Man, oh man - here we go.
Melancholy creeps. It is inevitable at this time of year. At least if you are a sentient being.
Thanksgiving was magnificent. My family does it up right. And I lucked out.
Had Thursday and Friday off from both jobs. Was supposed to work Saturday night but woke up sick as a dog Saturday morning. Boss man found a replacement. I was jubilant. Tells you where my head is at when I would rather be sick than go to work.
Had Sunday off and then.......it snowed on Monday. Took the day off. So I ended up with 5 days off. In a row.
Got me some Christmas spirit; came out of nowhere. But it got beat out of me. Started when I focused on the fact I was only gonna get one day off for Christmas. Then between nauseating Christmas commercials and all the phony "Merry Christmases" rolling off peoples' lips - bile rose up in my throat.
Got lucky again, though. Had Sat and Sun off before Christmas, took Monday off and then.............. Job I decided they would close on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. So I ended up with 5 days off. In a row. Again.
But I did have to get up at 5:30 on Dec 26 for Job II. That sucked royally. Completely destroyed the Christmas glow. And again at 5:30 on Dec 27.
Had to get some whining in. Live with it.
And here I am. Dec 28. Ruminating.
2019 about to come crashing down. At my age it feels like another year gone by. And another year gone by. And another and another and another and another..............
When I "turned" 60 it occurred to me that the decade between 50 and 60 flashed by like a bullet train. I decided I needed to slow things down, dig in my heels, put the brakes on and any other cliche you want to torture.
Next week I will be 66. I never even saw the last 6 years.
Jesus fucking Christ. Time moves fast. For a while life dribbles out of you. Then it gushes like blood from a severed artery.
Started this blog up in 2011. Eight years ago. That means at least 7 new years have been commented on. Occurred to me I could go back and read my thoughts around this time of year to teach me a lesson. Light a fire under my ass.
Because in a nutshell I would read the same shit over and over and over again. I hate my life. I gotta make changes. I'm running out of time. How do I get money. How do I get happy.
I don't think that would serve any purpose. I am well aware of my short comings. Don't need to bludgeon my psyche.
I always try to come up with some specific gift to make my birthday special. Treat my self. But it never accomplishes anything. Buying something from Amazon does nothing for the soul.
Keith got me thinking last week. We were having a conversation and he said I should do something for myself instead of buying something for myself. Like learning to meditate.
Makes perfect sense. Because really, the bottom line, the most obvious solution to my unhappiness, is to change my lifestyle, my approach to life. What I do. The way I think.
A seed has been planted. Doesn't necessarily mean anything because I am not sure at this late date that my brain is fertile enough to nurture growth. But it might be. One never knows.
66 is 4 days away.
I am a little nervous about it. I don't like the number. I'm a tad nervous about 2020. Every new year carries a little more weight.
More to come....................
Saturday, December 28, 2019
Tuesday, December 17, 2019
As You Well Know
"The effects of their drinks had now entered on that secondary stage, vividly described in temperance handbooks, when the momentary illusion of well-being and exhilaration gives place to melancholy, indigestion, and moral decay."
From "Vile Bodies" by Evelyn Waugh
From "Vile Bodies" by Evelyn Waugh
Sunday, December 8, 2019
December 8
Happy Birthday, Gregg Allman.
You would have been 72 today.
Still bothers me greatly that I will never see you perform live again. Some of my greatest memories are of Allman Brothers concerts. The music, the atmosphere, the people, the insanity. The music. You brought me a great deal of happiness; you helped me get away from my life and my troubles, you made me sing out loud with thousands of my closest friends.
You were the blues, my friend. Requiescat in pace along with Duane, Butch, and Berry.
Happy Birthday, Jim Morrison.
You would have been 76 today.
To me you are a guy who rock 'n roll and the music business literally killed. Countless musicians died from excess - too much money, too much booze, too many drugs, too much fun. Understandable.
But you never really wanted to be a rock star. You were a poet. You wanted to write. I love your poetry even though some of it is over my head. But you got sucked into the music world, got raped by the business and could not get out. You were destroyed, stripped of your dignity and individuality. I love your poetry. I love the music of The Doors.
Requiescat in pace, my friend.
John Lennon.
You were killed 39 years ago today. Thirty nine fucking years ago. You were forty years old. Forty. I was sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast in Billerica before going off to my ridiculous job the next morning, listening to the radio. They played a Beatles song. Then another. And I got chills. Soon I knew that you were dead. You would think I would have known about it - they announced it on Monday night football the night before. Howard Cosell, who was visibly shaken. Rightfully so. I must have gone to bed early that night.
You would have been 79 on October 9 of this year. Wish you were still around. You were on Richard Nixon's hit list because of the way you protested against him. You were harassed by immigration, the IRS and the FBI. I would love to hear what you would have to say about trump. You stood up for what you believed in and campaigned tirelessly for peace. I loved your sarcastic wit. I loved you. Requiescat in pace, my friend.
Related: Mark David Chapman. Drop dead, motherfucker so you can rot in hell for eternity. You have been in prison since killing John Lennon but that punishment is not enough. I want you in hell, writhing in pain for eternity. You shot Lennon in the back, you fucking coward. Four times. As he was entering his home where his son was sleeping.
I cannot end on that negative note.
Gregg Allman, Jim Morrison and John Lennon were three men who brought me so much joy, soothed my soul and breathed life into it. You made my life better.
There is no greater gift.
You would have been 72 today.
Still bothers me greatly that I will never see you perform live again. Some of my greatest memories are of Allman Brothers concerts. The music, the atmosphere, the people, the insanity. The music. You brought me a great deal of happiness; you helped me get away from my life and my troubles, you made me sing out loud with thousands of my closest friends.
You were the blues, my friend. Requiescat in pace along with Duane, Butch, and Berry.
Happy Birthday, Jim Morrison.
You would have been 76 today.
To me you are a guy who rock 'n roll and the music business literally killed. Countless musicians died from excess - too much money, too much booze, too many drugs, too much fun. Understandable.
But you never really wanted to be a rock star. You were a poet. You wanted to write. I love your poetry even though some of it is over my head. But you got sucked into the music world, got raped by the business and could not get out. You were destroyed, stripped of your dignity and individuality. I love your poetry. I love the music of The Doors.
Requiescat in pace, my friend.
John Lennon.
You were killed 39 years ago today. Thirty nine fucking years ago. You were forty years old. Forty. I was sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast in Billerica before going off to my ridiculous job the next morning, listening to the radio. They played a Beatles song. Then another. And I got chills. Soon I knew that you were dead. You would think I would have known about it - they announced it on Monday night football the night before. Howard Cosell, who was visibly shaken. Rightfully so. I must have gone to bed early that night.
You would have been 79 on October 9 of this year. Wish you were still around. You were on Richard Nixon's hit list because of the way you protested against him. You were harassed by immigration, the IRS and the FBI. I would love to hear what you would have to say about trump. You stood up for what you believed in and campaigned tirelessly for peace. I loved your sarcastic wit. I loved you. Requiescat in pace, my friend.
Related: Mark David Chapman. Drop dead, motherfucker so you can rot in hell for eternity. You have been in prison since killing John Lennon but that punishment is not enough. I want you in hell, writhing in pain for eternity. You shot Lennon in the back, you fucking coward. Four times. As he was entering his home where his son was sleeping.
I cannot end on that negative note.
Gregg Allman, Jim Morrison and John Lennon were three men who brought me so much joy, soothed my soul and breathed life into it. You made my life better.
There is no greater gift.
Monday, December 2, 2019
Snow
My friend Jacques (from Italy) hates snow.
He fucking hates it.
I randomly ran into him today and worked really hard to avoid the topic but it became impossible. I asked "How you doing, man?"
He said:
"How am I doing? It fucking snowed last night. IT FUCKING SNOWED! I had to shovel the fucking stuff. It took me 1 and 1/2 hours. My back hurts. My left knee hurts. My arms hurt. I am fucking exhausted. I hate snow and I hate my fucking life.
Do you know what snow is? It is piss. It is shit. I couldn't be any more pissed off if actual shit came out of the sky and buried my car. Snow is every broken promise ever made to me. It is cancer. Arthritis. It is the public beheading of an innocent man.
Snow is a royal pain in the ass. It is inconvenient. It is stupid. I am stupid for dealing with it.
If a sweet, sexy whore bit my dick off, that would be snow. If you bashed in every bone in my face with a baseball bat, that would be snow. If you buried me up to my neck in the sand at low tide and poured honey over my head next to a red ant hill, that would be snow.
Snow sucks the life out of you. It mocks you. It torments you and laughs while you shovel it.
Snow is ass cancer.
The mailman won't deliver the fucking snow unless I shovel the mailbox out. Do you know how hard that is to do after plows have gone up and down the street repeatedly? I want to wait for the mailman in a snowbank and, as he drives by my mailbox, I want to drag him from his fucking government vehicle and cut off his fingers and shove them down his throat.
Snow, man. I hate it and it hates me. It diminishes my life, reducing an already insignificant thing down to a barely visible speck. It fucking kills me. I wish it would kill me so I would never have to shovel it again. But no, it never takes it quite that far. It leaves me broken, crippled and defeated, with just enough life left in me to have to deal with it again on another day."
I was speechless.
But I agreed in principle.
He fucking hates it.
I randomly ran into him today and worked really hard to avoid the topic but it became impossible. I asked "How you doing, man?"
He said:
"How am I doing? It fucking snowed last night. IT FUCKING SNOWED! I had to shovel the fucking stuff. It took me 1 and 1/2 hours. My back hurts. My left knee hurts. My arms hurt. I am fucking exhausted. I hate snow and I hate my fucking life.
Do you know what snow is? It is piss. It is shit. I couldn't be any more pissed off if actual shit came out of the sky and buried my car. Snow is every broken promise ever made to me. It is cancer. Arthritis. It is the public beheading of an innocent man.
Snow is a royal pain in the ass. It is inconvenient. It is stupid. I am stupid for dealing with it.
If a sweet, sexy whore bit my dick off, that would be snow. If you bashed in every bone in my face with a baseball bat, that would be snow. If you buried me up to my neck in the sand at low tide and poured honey over my head next to a red ant hill, that would be snow.
Snow sucks the life out of you. It mocks you. It torments you and laughs while you shovel it.
Snow is ass cancer.
The mailman won't deliver the fucking snow unless I shovel the mailbox out. Do you know how hard that is to do after plows have gone up and down the street repeatedly? I want to wait for the mailman in a snowbank and, as he drives by my mailbox, I want to drag him from his fucking government vehicle and cut off his fingers and shove them down his throat.
Snow, man. I hate it and it hates me. It diminishes my life, reducing an already insignificant thing down to a barely visible speck. It fucking kills me. I wish it would kill me so I would never have to shovel it again. But no, it never takes it quite that far. It leaves me broken, crippled and defeated, with just enough life left in me to have to deal with it again on another day."
I was speechless.
But I agreed in principle.
Sunday, December 1, 2019
He Writes Poetry
Poetry is a strange beast.
99% of the populace have no exposure to it, by choice or by circumstance. Of those who do, 95% hate it.
Yet time and time again, I hear people say "He writes poetry" when they are trying to pass somebody off as sensitive or intelligent. In the most bizarre of circumstances.
The most recent of which was a discussion I heard on Golic and Wingo. Sports talk radio. Talking about the Myles Garrett/Mason Rudolph stupidity.
One of the commentators actually said about Garrett "He writes poetry". He was not defending the guy - they trashed him pretty good. He was trying to make the point that Garrett is a different sort of cat, a guy who thinks differently, and who knows how someone like that will react in any given situation. He writes poetry.
Poetry runs the gamut from trash to juvenile vulgarity to exquisite expression. I read a lot of poetry but, admittedly, in spurts. I read a lot for a while then step away from it for a while. Typically a long while.
Also, admittedly, I am not the guy to be objective about any discussion about the merits of poetry. I worship words. Sidebar: I wish speech could be outlawed. Then we would all be forced to communicate in writing. Which eliminates interruptions. I despise people who interrupt when I am talking. I want to rip out their tongue and staple it to their forehead.
More to the point, I worship concepts concisely stated. Song lyrics. Poetry. No meandering, no overflow, no excess words. Thoughts expressed in a direct (or creatively indirect) way so powerful they knock me on my ass.
That's what I love about poetry.
But poetry is like an exotic animal. Something you know little about, something you rarely, if ever, experience. So it becomes mystical and magical and subject to all kinds of subjective erroneous opinions.
Most of the time the people who say "He writes poetry" don't know a fucking thing about poetry. They probably hate it, if they have any opinion at all. But they say that, and wrapped up in those words are all kinds of assumptions about intelligence, creativity, sensitivity and god knows what else.
If you put Bukowski's writings in front of them and that of William Butler Yeats and asked "Which of these guys writes poetry?", most people would choose Yeats and laugh at Bukowski.
They would be wrong. Poetry is unlimited. It covers all topics, includes many different styles and is written by humans so diverse they cover the entire spectrum of human existence. (See William Shakespeare vs Gregory Corso).
My meandering point is that the expression "He writes poetry" is meaningless and usually rolls off the tongues of the uninformed.
I write poetry, for Christ sake. It sucks.
But it feels good.
99% of the populace have no exposure to it, by choice or by circumstance. Of those who do, 95% hate it.
Yet time and time again, I hear people say "He writes poetry" when they are trying to pass somebody off as sensitive or intelligent. In the most bizarre of circumstances.
The most recent of which was a discussion I heard on Golic and Wingo. Sports talk radio. Talking about the Myles Garrett/Mason Rudolph stupidity.
One of the commentators actually said about Garrett "He writes poetry". He was not defending the guy - they trashed him pretty good. He was trying to make the point that Garrett is a different sort of cat, a guy who thinks differently, and who knows how someone like that will react in any given situation. He writes poetry.
Poetry runs the gamut from trash to juvenile vulgarity to exquisite expression. I read a lot of poetry but, admittedly, in spurts. I read a lot for a while then step away from it for a while. Typically a long while.
Also, admittedly, I am not the guy to be objective about any discussion about the merits of poetry. I worship words. Sidebar: I wish speech could be outlawed. Then we would all be forced to communicate in writing. Which eliminates interruptions. I despise people who interrupt when I am talking. I want to rip out their tongue and staple it to their forehead.
More to the point, I worship concepts concisely stated. Song lyrics. Poetry. No meandering, no overflow, no excess words. Thoughts expressed in a direct (or creatively indirect) way so powerful they knock me on my ass.
That's what I love about poetry.
But poetry is like an exotic animal. Something you know little about, something you rarely, if ever, experience. So it becomes mystical and magical and subject to all kinds of subjective erroneous opinions.
Most of the time the people who say "He writes poetry" don't know a fucking thing about poetry. They probably hate it, if they have any opinion at all. But they say that, and wrapped up in those words are all kinds of assumptions about intelligence, creativity, sensitivity and god knows what else.
If you put Bukowski's writings in front of them and that of William Butler Yeats and asked "Which of these guys writes poetry?", most people would choose Yeats and laugh at Bukowski.
They would be wrong. Poetry is unlimited. It covers all topics, includes many different styles and is written by humans so diverse they cover the entire spectrum of human existence. (See William Shakespeare vs Gregory Corso).
My meandering point is that the expression "He writes poetry" is meaningless and usually rolls off the tongues of the uninformed.
I write poetry, for Christ sake. It sucks.
But it feels good.
These Are Words That Speak To Me
........................."To Court destruction with taunts-with invitations!
To ascend-to leap to the heavens of the love indicated to me!
To rise thither with my inebriate Soul!
To be lost, if it must be so!
To feed the remainder of life with one hour of fulness and freedom!
With one brief hour of madness and joy."
excerpted from "Leaves of Grass" by Walt Whitman
To ascend-to leap to the heavens of the love indicated to me!
To rise thither with my inebriate Soul!
To be lost, if it must be so!
To feed the remainder of life with one hour of fulness and freedom!
With one brief hour of madness and joy."
excerpted from "Leaves of Grass" by Walt Whitman
Just A Thought
"Life was precious. Life was all that mattered. Yet it meant nothing if you weren't living as you wanted."
"No Beast So Fierce" by Edward Bunker
"No Beast So Fierce" by Edward Bunker
And So It's December (and what have you done?)
Today is December 1.
I let a lot of things slide in 2019. But when December rolls around I get reflective.
Carol and I have been on a bit of an emotional roll since 2016. Somewhat tumultuous.
I semi-retired in 2016. Turned out to be meaningless.
I was diagnosed with melanoma in 2016. Had a chunk of skin removed from my back, a snip off the tip of my nose. The back operation was more involved, obviously, but kind of fun because the surgeon was a hot shit. Played blues on the radio at my request and then proceeded to talk blues with me as he hacked away. Again, compared to what was to come in our lives, my problems turned out to be meaningless.
In 2017 Carol was diagnosed with breast cancer; a tumor was discovered in her brain. She had a mastectomy in September (Labor Day weekend), the tumor removed on November 2. She fought back like a motherfucker.
2018 was a blur. A strangely nothing year. A rebound and deal with this shit year.
In 2019, Carol's job was cut from full to part time. We had to deal with switching over from regular insurance to Medicare. Dealing with Social Security and NH Retirement Fund for Carol. Lots of questions, many decisions. Stressful.
I grabbed a second part time job to try to make our lives a little better. I am tired and stressed.
Today is December 1. I am wondering what 2020 will bring. I feel we have a responsibility to do whatever is within our control to make our lives better. We don't have a lot of time left, and we deserve as much happiness and comfort as we can possibly maneuver.
Selling the house is a number one priority in 2020. That is the single most meaningful thing we can do to knock some pressure off our shoulders. Sell the house, buy a mobile home outright - no mortgage.
The two job thing on my part is designed to make that possible. Make as many repairs to the house as we can afford so potential buyers will be dazzled into offering us one million dollars.
Beyond that I don't know. We like to believe if we sell and buy we will eliminate the need to work. I am not sure about that, but I am willing to believe that, or at least hope for it. My strongest wish is to end my life in dignity and pride. Working two part time demeaning jobs does not fit into that equation.
Carol turned 66 in November. I will be 66 on January 1. Those are big numbers. Intimidating.
2016. 2017. 2018. 2019. Roller coaster ride. Unbalanced. Fear filled, stress filled, less than ideal.
2020. Reaching for hope. Reaching for happiness. Reaching for peace.
We shall see.
I let a lot of things slide in 2019. But when December rolls around I get reflective.
Carol and I have been on a bit of an emotional roll since 2016. Somewhat tumultuous.
I semi-retired in 2016. Turned out to be meaningless.
I was diagnosed with melanoma in 2016. Had a chunk of skin removed from my back, a snip off the tip of my nose. The back operation was more involved, obviously, but kind of fun because the surgeon was a hot shit. Played blues on the radio at my request and then proceeded to talk blues with me as he hacked away. Again, compared to what was to come in our lives, my problems turned out to be meaningless.
In 2017 Carol was diagnosed with breast cancer; a tumor was discovered in her brain. She had a mastectomy in September (Labor Day weekend), the tumor removed on November 2. She fought back like a motherfucker.
2018 was a blur. A strangely nothing year. A rebound and deal with this shit year.
In 2019, Carol's job was cut from full to part time. We had to deal with switching over from regular insurance to Medicare. Dealing with Social Security and NH Retirement Fund for Carol. Lots of questions, many decisions. Stressful.
I grabbed a second part time job to try to make our lives a little better. I am tired and stressed.
Today is December 1. I am wondering what 2020 will bring. I feel we have a responsibility to do whatever is within our control to make our lives better. We don't have a lot of time left, and we deserve as much happiness and comfort as we can possibly maneuver.
Selling the house is a number one priority in 2020. That is the single most meaningful thing we can do to knock some pressure off our shoulders. Sell the house, buy a mobile home outright - no mortgage.
The two job thing on my part is designed to make that possible. Make as many repairs to the house as we can afford so potential buyers will be dazzled into offering us one million dollars.
Beyond that I don't know. We like to believe if we sell and buy we will eliminate the need to work. I am not sure about that, but I am willing to believe that, or at least hope for it. My strongest wish is to end my life in dignity and pride. Working two part time demeaning jobs does not fit into that equation.
Carol turned 66 in November. I will be 66 on January 1. Those are big numbers. Intimidating.
2016. 2017. 2018. 2019. Roller coaster ride. Unbalanced. Fear filled, stress filled, less than ideal.
2020. Reaching for hope. Reaching for happiness. Reaching for peace.
We shall see.
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