into the lid and then creates a very nice pouring spout, This is of sufficient diameter to allow the entire contents of thick soup stock to easily pass by.



[8] Although considered a luxury item the Hand-held Power Drill is a vital work tool. It also makes light work of other duties. In combination with either a bunched-up wire clothes hanger or a paint mixing attachment the power drill makes a wonderful kitchen mixer.






Honorable mention should be made of the Hammer, wood screw, and the Spring Clamp. The hammer is self-explanatory but it can be the persuader for vacuum-sealed lids, clumped ice, and tenderizing meat. The wood screw in combination with first a screwdriver and then locking pliers makes a suitable cork screw. Clamps answer the often frustrating quest for a third hand. Although clamps are excellent as temporary solutions they tend to become permanent repairs. Try to avoid this.


The spring clamp is the Big Daddy to the clothespin. This was readily proven only days ago when I noticed a ring had torn out of my shower curtain. Usually I would simply pierce a hole through the curtain as near as practicable to the offending flaw but I found that the accommodating spring clamp held the curtain securely against the edge of the wall and sealed off a troublesome, leaky area. The spring clamp then went on to impress me with its dexterity as a chip clip.


There you have it. I’m sure there will be other tools that will make useful additions but I am confident that with the suggested equipment listed above you will be well on your way to a return to civilized society and enjoying all of the comforts of home.

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I'm NOT paranoid. Why does EVERYONE think that?!?

Too much of anything is really never a good thing. We all know this from experience. The “thing” in question determines what quantity isn’t enough and what is too much but you know when you’re hungry and you know when you’re full.

For me there are a lot of things where I’ve wrung out the last drop and there is a hollow, empty, echoing void. In direct proportion to this I have had more than my fill of several negative consequences. There are certain corollaries in this life. There are inverse relationships. I really can’t quantify their measure but I can qualify their significance. I am beginning to feel as if my life is playing out like a lost episode of The Twilight Zone. Somewhere, Rod Serling, is directing the daily monotony of my life.

Mr. Serling loved to explore what the consequences would be for people if they were to get their greatest yearnings and wishes. These secret longings usually involved being left undisturbed or to be able to replace a weakness in their character with a perceived strength and so on. His work employed a lot of reflection on the realization that people generally were better off where they were. The irony, in my case, is that I was already extremely content with where I was. I was aware that I had fundamental work to do on some areas that adversely affected my family and I don’t believe I was blind to my faults. Just, generally, life was really good. So, because of that safe life and content existence I never had the compulsion to change direction or reinvent myself. I liked me – which, based on my tenaciously clinging to a now very distant past, tells me I still like me; that me that was in cruise control in the family mini-van.

Unfortunately, that min-van ran out of gas a long time ago. The wife and kids thumbed a ride out of my life, the bank repossessed the mini-van, and that highway was diverted and all traffic rerouted far, far away from me.

Now, I’m that creepy hitchhiker guy that everyone is uncomfortable around. According to surveys I actually represent the majority of people in my economic circle and age group. There are a whole lot of people single or single by divorce, starting new careers, starting over in their forties. We must all be behaving the same as well, for the most part, as I do not come into contact with such folks. I do have myself in a hermit-like lifestyle. Admittedly, that isn’t conducive to a thriving social life. But it goes back to that satisfied feeling with which I used to be so familiar. I’m not at all interested in a diet of fast food relationships and junk food get-togethers. I want to be able to sit around a table and drink in the company and the atmosphere. I want to be able to slow down and enjoy the experience. No one has time for that. I require too much attention. I’ve got too much to get out of my system and to work through for most people’s palates. When you have time – lots of time, but not much else – you get your fill of hearing your own thoughts in a hurry. I may be more lucid than at any other time in my life. So what? No one cares. Now, to recognize and accept that no one cares would cripple anyone. When all you have is time to review that rejection over and over again it’s torturous. And the excuses that those who make time to care for you have are all legitimate. They are actively participating in living. Those excuses and pre-occupations are also their protection against contemplating the pain someone such as me is experiencing. No one likes to hear cries of pain. But, when you are the one in pain you are going to cry out involuntarily regardless of how unpleasant that may be to others. So rather than tell me to shut up, people don’t tell me anything at all. In fact, they just stop visiting, stop calling, stop answering my emails – just . . . STOP . . . being a part of my life.

So, what is the opposite of paranoia? Because no matter how much some wish to shrug off my observations or down-play the severity of some action’s affect on my well-being, I am not imagining. Right now, I am the biggest buzz kill on the planet. I enter a conversation and people stop talking. I go to dinner or a movie, alone, and people rootch around uncomfortably in their seats. I tell someone what I am really thinking or feeling or experiencing and they stop contacting me. I write a blog and no one acknowledges it. I join a discussion in someone else’s blog and I kill the participation like water on a lit match. I am endeavoring to reach out and beyond myself and circumstances to reconnect with a larger representation of humanity. If my methods are awkward or offensive one might expect even that would be addressed by someone. What I do not want to declare, despite the evidence, is that I’m seeking humanity and no one has any. There is no other conclusion. A beggar will find more than one person to extend themselves and contribute. A prisoner can find amnesty. The convicted may still hope for mercy. I am not afforded any of these things. Go ahead – look ME in the eyes: Selfish bastards . . . Liars . . . Cowards, all.

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Winner of the Wet T-Shirt Contest

Pissed on, again. It's a gift, really . . .

I have had yet another of "those" weeks. They are now far too common for me. And, just when it seems like external forces have conspired more than enough to keep me down I volunteer to finish the job myself. I really am my own worst enemy.

I am out of touch and out of step with the world. I already knew this but hope springs eternal. Such hope, in fact, that I found myself particularly low and thought I'd give an old friend a try at a conversation.

In fairness to them I really went for the gold and went way overboard to try to get a response. I sent off an email (my emails are like my blog - too long) and left that person at odds as to how or to just what to respond.

Now, I've probably scared them away and won't hear from them at all. So, I'm back at the keyboard broadcasting my distress signals to no one in particular. And no one in particular is replying. I am so not a part of the current "scene" that I wouldn't know where to insert myself geographically much less socially in a conversation. I was never the club kind of guy and to try that now would make me the cliché'd old guy. Forget that.

So, I'm pacifying my urge to be a part of the group somewhere while I write to imaginary readers. All of these little messages in bottles that I'm just tossing out and waiting for the winds and currents to change and help me reach out to someone.

I guess when you are on the losing end more often than not it 's supposed to make winning all the more sweet. Well, at least I've got this T-shirt . . .

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My life do me like a MOTOWN song

" . . .

Hang ups, let downs

Bad breaks, set backs

Natural fact is

I can't pay my taxes

Oh, make me wanna holler

And throw up both my hands

Yea, it makes me wanna holler

And throw up both my hands . . ." **

My life really is a compilation of Motown songs. I can not delineate just how much is subliminal influence and how much is pure coincidence but I have been observing the signature impact on my life for some time.

Music is the underpinning to the core of my being. In fact, my epitaph (should they find my body or not merely dump me in a reinforced, plastic lawn bag) will likely be an old Elton John/ Bernie Taupin piece, “This Song Has No Title (Just Words and a Tune).”

Many people claim such an intimate link between music and their souls and some I would actually believe and acknowledge as authentic. Mine is certified. I grew up before digital music and also when people actually played instruments and wrote original material and did not merely sample someone else’s creativity. There was this thing known as A-N-A-L-O-G. That is significant on so many levels and I will give it its proper rant another time. Sufficient for this diatribe is that analog is a continuous passage of time. Digitized anything is a quantization which is a rate of bits and pieces with gaps and missing stuff. There is so much irony in how much stuff those born in the “digital age” miss and are not even cognizant.

Now, I am by no means a techno-phobe as I was personally involved in designing and introducing such products as . . . oh, the desktop PC and data over voice telephony that made the Internet far more real than anything in Al Gore’s imagined contributions. These are digital products. Some valid music has been and is being made with digital equipment and the sonic possibilities are remarkable. It’s just too bad no one has stepped up to demonstrate this AND, for the purposes of my argument, digital recording techniques lose too much in the translation from the analog world in which we live. This is not a lone, crazy man’s opinion. Recording studios are spending large chunks of money to find, restore, and adapt analog amplifiers and effects processors into their LED and LCD clustered studios to breathe life into their products.

Anyway, more to the point of this post is that I am so tuned into the music that usually within a note or two I know what the song is by the ambiance and atmosphere captured on the recording. I feel and hear the breath of acoustic instrumentation. I sense the dynamic coloring of the microphones used and to what recording media it was transferred. I just do. I am just a person extremely attuned to such things in my environment. I do this without deliberate effort.

I have the same awareness when I walk past a woman, by the way. From as far away as five feet I detect the pheromones being radiated from the back of her neck and know where she is in her ovulatory cycle. No cologne or anything else masks this from me. I just take note of it as casually as registering the color of her car if she were driving past. I have even told women that they are pregnant before they or their test stick knew it. This has been tested on several occasions by skeptical, female friends and colleagues. I have never taken advantage of this knowledge. If women have a sixth sense then I claim a sixth “scent.” Oh, to dissuade any women from being horrified about “smelling” (I know this is a huge area of fanatical concern for women to freak out about) Don’t worry. This specific scent is not offensive regardless of what day it is.

Relax.

As long as you are creeped out or even perversely intrigued I will share a few other bits of candor with you. I shave dry and pull off bandages meticulously and slowly. I also sleep with my eyes open and in such a shallow state of unconsciousness that I carry on conversations (which I do not recall when awake) in which I have been known to sit up and ask and answer questions. Now you know so much about me. Pleased to meet you. And, you are . . . r-u-n-n-i-n-g . . . away . . . hmm. Fine.

Somehow I will steer this back to the music.

All of this sensory perception is probably related to my Attention Deficit Disorder with Hyperactivity and a cherry on top. The things that regulate “normal” people’s thought processes do not work in my case. It creates all sorts of interesting possibilities for really poor human interaction. But it also makes me sensitized to things that the body usually has mechanisms for dulling the reception. That’s right – I’m calling YOU dull. For example, I can feel my hair grow. This is one of the recognized oddities associated with ADD. But as far as music is concerned these same failed mechanisms allow me to really sense music so deeply. I really also believe I am very sympathetic to the souls of the musicians and artists. It is just second nature for me to have a song lyric at my finger tips that is appropriate for whatever situation I encounter. There are often times where I will be examining my mood or trying to determine how something is affecting me and I will suddenly become aware of the soundtrack playing in the background of my thoughts. Invariably, my subconscious interjects what my conscious mind has yet to fully realize.

So since I am so trusting of music and the meaning it has for me I am taking a look at how dangerous that just may be. This has nothing to do with backward masking and satanic messages. There is, however, a very subtle power in the things expressed in music. Am I allowing too much influence? Many times I have heavy philosophical arguments with the stereo because of my strong reaction to either the real or implied intent of the lyrics. It is very easy to allow an idea that would otherwise meet critical evaluation “slip past the guards” because it’s packaged in a catchy tune. Now since my formative years occurred in the era just before AM radio ceased to be relevant I was basically weaned on the Beatles and Motown. Therefore my tutors in how to be a man and to face the world into which I found myself growing up presented my instruction in three minute bursts. The impact of all of my teachers was pretty much history by 1974. That means that between the ages of two (when I asked for and received my first Beatles album, in 1964) and my twelfth birthday I was immersed in the sage counsel of John, George, Paul and Ringo; Sam Cooke; Jackie Wilson; Smokey Robinson; Aretha Franklin; the Supremes; The Temptations; The Spinners; Gladys Knight and the Pips; Otis Redding; and, Marvin Gaye. There were other influences but these certainly predominate.

Consequently, I have filtered my understanding of life and love through the words and fisheye lens of the music I probably sing in my sleep. I know I sing it in the shower as I prepare to face the world each day. You know, if I examine this too closely I may well be horrified. Music is so personal and it isn’t hard to imagine that I have personified what I’ve listened to all of these years.

I became acutely aware of this is in just the previous several months. Just turning on the radio was too painful. Even before my marriage crashed and burned I had become depressed and stopped doing anything creative. I stopped writing altogether. I wouldn’t even pick up a guitar or keyboard. I just . . . couldn’t. At the time I could not account for this. After the divorce I sort of allowed for such behavior but had no insight. Music is so intimate but it isn’t exclusive – it’s inclusive. A song puts it all out there. Whatever the writer or performer is experiencing gets broadcast with the knowledge that they are making themself naked (meaning: exposed, vulnerable) to the world. It’s a desperate pleading. It’s a cry of anguish and for help and for understanding and recognition all rolled together. I realized why I couldn’t listen to the music. Music is to be shared and I have no one to share it. I would be begging to be heard by someone deliberately not listening. I couldn’t take the rejection. I couldn’t share my life with anyone.

I also recognized that I shifted from listening to viewing. I turned down the sound and started watching movies. Movies allow you to eavesdrop into another person’s world without needing to make a personal investment. You can live vicariously without living at all. I think it’s why pornography can suck the soul right out of you. You can imagine whatever selfish pleasure you need to without regard for anyone at all. You can reward yourself when no one else will. Then you can pretend you have some affirmation and solace. I now observe other people – synthetic people – actors – pretending to have romances and find love and live. Music allows no such voyeurism. You have to participate in music.

It is unfortunate that the music that shaped my thinking mostly involves pleas for forgiveness, break-ups and begging for second chances. But, that also happens to be where I find myself.

I ain’t too proud to beg, sweet Darlin’ . . . ***

Footnotes:
** Marvin Gaye - Inner City Blues (Make Me Wanna Holler)
*** The Temptations – Ain’t Too Proud to Beg

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I'm Estrogen Free! Ask Me How!!!

I have way too much time alone. Others would happily try a day or two, and perhaps longer in my place. But, I have never been the typical guy in looking to get away from it all. In fact, I generally look to get into it all. Besides, those looking on are not gaining the experiential knowledge of my circumstances. For example - when I have time then I have no money. When I have money then I have no time. Worst of all? When I have both time and money then I find myself depressed and I have no interest. The really "awesome" days are (you guessed it) when I have no money, no time and no interest. I spend a lot of those moments in asking what am I really living for in light of all this. My current life consists of seemingly wonderful attributes which many men have admitted to envying. These would include:

• I am single and not involved in any romantic relationships.

• I work in an industry where I travel all but about seventy-two days a year and am never in the same place more than a day.

• As long as I meet the deadlines my company ignores me.

• I earn a good income - My overhead and expenses are roughly one third of my monthly gross.

• Most people have no idea where I live and if my email and cellular telephone accounts were canceled I would be untraceable.

• My ex-wife lives thousands of miles away and contacts me very little.
  

On paper, I live an idealized lifestyle. What is neglected or forgotten to be mentioned whenever my friends review these "benefits" are the following:

• I am single and not involved in any romantic relationships.

• I am never anywhere long enough to enjoy a social life or make plans to even lounge around and watch a ball game.

• From my divorce, bankruptcy, and foreclosure AND IRS tax lien I am still in a financial hole with no tangible assets and nothing to call my own.

• I have two, male friends and my mother as the only remaining human beings that call me to take a vested interest in my well-being. I occasionally get a call from my children (whom I've not seen in nearly three years) but that's so depressing let's not delve into that any further.

So, for my friends who are wistfully dreaming to take my place I always ask them revealing questions such as, "How's your wife and the kids?" "What are you doing, tonight, when you get home? This weekend?" Or remind them that I can't work on any hobbies or much other entertainment as not much is portable to travel with me in a duffel bag. And I commiserate when they are struggling to figure out why their relationships are difficult sometimes without trying to always remind them that at least they have one to work out.

Then there's the sex thing. Even men have commented on the looming shadow my libido has always cast. One friend described my drive as, "a large house with a three car garage." Women who were merely acquaintances felt compelled to comment on several separate occasions that I would never need to worry about old age diminishing my interest. Sadly, they were all correct. But, that house hasn't been on the market for a while and it looks like I'll be the only one living there in my golden years.

And that brings me to the ego grinding elements of this situation. My pride has really never been comfortable with the whole "Man Needs Woman" thing. Maybe because I'm living in denial that it's primarily true but I think more because of the socially upheld insinuations that men are weak when it comes to women. There's plenty of supporting evidence but I refuse to be the poster child. Also, I very much resent the verbal slaps and inferences that whatever went wrong must certainly have been my fault and the vulture-like hovering of those waiting to watch me wither and die simply because I don't have a woman to save me. It is incredible how many women are slack jawed that I can take care of myself, prepare actual meals and basically appear to function like an adult human being; All while working without a net or the requisite feminine influence, apparently. For their sakes, and their psychological stability, I do improvise masculine sounding faux pas for seasoning when I tell them how I'm doing. Any woman that resents the stereotypes of the damsel in distress needing to be rescued by a man because she is helpless to help herself had better understand why what I'm describing offends me. While some of my favorite songs have a man professing his undying devotion to some heartless bitch who doesn't even notice what lengths he's willing to go to for her so he's compelled to spell them out - crawling, begging, working himself to death - whatever. - I'll be damned if that's going to be me. But, that doesn't mean I'm not damned already.

I think wanting a woman is a far more powerful message than needing one. I am not a player. I'm not after conquests. I don't have an agenda for collecting women for any reason from massaging my ego to any other part of me. I want to love one woman and I want to be married. That's it. From the time I was five years old that has been my ambition. Love is not a matter of chemistry, gamesmanship, bait and deception. It isn't a romantic wet dream. Love is an act of will. It is entirely volitional. I dare you to find anyone willing, however.

WARNING: I'm about to bore you with reminiscences of my life experiences with women. I'm doing this as a man that believes the last chapter has nearly been written on this subject for me - so humor me.

My history with women has been the catalyst for enjoying life but if you want to piss me me off you may ruin it by quoting, "Behind every successful man is a woman" and I might just smack you. (Show of hands - how many just wrote me off as having "issues?"). I was only five when I made the journey into my pursuit of happiness - girls. I grew up in the Northeast, in a major city during the 1960's. You could still safely walk to school, which I did in about twenty minutes depending on what caught my interest along the way. It took longer to walk home, after school however, because my kindergarten class had nineteen girls in it and I needed to escort each one to her door and give her a kiss. To think back now on what a curious sight this must have been really makes me smile. Also, the fact that as I arrived at each door that the other "Ladies in Waiting" would cluster together and await my return from the departing girl's front stoop is just so full of mysteries. That I thought nothing odd about this and that girls were so willing to wait their turn, as it were, is just amazing. There's a fascinating study in psychology and all sorts of other "ologies" bundled up in that. Needless to say it established a precedent that never caused me to pause and give much thought. I simply showed intent and they responded in kind. Only one of them took things a little too far. I still vividly recall the look of my teacher glaring at me while, Sherri, hugged and kissed me during story time . . . Sherri then sent me a Christmas card and I had no idea what tic-tac-toe X's and O's had to do with signing a card until my uncle explained it to me. I shrugged that off and a few years transpired where girls were the other creature that took up space in the classroom and of no other use until about third grade. There was A girl. Even to this day she is the stuff of wonder. Her name was Thordice Olafson and we called her "Disa." She had an older sister, Inga. They were from Iceland. She had a wonderful accent to her English and I was smitten. As you can tell she hardly left an impression on me at all. I barely remember any details about her . . . She probably set the archetype for my preference for brunettes with brown eyes. Sigh. She very sweetly told me she was not interested in me and her family moved over that summer. Thus opened my fascination with the irritating, whispering, giggling things with long hair and knowing smiles. I spent lunch with the girls and let them fight over me - well, more whatever candy or snack was in my lunch. I learned how to sit and observe and listen to all the gossip and "secret girl stuff" and I learned how to be funny and ate up every bit of attention they gave me. That's when I began drawing and writing and probably anything else that girls noticed and appreciated. I was addicted.

Junior high school was not as awkward as it should have been. Circumstances thrust me into a small, private school and I became popular because I had no competition. I started finding the few hidden "dirty books" my dad had in his closet. Found a copy of Masters and Johnsons and discovered not only was I not the first person in history to have an orgasm but about all sorts of strange and curious "practices." I had my first real girlfriend and she is another, like Disa, who makes memories about women nothing but sweet. The girls always initiated and opened the doors to new territories. I was just a willing participant and a quick study. My junior high girlfriend taught me about French Kissing and how exciting holding a woman is. She also taught me that a girl can convince herself and you she is madly in love with you one minute and be totally over you the next. Wish I had committed that knowledge to memory for future reference. My classmates were all reading romance novels, though, and I was too distracted by being told about their lusty dreams about me to learn any valuable lessons for life.

High school was in a different state with different rules of engagement. I was a nerdy guy with a big mouth who was on the fringes from day one. I transferred into the model for every high school angst movie that would be made in the 80's starring Molly Ringwald. It was a small population of very wealthy, ignored children of the leaders of American industry. I was a sophomore that no one knew and so was dismissed as a freshman with way too much attitude. It was a slow climb out of social leprosy and an even more glacial progress toward the female student bodies. There were so few opportunities for me to date that my father actually sat me down and asked me if I were gay. It didn't help that I had gay friends among the artists and intelligencia (of which I was unaware until they started professing their love to me) or that the few girls I did approach left no doubt they wanted nothing to do with me. I had one wonderful friend that had all of my same interests, was super sweet, filled out fuzzy sweaters like no one else and had long strawberry blonde hair. We wrote poems and shared our collective pangs of unrequited love. She was my greatest supporter and kept everything I ever wrote, convinced that I would be famous. We would show up at parties, alone, and ultimately find each other and spend most of the evening snuggled up in a chair consoling each other with promises that one day would dawn where our pining for someone to love would be over. We cuddled, maybe kissed but never pursued anything further. It is quite possible I was just too stupid to realize she was making herself painfully available to me. I couldn't. I loved her too much, if that makes any sense.

And, other girls finally started taking notice and I was too busy trying to take advantage to reflect on what might have been. The drought was finally over and I suddenly had some sort of grass roots reputation spreading that was making me a desirable product. The only thing that set me back after that was the fact I wanted to remain a virgin. A high school age guy that wants to be a virgin defies logic or rational explanation to almost everyone. I know. That's why I'm not even going to defend it. Suffice it to say that not every guy is after just one thing just like not every guy can't live without a woman.

No, Dad. I'm NOT gay.

This choice of mine caused two schools of thought and response. The first school was a group of baffled girls whose only experience prior to me was, "That's what you do. A guy takes you out and you put out, in trade." Some of these girls had been so deprived of any trace of love and only known the physical act for so long that my refusal short-circuited their wiring. The other school flat out interpreted my refusal to sleep with them as rejection. That, and the expense I would cause them in batteries. See, I was already looking for something that no one else around me at that age was: permanence and devotion.

This pursuit of mine was not something most were looking for as I moved into my twenties, either. It might explain why I found myself dating women mostly five to ten years older than myself as a consequence. I was looking to find my wife just as most women were shifting to the idea that wife equals bad. Being a virgin in your twenties, especially dating women who haven't been for quite some time, makes for very interesting situations. The truly odd dichotomy in my resolve was that I wanted to be a virgin when I married but I did not expect nor require that the woman also be a virgin. Again, I wanted to be a permanently married man and prove I was serious by what I didn't bring with me into marriage.

Did I succeed? Nope.

In another of those familiar situations where I followed along blindly in arrangements made by a woman I lost my virginity to someone who was merely curious if the experience would be any different (better?) with a virgin. Her curiosity being the only thing satisfied from the experience - she was gone.

Was I a victim? Certainly not.

That doesn't mean I didn't feel robbed and cheated. In fact, as I wrestled with my moral failure (during the very event) it was a numbing greeting when she looked at me and disappointedly exclaimed, "That was it?!?"

There it is. I somewhat succeeded yet all at once failed. That's my true history. After the virgin-killer I didn't sleep with another woman until I married in my late twenties. My wife was definitely worth the wait. But now she's gone. I have said in other posts it is not likely that she'll be back. But, just like the want to be a virgin when I married I wanted that marriage to last my lifetime even more. One other curious thing is that almost all of my relationships were ended by the woman and likely because of my inertia or unwillingness to accept its demise but I really don't think those are valid reasons. I found what I wanted by having those women in my life. But, each found that I wasn't enough for them.

I hold loyalty and love above all else.

I have not been with another woman in the over five years, since my wife left. I don't want to say that without a woman I can't function - but, I haven't felt like living since. When other women that I dated left I had a simple policy - "Don't think that you can come back." I meant it. But, a wife is a whole other thing entirely. I believe marriage is not revocable. That's what distinguishes it from all other relationships. For my wife (I mean, ex-wife) the door is always open and the light is always on. That doesn't mean that I am pining away and wringing my hands in her absence. But she's not replaceable and what left with her is conspicuously missing from my soul. If I didn't feel her loss I would seriously have to question my love for her. I just have no answers that solve any of the questions that I know to ask. And I have no idea what the questions are that I should be asking. I made a vow and I see no way that I can break it; even when I am so miserably lonely or turn to share something with her and remember she's not there. As cliche' as it has become, she is my best friend. I'm also not without some serious appetites for demonstrable affection.

There's another ridiculous female accusation for you - "Men are afraid of commitment."

Because of my commitment I am likely facing a life sentence without possibility of parole. I am bereft of the promise of any intimacy in my future. I am very much estrogen free out of necessity. I do not engage women in any conversation beyond polite pleasantries nor spend too much time studying their eyes or smiles because I don't dare do anything that encourages the slightest flicker in them or me. I am a very hollow remnant of my former hopeful self. I no longer have the benefit of my muses and going cold turkey from the influence of women in my life is the most empty thing I have ever experienced.

I wish there were an alternative. I don't know what to do. The vulgar answer would be to simply apply an estrogen "patch" and hope my symptoms abate but that has too many risks and complications. Besides - I won't cheat on my wife.

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