Nelson Smith (My Friend)

A close friend of mine died yesterday.

His name was Nelson Smith.

Nelson was a friend for over 50 years. He was in my high school graduating class, but he was a closer friend to my brother, who was a year behind.

Nelson has a daughter named Kimberly and a son named Christopher and a girlfriend named Mary Beth. My heart breaks for them.

He had his ups and downs in the business world because he took risks. He had guts and he had self-confidence. And when he was down he always bounced back. Always. When he died he owned a limosine service. 

He was married and divorced a number of times. He loved the ladies. In fact, a story we all tell is that at his first wedding we were all taking bets on whether or not he would even show up.

He almost pitched for the Kansas City Royals. He had been drafted by and/or signed with them, but he injured his arm, which put an end to his professional baseball prospects. He talked about it to me but never showed any bitterness. Something like that would have destroyed a lot of people.

Nelson had a strong presence about him. He was always laughing. He was a positive guy with a great sense of humor who loved to tell stories. I heard some of his stories dozens of times. There were times when I indulged him but, in my head said to myself - "here we go again." I regret that. I will miss his stories.

Nelson's death is deeply personal. It hurts. It is way too close. I am having a very difficult time handling it, and I know it's worse for my brother.

I didn't see him often - the last time was probably two or three years ago, maybe more, but the point is that he was still in my life. A lifelong friendship. A rare and meaningful thing. A gift.

Nelson died of a heart attack and, as far as I know, had never had any previous heart problems. He was in Greece on vacation. My brother told me that before Nelson left he said he was nervous because he had never left his business for as long as he was going to be away. And then said "But if I don't do it now, when will I get another chance?" I am glad he made it for whatever brief time he got to enjoy it.

But I am heartbroken for Mary Beth. Not only does she have to deal with Nelson's death, she has to deal with all the red tape of bringing him home, which I guess is going to take a couple of weeks.

Making it Personal: I am afraid. I talk about death a lot but I don't take it seriously. I imagine this is true of all of us. We think of it in the abstract. But it is very real. What happened to Nelson can happen to me and to anyone that I love. 

I am happy that Nelson was in my life. I am even happier that he was in my brother's life - they were very close. Nelson made me laugh. That is worth a lot. And when he was around I was never bored. Again, worth a lot.

Ultimately Nelson was a good guy. I trusted him. Although I didn't see him often I considered him to be a true friend. I knew he would never hurt me. I knew our friendship was real.

Nelson, I am so sad to see you go. It really hurts, my friend. But you brought a lot of happiness into a lot of peoples' lives. And you made your mark. 

Requiescat in pace, Nelson.

And thank you.

Not Much Of a Cook

Charlie was on his hands and knees trying to scrub his wife's blood off the Italian ceramic tile floors that really made the entryway pop. He loved those tiles; he was Italian himself and deeply appreciated Italian artistry.

The entryway was palatial, as was the house. Very impressive. Charlie did very well for himself and wanted everyone to know it. 

He sat back on his heels to catch his breath and said aloud "For Christ sake, they made it look so easy on the Sopranos." Apparently, like everything else in life no matter how insignificant, there was a right way and a wrong way to go about it. But he decided to cut himself some slack, rationalizing that it was the first murder he had ever committed.

It suddenly occurred to him that he had not locked the front door. Big mistake, his drinking buddies were liable to drop in uninvited, as they often did. This was always a source of disagreement between Charlie and his wife Sandra. "Can't we enjoy some privacy?" she would exasperatedly ask in the kitchen out of earshot. "I want to watch Pretty Woman" (for the 38th time, Charlie thought). "I want some time alone with you" (God forbid, Charlie thought).

He always promised that his friends would be gone after a couple of drinks, but a couple of drinks always turned into a couple of bottles. Sandra spent a lot of time upstairs alone.

Charlie stood up, walked carefully around the crime scene and slid the dead bolt into place.

It wasn't that Charlie hated his wife. She was all right, definitely not high maintenance. Reasonably attractive, especially considering the fact that Charlie had a beer gut, love handles and a general appearance of decay about him. No, he didn't hate her. He was just bored with marriage. Bored with oversight, answering questions, defending bad decisions, justifying his friends.

So when Sandra walked in after a lunch date with Midge at Alberto's Ristorante, Charlie was there to greet her with a shovel to the head. Then he strangled her. Without malice, only boredom. 

He dragged her body to the fire place, which was massive. Beautiful stone work and, of course, a gorgeous hearth graced with Italian ceramic tiles.

Then he went about cleaning up the entryway, which took about an hour and a half. Charlie was pretty tired when he finished up, and definitely needed a drink and some steak.

He grabbed a bottle of McCallan 18, filled a tumbler with ice, filled a plate with raw steak tips, grabbed a long-handled barbecue fork and walked to the fireplace. He placed everything on the table next to his oversized recliner, and doused Sandra's body with lighter fluid. Lots of lighter fluid.

Charlie settled into the recliner, poured a healthy splash of McCallan's, speared a fat steak tip on the fork and held it over the fire.

He laughed. Sandra was never much of a cook but she would make one hell of a rotisserie.

I Feel Happpiness For Other People

When long holiday weekends roll around and the weather is perfect - I am happy for other people.

I am an empathy balloon.

I recognize that - excluding the rich - we are all in the same boat. I have made the point in here many times but nobody pays attention. So I won't repeat myself.

Long weekends - essentially one extra day off in many cases - gives people a sense of freedom. Of control. A long weekend allows them to feel human, a bit more alive. I feel good for every one of them.

Apparently I am evolving. When I drive to work on the Friday before Memorial Day, the 4th of July, and Labor Day, I am on the road around 2 o'clock. There are 12 cars following me and 1 million cars coming at me. This is because I live in a vacation paradise, and everybody on the opposite side of the road is "heading north" - getting a head start on their magical, mystical weekend.

I used to despise them and loathe myself. I hated them because they had some place cool to go and were done with work. I hated myself for being foolish enough to be in the position of having to go to work when I should be cracking open an ice cold beer.

Yesterday I felt none of that. I was - inexplicably - in a good mood. Checking out all the SUV's and RV's and trailers and motorcycles and bicycles on the roof - I like it when the little man wins. No matter how small the victory is.

Got me a new grill specifically for this weekend. A cheap little thing - two burners. $149. Carol and I spent a total of 3 or 4 hours putting this thing together on Thursday - we got it done baby. I fired it up today and it didn't explode. I am ready to grill.

My previous grill died maybe two years ago? and I never got around to replacing it because Carol requires diamond necklaces and mink stoles, a constant drain on our finances.

I feel no need to buy a six burner grill with warming heaters on both sides and two acres of cooking surface at a cost of $1100. I no longer require affirmation of my peacock-like manhood. I am old, I am flabby, I'm getting weaker. Fuck it. It is just me and Carol, and we are no longer party animals. 99% of the time the grill will have two burgers or two Delmonico steaks on it - that's it. Unless some Jehovah's Witnesses stop by; then we party like it's 1999.

We have no plans this weekend. None. We are going to relax, enjoy this beautiful weather, each other and Emmy Lou and Patsy, and eat barbecued grub - grilled at the hands of a master. We are fine with that. I am happy for our four days together - I don't report back to prison until Wednesday.

I am happy for the millions of people who will be airing out their souls, just being themselves without anyone looking over their shoulder. In tents, and cabins, and hotels, and motels, and RV's, on lakes, on the ocean, barbecuing and water skiing and swimming and lying in lounge chairs reading, sipping cocktails by the fire under the stars.

Let the little man win; let him kick back and relax and forget about everything for a few days.

Paradise for the soul, baby - paradise for the soul.

May

May is the best month of the year in New England. Bar none.

It is stunning the beauty and relief that May delivers. Because May delivers.

Of course, this being New England, May will still fuck with you - that's what New England does. Too much rain here, ridiculously low temperatures there. That's why when warm weather comes around, we all scramble like cockroaches suddenly exposed to light. Desperately trying to soak it up before we are suddenly sliding off the road in an ice storm.

In general, though, May is a kind and beautiful month. So many mornings this month I put my book down for a moment to look through the French doors that lead to our screened-in porch. The sunshine early on is at a creative angle, and exquisitely illuminates the green leaves that surround me. Sometimes the leaves are rustling in a slight breeze. If I can hear the breeze or hear the leaves rustling, even better. The sun improves the appearance of anything it touches and I am deeply appreciative.

The birds sing as if they are being conducted. I am so tuned in to their soothing sounds lo these past few years. They comfort me. Our hummingbird feeder is a popular place and I love to watch those tiny little birds gratefully drinking from the gift that Carol provides them.

The cats are in heaven; they live on the porch this time of year. But May, particularly, breathes life into their little lungs because they have been shut in all winter. They are so alive, so attentive, so playful, so content. It makes me happy to see them so happy.

I feel alive in May. Generally I am a dead man walking. But May kicks me in the ass and assaults my senses to the point where I have no choice but to raise my head out of the suffocating fear and loathing that sustains me, to actually engage with life. To see it, feel it, marvel at the natural joy that it can inspire.

Dig it, baby.

ALNILAM - Version 2.0

I am five hundred pages into ALNILAM.

What a book. As I was immersed in its beauty this morning I was thinking about what a labor of love it is. What I mean by that is, as enjoyable as it is to read, it is also work. You gotta commit.

The only other book I remember feeling that way about recently was Infinite Jest, by David Foster Wallace. Holy shit, that book was challenging. If you are not a reader, don't even try it. You won't survive.

Besides the fact that Alnilam is very much written in two different perspectives and in two separate columns on the same page, there are no chapter breaks. The story just rolls on. The two column thing does not happen throughout the entire book - you can go many, many pages without it - but the story always comes back to it.

James Dickey's powers of description are stunning. A description of a scene or event or character can go on for pages. But the way he does it is amazing. The words and phrases he chooses are so creative, he comes at things from deep and varying angles and describes them in a way you would never think of but can't help but appreciate. He also packs in intense emotion and fascinating perspectives and observations that make you feel like you are not living in the same world as him but wish you were.

I was thinking this morning, as I read a long passage of many pages, about Lee Child, the guy who writes the Reacher series. By way of comparison.

When Reacher gets ready to kick the shit out of somebody, for instance, the story goes on for five pages before anything happens. He's considering his height versus the other guy's, arm reach, weight, wind velocity caused by the opening and closing of the door leading into the diner, the fact that a coffee maker is dripping coffee into a cup behind the bad guy, the fact that the enemy leans to his left as if his right leg is in pain, what time Reacher had breakfast and how much, guessing what the bad guy had for breakfast based on Reacher's estimation of his body fat index, and if he is likely to have any digestive problems based on facial tics................and all this happens in five seconds.

Initially I dove into the Reacher series because it allows me to pretend to be Reacher. Now I just dabble in it when I need an ego fix; the incessant minutiae of description smothers me.

BUT, James Dickey's writing is so damn good that I read multiple pages of details with great relish.

And the story is so cool. It builds and builds and builds...............I am still trying to figure out where this book is going to go, where it is taking me.

That's it. That's all I got. I was feeling the intensity of this thing so much this morning that I just had to tell you.

Hope you don't mind.

What Does This Dream Mean?

Last night I dreamed I was enduring challenging times.

I reported to a building to attend a meeting of broken people. Not sure if we were alcoholics, or homeless people, or psychologically damaged - but it was obvious that hope did not thrive in this place.

Phase One of the dream was me reporting to my first meeting, nervous and self-conscious. Eventually I struck up a conversation with a woman; for some reason we connected. She had a tennnis racket with her.

Phase Two was me reporting back the next day; it was raining. I was unsure about how to park. As I pulled in there were 3 or 4 cars parked at an angle to the building, up to the corner of the building. I passed them, the building took a hard left turn - I didn't know if I should angle park or park straight in. I was really stressed out about this. I don't remember how I parked.

As I walked towards the building, I ran into the woman, who was carrying her tennis racket. I said "You play tennis rain or shine?" She answered confidently "Absolutely."

We walked into the hall. There were long tables set up and lots of people seated. I asked her where we should sit and she said "You choose." I chose an empty table, but as we got right up to it I felt her tense up as she whispered almost hysterically "You are screwing us." 

Then she led us to a table with lots of people and began to apologize and explain, although I couldn't hear what she said.

Everyone was looking at me like I was the enemy, with hatred in their eyes.

I said: "I am so sorry, I'm new - I don't know what the rules are."

The dream ended.

It Doesn't Work That Way For Humans

All my cats have to do is ask for love and they get it.

It doesn't work that way for humans.

It is a morning ritual now - Emmy Lou will brush up against me until I pick her up, and then the love flows like water from a fire hose. Five minutes later, Patsy will brush up against me, I pick her up and the love flows.

I go about my morning ritual, I'm reaching for a cup of apple sauce before I exercise and................Patsy rubs up against me again. Or Emmy Lou does.

I use logic - "I can't pick you up right now Sweetheart or Little One (depending on who it is), I'm getting ready to exercise, I gotta keep moving." More rubbing. "I really can't pick you up right now, I will pick you up later." More rubbing. I pick up whoever it is. It's just that easy.

I go to work. I say "Will somebody please show me some love? Will somebody please fill my heart with hope and make me feel human? Make me feel real? Appreciated?"

I get silence. 

Or "Hey, don't forget Franky BubbleHead has a meet and greet after the show tonight, not before - make sure the customers understand this."

Or "My son just got a new job that pays $250,000." 

Or "Can you believe it? I had to circle around the block four times this morning before I finally found a place to park."

Maybe I should just get down on all fours and rub up against them.

How Far Will YOU Go?

In a gesture of fanatical solidarity, I had the "Spoked B" tattooed on my forehead.

Bring on 2023/2024.

A Thin Possibility

The joint I work at books functions.

Yesterday there was a retirement party - 200 guests. This guy must have been popular.

Knowing that there were probably 202 people in the building at the same time I was there, celebrating a retirement - had me gritting my teeth, until one tooth fell out of my mouth. I switched to punching the wall, until I put a hole in it, which I covered with a framed photo of Richard Milhous Nixon.

It was truly a happy bunch of people. The building entrance is right by the prison cell where I work, so every single person had to file by me. They were all talking and laughing. Quite animated.

I felt good for the guy. He was obviously popular, and everybody seemed genuinely happy for him.

Because I work in a place that presents musical events, there are speakers in the bathrooms, so that when patrons visit the lavatory to relieve themselves or snort cocaine, they don't miss too much music.

I had managed to drive the retirement reality deep down into my gut where it could hide under all my other anxieties, phobias and misconceptions - until I had to go to the bathroom.

As I stood there pondering the wonderment of my life, the party was being broadcast into the bathroom. Just so happens that I caught the tail end of the retiree's brother introducing him - he was quite choked up. Then The Man himself stepped up to the mike. I caught the beginning of his talk, and again, it was quite emotional.

I had conflicting emotions as I returned to my cell to deal with the cretins we call patrons.

I was genuinely happy for this guy. There was a lot of love being sent his way, and so much joy about the event. People were sincerely happy for this guy. His brother shed some tears; obviously he loves his brother.

I could not return to my menial job without fear and loathing.

When will my retirement party take place?

Feels like a pipe dream.

How 'Bout It?

 There's an excellent chance that I'm an elderly dementia patient.

Jim Brown

For all of my adult life I have told people that my love for football began at the age of ten and was initiated by Jim Brown.

Jim played in the NFL from 1957 through 1965. I'm pretty sure my love of football did not begin at the age of 3. I'm guessing 10 because that would have been in 1964 and seems reasonable. But, who knows, I could have been 8, 9, 10 or 11. The important thing is I remember watching football with my father and I remember being blown away by Jim Brown.

Jim Brown did ignite my love for football. About that there is no doubt.

I was working a show last night. There is a lot of down time when working a show - it's a stupid job. I found out about Jim Brown's death while I was killing time online. I got tears in my eyes. I had to fight them back because customers don't respect tears.

There are many people I admire, people who have had some impact on my life. And then there are THE inspirations - a relatively short list that I won't go into here because it doesn't matter. They only matter to me.

Jim was on the short list. 

I remember him blowing through tacklers in Gronk-like fashion, except Jim was 6 ft 2 inches and 232 pounds. Gronk is 6 ft 6 inches and 265 pounds. Watch the footage - Jim was brutal and graceful at the same time. And he took his own sweet time getting up off the ground. He did it to conserve energy.

I believe my love of hockey and football are built around an appreciation for the delicate balance between violence and gracefulness. That started with Jim Brown.

He was arrested seven times for assault, mainly against women. He was charged with assault to commit murder, he was accused of rape, he was charged with making terrorist threats against his wife, Monique. He was not found guilty of any of these charges. However it would be naive to think he was "innocent." 

He was found guilty of beating and choking his golfing partner, Frank Snow. He was found guilty of vandalism for smashing his wife's car with a shovel. 

Jim Brown was one of a very few athletes who spoke out about racial issues in the 1950's, and was one of the most prominant African American athletes to engage in civil rights activism. He had balls. He did not take shit from anyone and demanded to be treated as a man, not a "black" man. He was a member of the Cleveland Summit in 1967 - along with Bill Russell, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, and Carl Stokes; they met with Muhammad Ali to gain support for and to recruit others to help Ali's cause of civil rights in this country. In 1988 he founded the Amer-I-Can Foundation, with the goal of diverting gang members and prisoners from violence by teaching them life skills.

He had an acting career that spanned from 1964 to 2019.

I'm getting kind of wordy, aren't I? Trying to make a point. Jim Brown was a human being. A complicated man who was exceptional at many things; he could also be an asshole.

He made an impression on me as a young boy, and inspired my love of one of the very few things that keeps me alive, that makes me feel.

That is how I will always remember him.

Requiescat in pace, Jim Brown.

How Long

Kevin read a line in a book that struck him and stuck with him.

Two guys were together, one talking and one listening. At some point the listener made a decision to focus hard on what the talker was saying because he suddenly realized that the topic meant a lot to the speaker.

Kevin was stunned; he longed for that type of consideration. He was passionate and he spoke animatedly about the things that he loved. But the people he met did not share his interests. Their eyes glazed over.

He did not know where to go to meet people like him. In fact he had come to believe there was no one like him. Such a difficult concept to grasp. No one? He met thousands of people in his lifetime; surely somebody in that crowd came at life from the same angle. Of course he had been running his life on the wrong rail and he often wondered what it would be like to jump to the correct rail. What would be the emotional consequence of doing that?

Of course it was too late. Much too late to make that change.

Loneliness hurts uniquely. It is not a physical pain; it's worse. It rips all that is alive out of you and leaves despair. Despair that paralyzes, despair that numbs the mind, despair that overwhelms all other sensation. There is only despair and nothing else.

Sadness is the inevitable companion of loneliness. Sadness so overwhelming that, at times, you just can't move. Still, Kevin had to function.  Alcohol stunned sadness into submission on those days, but it proved to be a remarkably resilient emotion.

He watched a lot of movies about loners; misfits, people who existed on the fringes of society. People living in trailers, working low paying jobs, people committing crimes for survival, existing from moment to moment in anger and fierce independence that ultimately resulted in defeat. Kevin connected with these characters even though he lived a safely middle class existence.

He connected because they were shunned, they buried their emotions, they lashed out but their very existence was denied. This is how Kevin felt, although few people would ever guess that. Death in life. That's how he saw it. Technically he was alive, but as a thinking, feeling human being he was prematurely dead.

Even so, these movies meant something to him. In a convoluted way they made him feel less alone. He would never be able to explain that to anyone and he never tried.

Kevin had cut himself off. Every time he thought about telling someone about a book they might like, a movie they might enjoy, an event they might appreciate, he stopped - because he decided that nobody cared. That realization hurt.

He would never meet another human being with the same light in their eyes as that which used to exist in his own.

He often wondered how long it would take for loneliness to kill him.

Something New To Talk About

Jack kept a smile plastered on his face through sheer force of will.

It was painful. Bobby was talking, Jack was pretending to listen - the moment was interminable.

Jack had to listen because Jack needed a job, and if you work you are around other people, and people talk. Endlessly, mindlessly, monotonously.

He wanted to kill them, every single one of them who wasted his time, who fucking bored him to death. Selfish pricks. At the very least he would be justified in cutting their fucking ears off because nobody  listens, except to the singular voice in their heads that is - unsurprisingly - full of shit.

He wanted to kill them but they in fact were killing him. Standing there day after day, quietly listening (he worked hard at not responding because that encouraged them), nodding his head, smiling, and praying for a nuclear attack. Jack was not really aware they were killing him, but he was aware of a growing physical discomfort with every additonal conversation. He thought it was psychological.

The pain felt like it was approaching critical mass as Bobby droned on.

And it was. Acid had built up in Jack's system, bile filled every available internal cavity, his organs were disintegrating, melting from the sheer causticness of his body's reaction to the mindless verbal assault he had to endure. It came upon him suddenly after decades of torture masked by iron willed self-control.

 Jack began to squirm. Bobby did not notice. Jack said "Call 911." Bobby said "What?" Jack screamed "Call 911."

But it was too late. His liquified organs gushed from every available orifice, especially his mouth and nose, which exploded internal poisons onto Bobby's face. The stench was suffocating.

Bobby finally shut the fuck up. And ran out of the room.

Jack collapsed to the floor. Dead. His body looked like a deflated balloon.

Bobby was excited. He had something new to talk about.

ALNILAM

I almost blew it.

Had a book called ALNILAM, by James Dickey in my hand at The Book Depot a while back. Big, fat 600 page hardcover book. James Dickey wrote Deliverance, just so you know who he is. More on him later.

I hesitated when I first picked the book up. It is unusual in its construction. The story involves a fifty year old man who has recently gone blind because of diabetes, which he's dealing with as best he can. His son just died in a plane crash as he was training to fly during WWII, and his Dad is trying to find out what happened.

Many parts of the book are written in two columns - the left side of the page, in bold letters, is written from the perspective of the blind man. The right side from the perspective of the people and situations he is in. So you have a blind man's perspective versus the perspective of people who can see.

As I walked around Old Book Depot Number Six that day, I kept thinking about this fat book in my hands, wondering if I would have the patience to read in such an odd way. At one point I put the book back on the shelf.

Ultimately I bought it. Good move.

Started reading it yesterday. So much emotion, the writing is insightful, inspiring, perceptive, sensitive - spectacular. And the two column thing is amazing. It's odd because sometimes one column will run on to the next page, so you read that and then have to turn the page back to read the other column. No bother at all. Thank god I picked this book up - it is feeding my soul gourmet food and making me feel so good. I never know what is going to save me.

Good writing strips away all my hatreds - temporarily - which is about the best I can hope for right now.

James Dickey wrote poetry as well as fiction. He was appointed the 18th United States Poet Laureate in 1966. He quit his teaching job in 1956 at the University of Florida, rather than apologize for reading a "controversial" poem to a women's society. He became a copywriter for ad agencies selling Coca-Cola and Lay's potato chips, and writing poetry in his free time. As he put it "I was selling my soul to the devil all day.................and trying to buy it back at night."

He was a very successful poet.

Deliverance was Dickey's first novel and a huge success for him, published in 1970, made into a movie in 1972.

Eventually, celebrity went to his head, his writing suffered, he became a raging alcoholic, and died in 1997 at the age of 73.

Interesting guy.

The Four Agreements

Just read The Four Agreements.

The book The Dynasty reveals that Brady highly approves of the philosophy espoused in The Four Agreements. TB is relatively successful - if it's good enough for him, it's good enough for me.

Truthfully, it has been on my radar for years but I hesitated to buy it because most of the self-help stuff I read in the past turned out to be trash. It didn't help me to help myself at all. Although I gotta accept some of the blame. You can't read these books like a Stephen King book - you gotta get brilliantly inspired, then jump out of your chair and commence to self-improving.

I never did that, even with the books that made sense to me. Numbness is a great way to survive but not so helpful when it comes to making change.

I like Eckhart Tolle, I've read some of his stuff, weird looking little man that he is, although his brain obviously functions at a higher level than mine does. I liked Matthew McConaughey's book, except for the jacking-off dreams thing. Point is, I liked these books but kept on whining and regressing anyway.

Anyway, I'm feeling desperate lately. My approach to saving my life right now is like a guy who falls out of his rubber raft and realizes he's drifting towards a massive waterfall. He's paddling frantically trying to get to shore, but it's fifty fifty whether he makes it or goes over the edge. So I said "What the fuck" and bought the book.

Glad I did. My impression on the first run-through (it's a small book) is that I connected with all the negative things Ruiz points out that people do to themselves, essentially because of what they believe. Self-sabotage. That is definitely me.

I also like the fact that he says everything we were taught growing up - by parents, in schools, in churches - is all a lie. Because the only thing that matters is how you feel about yourself and what works for you.

You have to fucking know who you are to be happy.

In other words, we are all just by-products of how and what we are taught because when we are taught these things we are impressionable. But they become hard and fast rules in our minds, rules that perfectly disrupt our ability to just be ourselves and be happy. And we are taught these things by people who are fucked up in their own heads because of what they were taught and who they turned out to be.

Fighting back, clawing your way back to who you really are, is hard work because you don't realize how fucked up you are - you think you are naturally being you - but you're not.

Here's what's wrong with us:

We do not speak with integrity, and do not say what we really mean. We take everything personally, instead of taking nothing personally. We make assumptions instead of dealing with facts. We do not always do our best.

I can relate to all that.

The core of fighting back against all this, at least as far as what I got from the first read, is to get to a place where you love and trust yourself - then it does not matter what anyone else thinks of you, or says to you. You know who you are, and if someone goes negative on your ass it is a reflection of their own misconceptions, fears and weaknesses, and has nothing to do with you.

But to get there, you have to untangle all of these fucked-up thoughts in your head that are handcuffing you from living and enjoying your life.

I get that. I know my diseased brain is my worst enemy - if I can get it under control and change my perspective, I can be a whole different me.

I have been paying attention to negative thoughts today. I've been up for 7 hours and have had 250,000 negative thoughts. Almost every thought in my skull is negative.

There's urgent work to be done. Because I hear a deep, loud, and ominous rumble ahead of me.

Shit, man - that waterfall's gotta be half a mile high. 

Sounds like fucking Krakatoa exploding.

A Little More Free

Fran sat at the table by the window with a lottery ticket in his hands. A scratch ticket.

It was May, the weather was gorgeous, the buds were ready to burst into bloom - such a gorgeous, hopeful time of year. Fran worshipped May.

His wife Joan was out riding her bike. Fran admired her commitment to health. She beat back age with a two by four. Fran was not quite as committed, but he did what he could. Rode an exercise bike 4 or 5 days a week 20 minutes at a clip, did some phony baloney weight work to combat flabby old man arms. It wasn't over the top, but at least he wasn't sedentary.

Besides his job kept him moving. He worked part time on a horse farm owned by a friend of his. He loved being outdoors, loved the physicality of the work, and he loved the horses. It was a good job that brought him peace.

Fran was good with his hands, good around the house. He built the end tables in the living room, a bookcase in the den. He could fix most anything that went wrong, which was a good trait to have given the fact that he and Joan had lived in this house for 37 years.

The kids were grown and gone, but the two cats and a dog - Butch, Sundance and Ralph - were worthy replacements.

All in all, Fran and Joan had a pretty comfortable life.

Fran looked down at the ticket once more and shook his head. He brushed the shavings off the table, into his hand and dumped them into the plastic trash bucket next to him.

$250,000. He had just won $250,000. He never worried much about money, but when he realized what he had in his hand he suddenly felt lighter. A little more free.

Joan walked in from her ride and said "Wow, it is such a beautiful day. I really wish you would ride with me."

Fran said "You know what? You are right. Let's go out and buy me a bike. Today."

Then he told her about the scratch ticket. Joan laughed until she cried. Fran stood and wrapped his arms around his extraordinary wife.

Before either one knew what was happening, they were waltzing around the living room.

Yesterday and Yesterday and Yesterday

Took the day off yesterday.

Not from work. Yesterday was a day off from work. I took the day off from me.

I have been driving myself, out of desperation. Researching jobs, applying for jobs, doing homework about jobs, opportunities, approaches - anything and everything that gives me even a wiff of hope that I might save my life.

I'm an intelligent man - there has to be a way for me to work from home doing dignified work and make decent money, no?

As I hack away at this dream, my current job gets more onerous every second of every day. I cannot fucking stand it anymore. But I must - Carol and The Cats gotta eat.

I am wound up like a turbocharged spring, and believe me, it will not take much for me to snap.

So yesterday I walked away from everything. Carol went food shopping, I had solitude. The temperature was in the seventies, the sun was shining, the cats were blissfully on the screened-in porch and the French doors were wide open. I was wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants. I sat down in the recliner and watched the latest episode of Succession. I was stunned at how good a simple thing like that could feel.

I felt luxurious. Decadent.

Carol got home, I helped her unload the groceries and then....................I visited The Old Number Six Book Depot. Not because I need more books - I have a bigger stash now than I ever had - but because I need peace. But I did buy three more books. 

I browsed, picked books off of shelves, tucked them under my arms, put them down, climbed up on milk crates, climbed up on stools, put some books back, grabbed other books................and, as always, took in the ambiance of the place like the medicine that it is. When I am in Old Number Six, the natural peace of the place attacks my anxieties like radiation attacks cancer.

It not only resonates with my soul, it allows me to crawl inside my soul and spend time there in flawless peace.

Yesterday was a beautiful day. 

I am at war with 2023, and so far 2023 is winning. This war is ripping me to shreds and - even if I win - runs the risk of being a Pyrrhic victory. Although I don't think that will happen. I think if I get what I want, I will no longer be at war with myself.

Yesterday gave me a taste of what my life could be. It was a dangerous experiment because my mind naturally went to "So this is what retirement could be like."

But I needed it. Needed it.

Today is another day.

Is It Any Wonder?

 Exercise banishes depression, until reality rushes in to toss the unsuspecting back into that shallow yet suffocating grave.

The Man Had Issues

I remember the day Barry took the gas pipe. Vividly.

He was my best friend, but no fucking walk in the park. The man had issues.

I'm not talking about the drinking, drinking was not the issue. I think drinking is a virtue, not a vice. I mean, for Christ sake, with all the shit life throws at you, and all the people who do you dirty, fucking alcohol is like a trip to Disneyland. A goddamn surreal vacation. Every single day.

Sorry, I didn't mean to get off track. Barry had issues. Man, he could whine. About his job, about being poor, about his broken down car and broken down dreams. You really couldn't call what was in his head dreams, though. They were more like fantasies.

Sitting around on a Friday night leaning on a whiskey glass for support, thinking about what it would be like to have money. Not necessarily rich, but comfortable enough to kill worry. Comfortable enough to tell the bossman to Fuck Off!, and walk away. Maybe not even have a boss. Holy shit - a life where you did not have to answer to anyone? How sweet it is, baby.

Barry thought he would be a good Dad. He had been around, he had strong opinions formed by the intense and relentless pressure of just fucking living. Kind of like how diamonds are born. He liked that comparison - his thoughts were like diamonds. Diamonds he could pass on to his son when they were out trout fishing.

Trouble was, no woman could hang with Barry for long. Too opinionated, self-destructive, and he called all women sweetie, for Christ sake. They slipped through his fingers like grains of sand.

The man could play cornhole, though. He was a fucking genius at it. There were eight cornhole boards out back behind the bar, and Barry was king there. Nobody could beat him. Drunk, sober - it didn't matter. He tossed those beanbags like a fucking professionally trained sniper - the man was accurate. He made a few bucks on the side here and there from deflating the egos of the generally unaware. It made Barry feel good.

There was no specific incident that finally set Barry off. He was just bored. He was 43 and knew deep down inside he could not spend another 24 or 25 years living this way until he retired. If he could even afford to retire. Too many unknowns, not enough treats.

So he walked through the door from the kitchen into the garage, ran a hose from the exhaust pipe on his shitty car in through the drivers side window, fired up the engine, uncorked a bottle of fine whiskey, tuned in the Classic Vinyl station on Sirius XM, and exited to the music that made his soul soar.

Suddenly, I missed him. I missed Barry. I missed all his neuroses and whining and pain in the ass crises.

Life is funny.

Throwing You Off The Scent

 "All that is human melted with the sky and faded out beyond the mountains and I felt, as I feel - is it a paradox? - that a man can never find or need better companionship than that of himself."

From Desert Solitaire, by Edward Abbey

I like myself. I really do. I like the unique individual that I am. Whatever it is about me that makes me unique - probably my superior intellect - tastes pretty good. I just don't know how to integrate that unique individual into society. But I am forced to, and therein lies the pain.

When I am alone, when I am in my head with no other human to negotiate - shit, man - I like that guy. I may not love myself, but I definitely like myself. I'd hang out with me in a bar anytime. 

The problem comes in when I walk out the door and I have to interact with, speak to and tolerate - those other people. The ones who judge me, don't listen to me - I mean really listen - the ones who bore me with their inconceivably selfish considerations, whose disingenuous force fields crash into my impregnable defense shield - Jesus Christ, man - it takes so much fucking energy to deal with them it's no wonder I fall asleep after one whiskey at night.

I got another problem, though - I don't pay attention to the voice in my head that likes me. Because I am too busy hating on my life to realize that I like myself. So I gotta deal with Outside The House me, I Hate My Fucking Life me, and I Like Myself me. That's three different me's rolled up into one head. Sybil faked her shit; my shit is real.

Outside The House me, and I Hate My Fucking Life me, operate on auto pilot. They are just out there doing their thing without my approval. They don't even ask permission. Fucking disrespectful. And what they do muddies up the waters. Like spreading vasoline onto my eyeglasses. The real me is off in the distance looking pretty shaky.

Who is the real me? Fuck if I know.

The worst part is that I Like Myself me tends to take a back seat to the other two. Which is a shame.

Because he's a pretty cool guy.

For Christ Sake, Abbey - Cut Me Some Slack

 "Has joy any survival value in the operations of evolution? I suspect that it does; I suspect that the morose and fearful are doomed to quick extinction. Where there is no joy there can be no courage; and without courage all other virtues are useless."

From Desert Solitaire, by Edward Abbey

Chump On a Stump

Bobby had had enough.

He had made so many mistakes in his life, and taken so many wrong turns, that his life as he saw it was a steaming pile of shit.

The only happiness he experienced, he got through drinking. And even that was tainted. Bar friends are always suspect. They are wounded animals, projecting bravado and living in cowardice. Bobby was spending more and more time alone at home drinking with his true friends.

"Now every morning just before breakfast I don't want no coffee or tea, just me and my good buddy Weiser, that's all I ever need......................yeah the other night I laid sleeping and I woke from a terrible dream, so I caught up my pal Jack Daniel's and his partner Jimmy Beam..."

Bobby's favorite song.

There was a big stump out in the woods behind his house where Bobby drank when the weather allowed. Walk out there with a six and a bottle of Beam and wallow in regret, or dream about a fictional future, or just fucking vegitate.

He was a resourceful guy and had attached a car door from a 1965 Oldsmobile Dynamic 88 to the stump using lag bolts; something to lean back against - so he could kiss the sky. That's all he needed. And he considered the pile of empties surrounding the stump to be his own personal garden.

But Bobby was tired. Bone weary and soul-dead. Crawling out of bed in the morning was like climbing Everest in a snow storm.

What was the fucking point?

On this particular day, a beauty, he was sitting and drinking and thinking about what an embarrassing waste of time and space his life had been. Had he not been born, someone else would have had room to build a life, a happy life, a productive life - a life that meant something.

He felt like a chump on a stump. And tomorrow was Monday. Fucking Monday, man. Another spike to the heart. Offensive to his spirit. Bobby couldn't take it. So Bobby willed himself to die.

He sat on his stump and willed all thoughts out of his head and all fight out of his body. He gave up in a way that redefined giving up.

And he died.

His body was found a couple of days later by Ralph and Betty, friends who knew of his secret spot. There wasn't much left; a bear had enjoyed the final buffet.

In the end, Bobby accomplished something meaningful.

Something else to think about - a conversation between Ralph and Betty on the day they found Bobby's remains:

Ralph (furiously) - "I'm gonna go home and get my rifle and hunt that fucking bear down and kill him."

Betty (with amusment) - "Why bother? You know Bobby was a loser."

Ralph, after a moment's hesitation - "I guess you're right. Let's go home."

How To Live - A Manual

 "The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at anytime."

Edward Abbey

Desert Dreams

Yesterday I went to a place from which I may never return.

I am still there. I began reading Desert Solitaire - A Season in the Wilderness, by Edward Abbey.

He writes about his time as a seasonal ranger in 1956 and 1957 for the National Park Service at Archers National Monument near the town of Moab, Utah. In the desert.

He lived alone in a trailer provided by the park service, responsible for a vast area of the desert, and was a caretaker of the park at a time when very few people were visiting national parks, so he was alone a lot. In the desert.

I long to visit the desert. Maybe make a home there. I have made many HUGE mistakes in my life that have directed me towards the miserable, tiny, unfulfilling existence I now endure. One of the biggest was not having the balls to check out the southwestern United States. I know in my heart that had I gone there as a young man I would have stayed there. My heart tells me so, and my heart does not lie to me.

Christ, man - it's fucking May and I'm still sleeping under three fucking blankets in my recliner. Because I am cold. I am always cold. No one understands that. But then no one understands a lot about me, which is why I am alone in my soul.

It's not just that for me, though. The desert landscape connects directly with my essence. When I see pictures or read about it or hear about it or see it in a movie or in the news on TV, my heart aches, as I simultaneously experience a life-saving sense of peace in every cell of my body. I have never felt that living in New England and I never will.

Abbey was an advocate of environmental issues, and a critic of public land policies. He also held anarchist political views. How's that for an interesting mix? It all makes sense to me.

In 1956 and 1957 he lived alone and loved it. Away from people, which is where I want to be. Away from every living soul. And in the desert, which is where I want to be. 

I am only 118 pages into it, but his writing has re-awakened the deep longing and sense of loss that, at my core, leaves me a lost and lonely prisoner of a "lifestyle" I despise.

I am not prepared to offer a full-throated opinion about the book yet. I need to escape to that world a little more.

And my sense about Abbey is that he was a contradictory character - in a good way. He is not the wimpy nature-lover you might imagine as the typical cliche. He had sharp angles about him, and a toughness, cynicism, and anger directed at all the right targets. He also had a deep love of nature, and an innate understanding that whatever mankind is, it is nothing compared to the natural world. I will be taking a deep dive on Edward Abbey.

I mean, when you think about it, you'd have to be a complete idiot to defend the worth of mankind - especially today.

Edward Abbey knew what he was doing.

Plan B

 "We need wilderness whether or not we ever set foot in it. We need a refuge even though we may never need to go there. We need the possibility of escape as surely as we need hope; without it the life of the cities would drive all men into crime or drugs or psychoanalysis."

Edward Abbey

A Different Version of Retirement

April did what April does - disappoint. 

Appropriately, Jim was disappointed. He yearned for good weather in April, because the month signified hope. A short reprieve from hard times, a glorious beginning to beauty and peace. April is all about promise.

Of course Jim was well aware of the fickle nature of promise. He had been around a very long time. It was always more likely that promise would go unfulfilled. God knows he had been victimized by broken promises time and time again, but he recognized that being alive came with no guarantee -  no contract, no fairness, no assured happy ending.

He didn't mind. He lived his life.

Jim lived alone in a small but well kept home in the woods, in privacy and quiet. He kept it clean, neat, and in good repair. He worked in a distribution center for a major home repair supply company; he was in his 40th year there and looking forward to retirement. Six more years.

He was never one to dwell on retirement, although recent events brought the concept into sharp focus. He was a simple man who settled early on for his lot in life and did not complicate things with marriage or kids. His days were predictable, his weekends were his own - he was master of his own domain.

Today, Saturday, May 15th, Jim is sitting on his screened-in porch in 75 degree weather. Happy to be done with April, trying to hold on to May, hold on to this magnificent feeling. Such a beautiful day. 

There is a Delmonico steak sizzling on the grill, a beer in his hand, birds singing all around him and nothing to do but to take it all in. He inadvertantly dropped the letter from his other hand as he daydreamed.

Jim grabbed the letter off the floor, stood and stretched lazily, speared the steak off the grill and dropped it on to the Royal Doulton dinner plate he favored. He liked to pamper himself in small ways, although he was blissfully unaware of the strange scene he created when he placed a fresh 16 ounce can of PBR next to the plate.

There was also a gun on the table. .44 magnum. "The most powerful handgun in the world and would blow your head clean off", as Dirty Harry put it. Jim bought the gun because of Dirty Harry, who he worshipped.

He re-read the letter, dated May 14th. "We are forced to downsize because of recent financial setbacks that prevent us from continuing on with business as usual. As of today you no longer work for Home Improvement Royale. You will receive one month's severance pay, but your benefits package has been terminated. We wish you the best."

Jim raised the gun to his temple and was surprised at how calm he was. The cold steel felt at odds with the warm May day. He held it there for 30 seconds, one minute, two minutes. As he did, Frank Versucci's face floated across his mind. Frank, who owned HIR, Frank who employed Jim for 40 years, Frank whose home Jim dined in many times.

The realization hit him like a left hook from Muhammad Ali. Frank is the one who deserves to die, not Jim. He was more sure of this than any other decision he had made in his life.

Jim put the gun down and took a long, satisfying swig from the ice cold PBR. He dug into his steak with enthusiasm. Might as well enjoy this beautiful weekend.

Frank was in for a big surprise come Monday morning.

April - A Reckoning

I exercised 20 days in April.

I lost two more pounds.

Analysis: Could always exercise more. Perfection would be 6 days a week. Until I retire - then it will be 8 days a week. Something always gets in the way - usually me. But fuck it, I'm trying.

I have lost a grand total of 14 pounds in 2023 - that ain't nothing to sneeze at. The rate of loss is slowing down, which is to be expected. Four pounds a month is unsustainable. So I gotta be more diligent and maybe push a little harder with the exercise. Although exercising on 4 hours of sleep a night is a challenge.

So that's it in black and white.

May beckons....................

Time Is

"Time is too slow for those who wait

And time is too swift for those who fear

Time is too long for those who grieve

And time is too short for those that laugh"

From Time Is, by It's a Beautiful Day