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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Laundry Day - Loose Ends and Frayed Seams

Today was not all that bad. There were several moments of measurable, if not significant, progress and I was productive overall. There were some events that had been anticipated but were not as disappointing or dismal when they did occur. I am in good spirits.

The least satisfying was finding that my business partner and I did not win a very worthwhile bid on a contracted job. As the outcome was decided on whim more than on the original criteria under which we bid, I find I have some expectations that we may actually have been favored by not winning the contract. We might, in fact, have dodged a painful and likely expensive bullet of working against a shifting standard and expectations. The downside is we both so NEEDED that bid to be ours. We are both in a hard-pressed and pretty dire set of circumstances that only money remedies.

We are both scrambling to make our bills for the end of this month/beginning of next. It will be harrowing to say the least. But, this might afford me other opportunities. I certainly remain optimistic but I would rather have the "problems"associated with too much success rather than hardly any at all as is presently the case.

Several irons are now in the fire and two have been in just long enough to be warming to a cheery glow. Both were initiated by others to include me. I am a willing partner rather than instigator (in some online projects) with one friend and composing and playing music with another. The creative juices are making a tenuous attempt at returning and I am still more of a spectator than participator in their struggles to stand under their own power. I am enjoying this but so longing to be earning a living wage. All ideas to this point have flickered but not caught fire, sadly.

So, this was a deliberate effort to not sound like I am waiting only to die and cursing each breath. I am regrouping and gaining strength to REALLY complain another day! still no real companions and only obligations but I press 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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The STATUTE of Liberty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

I Love You , Dad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

It's Not Easy Being Me - But I'm the best man for the job!

Each of us has gifts. John Lennon had, and I have the gifts of misery and sarcasm. Misery indeed loves company. John had Ringo. I have Evan.

What in the world am I talking about? A great deal of the inspiration for John’s songs was a result of spending time with Ringo. In ordinary conversation, Ringo, would say extraordinary things. Expressions such as “hard day’s night,” and, “eight days a week” were pure Ringo. These things just flowed from his lips in the middle of the monotony of a day in the life because “tomorrow never knows.”

My relationship with my friend Evan has all of the same attributes. Simply amazing things come out of his mouth without any strain or forced effort. We are members of the mutual admiration society but the difference is like comparing the design of German and Japanese automobiles. I am like the German engineers. I set out to design an ashtray and although the result will be a magnificent achievement in precision it will require twenty-six pieces and seven screws to assemble. Meanwhile, the Japanese designer assembles most of the interior with eight fewer pieces and only four screws. That is my relationship with Evan. I will sweat the details and set the tolerances to plus or minus 0.00003 of a millimeter, and include a complete ISO 9000 compliant CAD drawing package and a finite element analysis model before I even present my idea to him and he will glance at it and ask, ”Why don’t you just use a stick and a rubber band?”

My reply is of course, “Because that would be simple and work and wouldn’t be any fun, Damn it, Evan!!!”

[*sigh*]

Anyway, having Evan around simplifies a whole bunch of my convoluted approach to thinking and living. Today’s T-Shirt message is pure Evan. That is an original Evan quote, “It’s not easy being ME but I’m the best man for the job.” It’s so deep yet so simple. That’s his eloquent solution to my complex problems. When we first met he described me to others as a simple-minded genius. That sounds more like an insult than a compliment but he meant that I tunneled right down to the core of things, identified the problem, and suggested the optimum solution. What happened to that guy? Well, I think a big part of it is that I am no longer among those like Evan that just by being around – turn things around. I am not forgetting my friends locally, Randy and Steve, in particular, by any means. They have literally fed me and housed me and kept me sane the past five years. But there is a symbiotic relationship with Evan that just happened. Where Randy and Steve are real friends that tell me when I’m being stupid I think only Evan comprehends my stupidity. Every work day on his drive home I get a phone call and forty-five minutes of pure Evan. He lives 1900 miles away but makes it a point to check up on me. When he has no answers listening is enough. When he speaks there is always an answer worth my listening. I swear he has cameras and microphones inside my head.

Now, I look back quite a lot in these posts. I do so because I believe that when you’ve lost your way it is better to retrace your steps until you get your bearings rather than fumble around. Evan always points true East, where I grew up. Randy and Steve point true Southwest, where I live, now. When you are searching for something lost you should start where you are certain that you saw it last, right? The things I’m not finding inside myself any longer are back East.

Friendship, just as other marks of character, is forged and tested through adversity. My recent season of testing has been continuous and intense for five years. That produces a different temper than a cycle of heating and cooling as I experienced growing up. Evan shared those cycles with me and we were forever fused together as an alloy of allies. We met in high school . . . in detention. What better crucible to fire a friendship?! Our being found there reflected our personalities. I was being punished for defiance. He was being detained for ingenuity. Our common bond was the recognition of the other’s achievement.

I had been summoned to the head of the English department and informed that I demonstrated a real talent for writing. However, she decided that the proper way to inspire and motivate my efforts was to show me the work of a (wait for it) female student whose work was nearly as unique as mine but not as developed. Her challenge to me was that the other student would receive a higher grade than mine so that I would apply myself with even more fervor to raise the bar. I informed her that negative reinforcement would yield negative results and that if I were not given the grade I deserved I would not write another assignment the remainder of the year. She balked at what she considered an idol threat and informed me such an action would land me in detention and that I would fail the class. She did not raise the grade and I did not write. I languished in detention for the remainder of the school year without submitting another work. She awarded me an “A” for the class and I chastised her that both of us were cheated out of my developing skill under her tutelage due to her ridiculous posturing. Yes. I am still resentful.

Evan made far more noise than I. It so happened that one day as classes began a deep, thunderous BOOM reverberated through the halls of our school. The experience had all of the earmarks of an explosion. The floors shook and the assembled mass held its collective breath until all seemed good. As fate would have it that was the same day I defied my English teacher. On the third floor of our well equipped and very new school was a fantastic art studio. The tables in that room were oak with two inch thick, solid slab slate tops. Each table sat ten students; very large tables, indeed. Evan’s home room was assigned to that art room. Three days earlier while fidgeting with one of the table legs he had noticed that whoever had assembled the furniture did not tighten the fasteners. He was able to completely remove the bolts. By the fourth morning he had managed to work from leg to leg until all four corners were free of fixed hardware. The table remained together by delicate balance and its own undisturbed weight. When the first period teacher huffed in and tossed her stack of bookwork on the empty table it collapsed and the several hundred pound table top dropped like . . . well, like a rock, oddly enough. Now you know the source of the explosive boom.

Rather than learn any valuable lessons from our experiences we instead praised each other for our noble feats and became fast friends. With so many interesting adventures after that it is best to stop the account. What is remarkable is that having been Best Man for each other’s weddings and after thirty years the bond has never weakened and seems that it never will. To have experienced that once is a gift but to have experienced as many times as I have is a miracle. So, in tribute to Evan and to Randy and Steve I would like to complicate the T-Shirt slogan as only I can and claim that,” It’s Not Easy Being Me But My Friends Make Be The Best Man For The Job.”

Treasure your true friends and make sure they know that you do.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

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.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

we get to where we are by living the way we DO

I attended my friend’s wedding yesterday. It was terrific. The ceremony and most of the reception were outdoor events (located at different parts of the same venue) and the weather was nearly ideal. The first impression feel and ambience was “Happy.” I’d say that “Content” would better describe the mood. My friend was relaxed and smiling, the bride was the usual bundle of nervousness, anticipation, and excitement and she was beautiful. Not that she isn’t, usually, but she just had that glow a bride should. Despite my own less than ideal life I was honored and very glad to be a part of the lives of two people enjoying love and each other.

I got to see some friends and acquaintances I’ve not seen in a long time. It felt good to fit in and belong, again. I tried not to weigh people down with the details of being me when they asked about how I was and what I’d been up to lately. Some of it slipped out but only to a select few. I was deliberately not trying to dwell on me and fortunately with the great location, great couple, and wonderful guests I didn’t have time to think of me at all.

The thought that created this post was while I was preparing for the wedding. Brushing off a suit, polishing some shoes, and actually dressing as a reflection of my love and respect for my friends – both the bride and groom, had me reminiscing about the “me” I see before I look in a mirror. I used to prepare a suit on a regular basis. Now, I’ve worn that suit twice in a year; one funeral, one wedding. The man in the suit was and still is the image of me that is the most natural and real. The opportunity to be that person, again, is nowhere near any mirrors that I pass these days.

So the thoughts running through my mind about my friend’s long nightmare finally coming to an end and his loneliness being replaced by the love of a truly wonderful example of a woman had me contrasting where he and I took different paths. The conclusion that I came to was that it was not a matter of one having chosen better and the other making a mistake. The paths each of us took were certainly the correct ones for each of our situations.

I simply understood that we get to where we are by living the way we do. That may seem underwhelming and obvious but the truth is found where one places their focus. Living is doing. I have not put much effort into the “do” part in quite a while. So, even with my still wrestling with my understanding that if I am sincere in my convictions I must remain single for the remainder of my life my heart is not in it all the way. I am not living because I am not doing anything about that. I need to decide if I’m going to toss out the path of most resistance which would require me to find contentment only in my daily pursuits or if I am going to abandon myself to my passions and desires. Either way I need to do something – anything.

Even saying that . . . here I am. I’ll let you know if I ever do even a single thing about it.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

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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leave my MOTHER out of THIS

Today, is my mother's birthday. I was her first, her only son, and likely the bane of her existence. She has hinted at that in the past, even used it as a weapon in moments of exasperation - but, these days her maternal instincts have her denying anything but love and support for me.

I have no horror stories or psychological damage or scars for which to make her a scapegoat. She has just always been my mom. She made it such an effortless journey growing up.

She has incredible strength and a sharp mind yet a fragile self image. My friends always told me how pretty she was. Your mom isn't supposed to be pretty or ugly or anything else. She's supposed to be androgynous. Just . . . Mom. But, even I knew she was pretty and it wasn't only because she was a girl. My mom is one of the most beautiful people I've ever met. She's so funny and insightful and kind and patient and self-sacrificing. She also spoiled me rotten but . . . of course she did, she's a mom.

There has never been a day in my life where I doubted her love or felt estranged from her. I'm sorry for those of you that can't say that. But, my life at home was so secure - with both of my parents, that I have never been afraid to lend my parents to anyone that needs them. I have several friends who have lost their mothers or have very poor or no contact with their mothers. I could not be prouder of anything in my life but to boast that now my mom is their mom, too. She has a knack for putting people at ease and making them comfortable.

I never saw any conflict between my mother and women that I brought to our home. She didn't sucker them in by pretending to be friendly to them - she was always sincere and genuine. She didn't feel compelled to make a show of her dominance. Actually if anyone had cause to be uncomfortable at those meetings it was me. In a matter of moments the two "girls" would be sitting at the kitchen table with tea or something and I'd be sent off so they could talk. Somehow I would manage to find the best out-of-sight listening post (like they didn't know) so I could assuage my paranoia. If my mom took sides it was with the young lady across the table from her. Nothing about me was off limits in those conversations. My mom delighted in sharing every dirty little secret and insight she believed would be essential for that woman to know in dealing with me. You know, of course, my mom was too smart to actually take sides but the easy environment and trust she established with my dates was remarkable. Whenever one would visit they would naturally seek out and gravitate towards my mother. My mom could be their friend without losing any position as the matriarch. What I'm saying is my mom is VERY cool.

I think I'm a fairly decent son. That's about the only relationship I've not screwed up. But, perhaps that's mostly her doing? Our relationship has developed along all of the expected stages. As a child the world only existed in whatever atmosphere my mom occupied. In my very early teens mom represented gender for the first time. She took care of that issue in her usual candid ways. At the onset of puberty I was greeted with these words, "Can't you hide that thing??" And shortly after that she advised me to go get a girlfriend. Mom got all of the awkward conversations and situations. It was my mother that taught my sister and me about sex. It was my mother that asked the tough personal questions. It was my mother who had to develop a poker face so she could listen to whatever statements or confessions I made through my teens and into my twenties that she really would have preferred not to know about. It was my mother that had to endure a period of anger and rejection when I wanted to distance myself from her affection and apron strings and I really didn't need to be such an asshole about it.

It was my mother who allowed herself to always be transparent and vulnerable so I could learn and not want to be an insensitive bastard when it came to what is important to women. My mother was the ambassador to the totally foreign world of femininity for me. Sometimes that diplomatic immunity got stretched a little far as when she yelled to my date as we walked out the door, "Watch his hands!" But, she also let me in and included me in her world. I still love our discussions about her hopes and aspirations. I'm glad that even though we are more peers than parent and child at this juncture that I'm also mature enough to appreciate she is still my mother.

When you come home for a visit, as an adult, who else but your mother hovers over the bed as you sleep to make sure you're still breathing? Who else is convinced you can win no matter what? Who makes you keep going so that one day you have the ability to show her, "It's OK to stop worrying, now, Mom. I'm happy and reasonably well-adjusted. And . . . I love you . . . and you did a GREAT job."

Happy Birthday, Mom.

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I'd Be Taller If My Legs Were Longer

This insightful as well as seemingly obvious observation is a direct quote of my grandfather. He said it with all sincerity and no comprehension of the "Duh" factor. It was passed on to me as a family joke which was supposed to show the good natured folly of how my grandfather approached life. I adored that man and still do. I looked past the easy ridicule and understood the far deeper meaning he intended.

My grandfather meant that he had unsatisfied desires and dreams that he had identified and could even narrow the causes for his failure to achieve them to a simple thing that happened to be entirely outside his control. There is no arguing that had his legs been longer that he would, indeed, have been taller. I think what he was expressing was what went unsaid - a longing that was never realized. Somehow, in his estimation, his stature as a human being would have been enhanced if his physical stature only reflected the way he wanted to see himself, as well as be seen. I never laugh at other people's dreams and aspirations. If I had it in my powers and the wisdom to do no harm and only good by granting others their "what-ifs" I would not hesitate. So, my grandfather's words have become a sort of talisman for me.

I do not suffer his longing for height but I do hope I share other aspects of his lofty character and what may seem as small in other people's eyes makes my legs feel a little longer thanks to him. We do not get to choose into which family we are born. Our gender, ethnicity, geographical location for our entry into this world and similar things are not negotiable. The proportions and colors of our features, our mental processes and whether everything even functions are all beyond our control. So why are we so fixated on these things and wish away our lives trying to hide, modify, deny or demand acceptance of who we are? That's when I quote my grandfather's words. Whenever I catch myself or hear someone else making a case for being a victim of circumstances I remind myself that I'd be taller if my legs were longer.

Interestingly enough that always brings me up short. Because then I must really question myself as to why I believe that changing an unchangeable anything would make me a better, richer, happier me? I need to pause and honestly remind myself that I don't use what I already have. There is no reason at all to honestly believe that if I were handed my wish list of ambitions and aspirations that I would avail myself of them. I'm kidding myself to say I'd be appreciative and put in the effort. When I focus on my misery I'm wishing that my legs were longer thinking then I'd just step above my conflicts, hassles and conundrums. No I wouldn't.

I am divorced. Don't want to be. Never wanted to be. Looks like I'm going to stay divorced, too, because my ex-wife never wanted to be divorced, either, but staying with me proved the worse alternative. My various wishing for longer legs in that situation swirled around the rejection, the claims that I was somehow a victim, the hope that time and good will could make amends . . . and ultimately that the two of us, as mature people, could change fundamentally. Just yesterday a very good friend (because he tells me what I need to hear - not what I want to hear) reminded me that we do not get what we want simply because we wish for it and we do not necessarily get what we want even if we pursue it with all we've got. Whether I fight for a thing or squander the same amount of time wishing for it does not change the outcome either way. Meanwhile I am wasting this minute and this day and countless others suspended in my self-induced nightmare.

I need to stand on whatever legs I've really got - no matter whether or not they are currently able to support me. I need to stretch and exercise and use what I already (or, still) have. One of the largest obstacles for me to see around is accepting that I probably have no means to fundamentally change who I am at the core. That core guy isn't so bad but then he hasn't been introduced to very many people. He's camouflaged by everything I've used to extend myself artificially. I need to get over or at least find a way to see past the likelihood that I can not change myself in the ways my ex-wife wants or needs. I must not ask her to hold on for some metamorphosis I haven't the capacity to realize. I don't need to worry about how long my legs are for that one - I'll be be too crippled for quite some time.

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Do Not Resuscitate

I have had a wonderful life. I've also had a miserable life. I've been extremely fortunate, however, in far more ways than I have not. I am telling myself this more than I am bragging to you. The simple facts are clear that I have been blessed to be me.

Now; Somebody make me believe that.

It's not that it isn't true but my own focus has been so introspective and the gravity of my present situation has been so disproportionately increasing by orders of magnitude as to leave me mesmerized by the vortex which is trying to suck me under. I have no fixed points in time or space to allow me to get my bearings and secure any stability. I secretly LOVE this but I'm trying to be pragmatic and learn from this rather than just experience it. Yet if I were suddenly to die I would be totally fine with that.

Does this make me the eternal pessimist or realist? Am I simply looking for an escape? I know that's a component but there will be no neat and tidy little synopsis that sums up all of this. As far as the pessimist tag with which so many people hasten to brand me - get a clue. Just because I recognize that there is bad as well as good does not predispose me to negativity. I'm actually and genuinely looking to live. I just haven't done any of that in a long time. I wake up with this thought too often: "Damn." As I warm to consciousness the mind rapidly evaluates just exactly what "Damn" encompasses. It's the anecdotal summation to the death of a thousand sighs. Almost without fail I conclude that it means that I am disappointed in finding I am still breathing.

I don't believe in an afterlife - because death is only another turn of the wheel. By that I mean to say that once you ARE . . .you are. Forever and ever. I will not cease to be. The tragedy is that I will not cease to be whatever and whoever ME proves to be and that can be the frightening conclusion after death. So, I am not longing or wishing to die. I would not kill myself as I would not have any means to. That's the cruelest cut. If one believes they will terminate whatever present afflictions torment them by taking their life . . . How? . . . they have no power to cease to be. If one can not cease, entirely, then what is the point?

At first blush you might suspect that I am an anguished soul looking for redemption. I've found that. I am secure in that. That has not been an issue since my childhood. What has been an issue is my ability to observe the follies and glories of humanity but never translate what I have learned into action within myself. Almost all of my activities are a sort of anthropological experiment I conduct, with one exception. Anthropologists strive to be invisible and to observe the culture without coloring it by their presence. I deliberately seed, water and encourage the germination of my influence in social functions. Manipulative? Yes. But I am by no means a puppet master. I get strung along just as easily as everyone else.

So I am not satisfied but not necessarily does that mean I can not find happiness in the midst of strife. However, I am a person that likes to experience the limits of human emotion and interaction. I force myself into people's conversations and lives before I wait for an invitation (because it may never come). I love to be center stage. I am at once both entertaining and frustrating and I know this. I just never shy away from getting to know someone regardless of whether they share my interest.

None of that has been possible, lately. I am in a crucible of solitude. My family, long-time friends and even associates are all physically and emotionally removed from me at this time and I am suffering. I am isolated.

I am going through exploratory surgery without anesthesia and eyes wide open. That's alright. I prefer it that way. I just hope to wake up from all of this feeling whole and surrounded by those I love. Otherwise, if you have any say in the matter: Do Not Resuscitate.

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