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Those damn holes. They keep getting bigger, deeper, and colder. The holiday season makes the emptiness more profound. I don't want to call anybody up and talk about it. I just want it to go away. It doesn't go away. It just keeps getting bigger, deeper, and colder.
Maybe this is what getting older does to you. It is inevitable to suffer loss and experience loneliness. I see now that it isn't about having a "hole" in your life; rather, what do you do with the ones that you have. Do you watch the edges crumble into the void all by yourself? Do you throw those around you into your pit? Or do you build up barriers between you and your holes to stay out of them? I say fill them full of water and go swimming, whatever the hell that means.
I really don't know what you are supposed to do with those holes that never go away. I'm talking about the holes or spaces left when people are taken away from you. I know there are other types of holes, pits, and traps, but those are holes of a different nature. Back to people, I guess I could imagine some kind of heavenly reunion and how great that would be, but then that would mean I was also dead. I think I want to wait a good fifty years before that sort of thing happens. So what do I do in the meantime?
I need more good people around me. That means opening myself to the world again. Scary. I didn't like the feeling when I opened myself up last time. We remember pain too much, especially the last time we got hurt. I imagine at some point it gets better. I'll work through this rough patch and find a way to make it better. I need to improve at including other people into this process.
Anyway, have a great Thanksgiving. You Canadian have a great second Thanksgiving.
I remembered that I have a blog. It's not that I am too busy to blog. Well, I am busy enough at certain times and other times I suppose I'm just doing nothing at all. There's no excuse for me not blogging. I still love all my blog buddies. Maybe it is just me feeling lonely on a cold November night, but I felt compelled to reach out to you all once again. There's nothing cutting edge or thought provoking going on here, just showing a little pulse is all. I hope all is well. Anyway, let's do this and see where it goes.
I started playing my guitar more. I mean really playing it and trying to write songs again. Hell, it's been years since that part of me was alive. You'd think with all the events and trials I've been through that it would have inspired me. I need to confess: I've been fairly dead creative wise. I literally have felt that flame die in me. It's taken the help of some young musicians to get me even near that horse again. Damn, it sucks to have to admit that I'm an old man now. Hell, it may not be that I'm old, but in comparison to these dudes, yeah, old. At least the let me feel like their cool uncle.
This interaction in helping these young musicians has helped fill in the void that I've had going on in my soul. I've been beat down, feeling gutless and heart broken to the point where it was just easier to deny everything and embrace nothing. Now I'm starting to feel less shitty that way. My hiking also has a big part to play in that.
I want to try and write something good. I can't say that what I did before was great, musically, but some of it was at least fun and rewarding. A good deal of it makes me cringe now, but you have to figure that for every good song you write, there are about a dozen bad ones if you are lucky. Oftentimes, you are so attached to a bad song because of what you went through to write it--you don't want to let it go. It makes sense at the time. Then you give that song to someone else to listen to and see them not get it. Man, that is a bitch! You equate the product with your person and your feelings. I guess I didn't want to go through that process because of the strength of the emotions I've been burying these past years.
I have no ambitions anymore with regards to music, but I want to at least have it be back into my life to where I'm being creative again. I can impart my knowledge of the gear and some of what I learned about recording to these younger guys, and in return they help me feel somewhat relevant and useful.
That'll do for now.
Proof that I am going to some kind of lesser glory. Anyway, you should see what I do with Watchtower magazines.
I find this particularly funny. A certain slightly lower-than-normal functioning gentleman that I know always punctuates certain sentences in this fashion. Whenever he is telling about how he quit doing something or decided against something, he always ends by saying, "Nope, uh-uh, bag it". He also likes to place random "YEAH"s during your turn to talk. Whenever you go to ask him how he's doing, he always beats you to the punch by saying real loud "GOOD" or "FINE", so I never get past "How...". A couple of times after he cut me off this way I decided to change the question around in order to confuse him. It sorta went like this:
Me: "How..."
Dude who talks funny: "Fine!"
Me: "How'd ya like to give me twenty bucks?
Dude: "No!"
Me: "You said you were fine with it."
Dude: (smiling nervously): "No, I didn't say that."
Me: "Oh, you must've been trying to read my mind again. What happened?"
Dude: "You're trying to be funny."
Me: "Yeah sorry, I just wanted to have fun with ya."
Dude: "Yeah! (laughs) Okay."
Me: "So, you're doing alright then?"
Dude: "Yeah."
Me: "But you're not gonna give me twenty bucks now?"
Dude (gets a semi-serious look on his face): "No, uh-uh, bag it."
I wish more people were fun like this.
(This post was started a few months ago after I drilled through a board and into my finger all the way to bone. I'm okay now, okay being a relative term. Anyway, I can't remember where I was going with it, so I am posting it somewhat finished, I think.)
My poor, evil middle finger. It had a mind of its own. I really had to watch out in public. Heck, I even had to switch which hand I used to wipe my bottom, for fear of something taking the liberty to grab my attention. Don't ask.
I think this all started early on in my life. You see, my thumb and index finger saw all the action then. My index finger got to point at things and pick my nose. My thumb got to venture into my mouth, then when I got a little older, it helped me with my Fonzie impersonations. While the two end fingers knew their place on the hand, my middle finger became wildly jealous and started acting out.
My middle finger started getting in the way of things a bit too much as I grew older. This was the beginning of the real trouble, or as I call them, the "Bird" years. My middle finger would tell the other fingers that when the master raised his arm to salute authority, or other dignitaries called "assholes, dickheads, and douche bags", that they should all take a bow. Bow they did, all except my middle finger. He thought it was hilarious.
It was after many years of getting in trouble from these bad habits of my middle finger that I came to the conclusion that it may have evil spirits trapped inside. I researched this subject quite thoroughly and came to two solutions to my problem. First, I could try an exorcism. Second, I could try releasing the evil spirits through a ritual "trepanation", as performed by many ancient cultures. I didn't trust being left alone with a priest, so I chose trepanation.
Trepanation is the ritual "opening up" of the skull to release trapped spirits inside the mind. This has seemed to work for some people, so I figured that it would work for me. As far as working on my middle finger, I didn't know, but I was willing to take the risk. One thing was for sure, I would have to deceive, lay a trap, for my middle finger because I knew it wouldn't cooperate on its own.
The perfect setup: I needed to drill some holes in a board. I blindfolded him with a work glove and put him in the line of fire. Once the bit started boring into the plywood, I would slowly maneuver him into position. I paid off his brothers by promising them a week's vacation from scratching stuff that smells and absolutely no probing duty for at least a month. The plan went off without a hitch.
Blood dripped down my hand with a pulsating flow. A black mist spewed out of the hole in my finger, and was sucked back into whatever hell it came from. Sure, I felt pain, but I also felt a sense of relief. I would no longer fear awkward social moments or ugly confrontations caused by my middle finger.
And so it was, no more standing up, as it were, and I just laid back and took it in the ass. My middle finger sits there staring off into a world of resignation, a seat next to the barred widows of the asylum. This is what life is like without that middle finger, my little red imp that started it all. I haven't much left in me in the way of "fuck off and die" anymore. Their benevolent smiles hide one hell of a set of sharp teeth. Who are "they" anyway? I know and I don't know, so don't ask me. I do know that I can't fight toe to toe and win. I couldn't before when I had the guts to salute them right in front of their faces. I killed off the one little thing that did stand up to conformity. Why? Because I age and friends get farther away and fewer in number. I need a break from the fight. It's a bit pointless to keep a good supply of piss and vinegar around these days, when there's little interest in fighting.
When all of us are queued up in perfect rows, running in perfect interlocking circles, listen closely to those hands holding the cash; that will be your only applause. I did a bad thing and laid down my middle finger. I had a total bullshit overload this past year or so and just had to be silent for a while. I may have rambled and I may have not made much sense here, but at least while I made the effort to finally publish this post, my middle finger was doing pushups and slowly getting back in the game.
P.S. I say to "They": buzz off and feel slight discomfort!!! HA! Well, I have to start off small or I'm likely to get a cramp.
I just smell that way.
It's been awhile since I've blogged. Did you miss me? Well, since some of you keep up with me elsewhere, you probably don't miss me too much. I really don't have much to say at the moment. I just wanted to check in. Life is life, pretty much. I'll post something soon.
Oh yeah....
Why did Mickey break up with Minnie?
'Cause Minnie was f@cking Goofy. Badoom-kish!
My spirit doesn't earn a damn cent. My body is the one out there making things happen. Oh sure, there's all those tingly "spirit" feelings and inspirations, but that never really gets the rent paid and the dishes washed. That said, I really feel for my spirit. My spirit tries real hard to enlighten, nurture, and give me some connections that might keep me from going to hell.
I think I have it figured out, though. My spirit is like some '50s TV housewife and my body is the funny, overweight husband that gives her affection when it suits him, brings home the bacon, and beats her when the cameras are off. It really is the best analogy I could come up with.
I've thought about divorce. I mean, I'm not looking to speed things up. There's still much more to explore in this relationship. But, at some point, the spirit has had it with the body, or the body does something stupid, gets old, or just plain screws up.
I tried coming up with a suitable way to wrap this post up, but I got lost in fantasy. I was thinking about how great it would be if my spirit and body did a "Freaky Friday". I think I would learn a lot.
Anyhow, while I'm getting older, I think I can still expect great things from my body. My spirit will always have to figure out life after my body leaves, much like the housewife that takes care of her fat, abusive husband, only to find him dead from a heart attack. Let's hope I've taken out sufficient afterlife insurance and my spirit will get what it deserves.
(Reading this post while listening to the music is recommended.)
I remember it like it was just yesterday. I danced in my room, a dance that only I knew. Wearing only a pink tutu and wrestling shoes, a fine balance of the genders represented there where no one would judge; well, my dad did after walking in on me. When we recall that moment it is known as the "awkward night of surprise".
After our encounter in my room, my dad revealed to me his love of Baryshnikov. I replied "Really, dad? You like ballet too?" He came back, "Hell no! I loved 'White Nights', him and that 'ketchup' fella...er...Hines!"
"Dad?"
"Yes, son?"
"Is it ketchup or catsup?"
"I dunno. I prefer ketchup."
"Oh. Well, somewhere I heard that they put more sugar in one of them and that's what made the difference. You ever hear that?"
"I..I, well, yes, somewhere indeed. I believe it was in one of your mother's magazines. She puts them right there beside the toilet and I can't help but read them."
"You know what dad?"
"What son?"
"I've read those magazines too. There's some pretty good ideas in them."
"Yeah? Like, what kind of ideas?"
"Oh, I dunno. It must be neat to be a woman, that's all."
"Son, now believe me when I tell you this, being a woman is hard."
"Well gosh, dad. I don't want to be a girl. I just think that it must be great to do lady stuff once in a while."
"What kind of lady stuff?"
"You know, macrame, trying on clothes, and talking shit about other women."
"But you don't have to be a woman to do those things, son. Why, you and I could do those sorts of things together."
"Really?"
"Really."
"'Black Ketchup'!"
"What's that again?"
"Black Ketchup, it's got Worcestershire sauce and black licorice in it!"
"IS THAT A REAL THING???"
"I HAVE NO IDEA BUT WE'RE GONNA BE EFFING BILLIONAIRES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Aaaaaaaand then we just started shouting at every one in the house, celebrating our victory of genius, broke a bunch of shit, then called the patent office.
The End!
Hells bells my elbow hurts. Well, it hurts less than it did before. For about a month and a half, I've had "tennis elbow". Last week I finally went to see a sports medicine specialist about it, and I have since been doing physical therapy, plus wearing a nifty brace. The weird part is that I don't remember playing tennis.
What I did do to earn this elbow was good ol' repetitive motion. Nope, it wasn't from masturbating; that would be "penis elbow". No, I got this from using a hand truck to haul many heavy things, over and over for a month's time. The reason for my bitching is that I really feel misrepresented by my condition's name. I wasn't all "la dee da" hitting a damn ball around and got hurt.
I know that tennis can be pretty fierce, but the name surely isn't. Why can't it be called "boxer's elbow" or "chin-scratcher tendonitis"? Boxer's elbow would sound better than tennis elbow, but I don't box. Chin-scratcher tendonitis would be more representative of what I do. I am constantly being baffled and like to exhibit my frustrations through a vigorous chin massage, so I think the name fits.
I guess I can just tell people that I have lateral epicondylitis. Maybe then they'll think I'm dying and be nicer to me.
They say a prophet is never appreciated in his homeland. Well, I'm no prophet, but there's a lot of people in my homeland that don't particularly think I'm all that. I sense it may have something to do with my choice of antiperspirant. Anyway, those of you who can't smell what I'm cooking have got to know me through words. The great thing about words is that you can say whatever crazy shit you want, not that I do that.
Well, the point of this post is to honour (eh, check out the spelling ya hosers) my Canadian friends on Canada Day. My dream to celebrate Canada Day was to have Gordon Lightfoot and Rush do a concert together, Joni Mitchell jumping out of a cake at the climax, with Neil Young standing on the side of the stage scowling in disapproval. This is my case for why I should win the PCH superprize, so I can make stuff like this happen.
I think I lost the post there. Okay, my point was that Canadians seem to like me. You know what? I don't just like my Canadians, I loves them! So here's to all of you Canadians that keep me in business. What? I don't get paid to blog??? Well, fuck this then.
HAPPY CANADA DAY!
I do enjoy coming up with silly post titles. As you guessed, it's a parody of that Bonnie Tyler song "Total Eclipse of the Heart". The song is corny as hell, but I think just about everyone has secretly listened to it, sung along with abandon, and then cried like a bitch. Have you seen the video to this song? Holy pancakes! That's some weird-ass shit right there. Let's see...you've got flying choirboys who's eyeballs are replaced with a demonic glow, homoerotic male prep school scenes, wind where there shouldn't be wind, ninjas, and the woman, who I assume is their teacher, is getting all bothered thinking about it all. The end scene shows the Dean introducing her to her new batch of statutory rape hopefuls. I think that the last thing I would want to hear before I was molested by my teacher is "turn around, bright eyes", 'cause "forever is gonna start tonight".
Opinions?
Thanks to Christielli, via another medium, I found out that my birthday is also part of the Fibonacci sequence, which has something to do with the Golden Ratio, which can be used to make spirals, which also describes my life and the aging process. I don't think that referring to my life as a spiral is accurate. I like thinking that this current day in my life just says that I'm perfectly twisted.
I hope all of you are having great days.
I can't believe the weird things that have been going on. That's all I have to say. I hope you all are doing well. In addition to all the crazy going on in the world, I've had a rather bizarre day. It must be the drinking water. Maybe I should start taking acid. I think the world would start making more sense. I'm fine, but just really confused. If I had the patience, I'd explain everything. Yes, I'm a bit frustrated and confused at the moment, so I'm guessing that after you read this post you will be feeling the same way.
Here's a tip: whenever life dishes out WTF moments, just say "wheeeeeeeee!"
Rudyard Kipling once wrote....
but now he's dead so now he don't.
How's everybody doing since I've stopped being a good blogger?
A couple of days ago, I was switching out a UPS backup for a computer that runs a standardized test scanner. The lady that runs the machine was standing by waiting for the machine to power up after I had done this. I had some guys help me move the workstation and they were just hanging around as well. This machine was taking its time and I needed to run to the loo real quick like. So, I go and do my business and when I returned one of the guys says, "Hey, did you know when she misses a period that they pay some guy to come out and fix it?" I couldn't help it. I laughed until I bled internally. The lady turned bright red from embarrassment and tried to clarify that he was referring to the test forms and not her reproductive system.
I don't know what is wrong with me--why I haven't been posting much. Whatever it is, it will work itself out eventually. Then it will work itself back in again and then I will be all distant once more. It's a vicious cycle that probably points to some kind of psychosis. Whatever, right?
I just wanted to get all Stevie Wonder on you guys and say I just called to say I love you. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go pick up my meds.
I'm not dead. I don't even smell bad. Hell, I'm not even afflicted with rigor (subject to change in certain locations). I've just been really busy doing stuff that isn't all that interesting.
You weren't expecting anything like "My time in Space Academy" were you?
Oh what fun it is to sing a Slayer song tonight! Go on, I dare you to go next door and start singing "Raining Blood" so loud that you shred your vocal cords. Wheeeeeeeeeee! Seriously, don't do that. Merry Christmas!!!
But the van is nowhere in sight.
Whatever "it" is that I've waited for, to settle all the scores, right the wrongs, and make all my dreams come true, it ain't a coming. Who is this Santa Claus of my life? Answer: God. I've made God into a caricature. I have to conclude that I don't know God well enough. I wouldn't know him enough to pick him out of a crowded room of other gods. What I'm trying to say here is that I need to reboot, repent, and take heed of what's really going on in the universe. It's me, not you God.
Well, that's quite the assemblage of profundities, coming from me: a person from such a lowly station in life. God will do whatever it is that God does. I can't stop that. So if California sinks into the sea, all I will say is "Well, that sucks". Maybe I have control over the small stuff, the stuff that I'm supposed to not sweat about. Yea verily, I will have to make my life better myself and not wait around for manna to fall from the heavens. If manna does fall down to me, I will look up and say, without any irony, "thank you".
Tonight I'm starting off fresh. We'll talk this through and see where we go from here, okay? I'm prepared to change and I'll start by not assuming I got you all figured out. I've certainly a lot of other people telling me stuff about you, like they got keys to your vacation home, or something; maybe they do. Like I said, I need to pay attention. I've shown up to the restaurant looking for my "blind date" and assumed it was the blond in the booth, when it was the brunette at the window table.
Sometimes I try to avoid being human, or feel like one. The past five years have taken their toll on me. I've just seen too many inevitable story lines playing out before me and it leaves me depressed. I guess my attempts to minimize the emotional impact of these future events has left me a tad dead inside. The biggest mistake one can do to their spirit is to deny it humanity.
So my confession to God and man, my great sin: I am a human being.
Moving on, I've had a couple of weeks to sit on this post. Parts of it still ring true and others seem to have passed. From old folklore, you have a character called the "Trickster". A trickster has been at play in my life, setting traps and playing around with the order of things. These acts of mischief seem malicious, but looking back, my trickster was trying to get me to pay attention to what really goes on in the world. I would dwell on the negative aspects of what I saw. This has spun me out many times.
I realize now that I have been given warnings, lessons, and different perspectives of life. I am responsible if I do not take advantage of it all. I am the one who will suffer if I do nothing. I am able, one way or another, to inflict damage, or to heal myself. One must choose to forgive and love oneself.
It is easy to see how frustration causes a temporary blindness to one's surroundings. Frustration can cause you to not see the forces around you that offer help or cause harm. I have done this frustration thing for too long; however, I know that I will never be without it as long as I live.
That light cutting through the storm clouds is where I need to set my course. There will be plenty of good and bad to go around, but I can't stop moving. Destination unknown, possibly, yet I will set sail and see what happens next.
Buck
Cluck (The producers told me they'd accept it)
Muck
Stuck
Shuck
Huck
Yuck
Luck
Duck
Puck
Tuck
Pluck
Meh, I'm still depressed.
