Mothers Day (Devoid of Sentiment)

Mothers Day was one of those holidays we were commanded to make a 200 mile round trip to pay homage to my mother. For years and years and years and years......................like a prison sentence.

Actually we were commanded to do this for every holiday you can think of. Including Palm Sunday.

Who the fuck celebrates Palm Sunday? My family did.

There was no sensitivity in my heart on mothers day. Partly because celebrating the day was an obligation motivated by fear, not joy. Partly because of the kind of mother my mother was. To me, anyway.

I was the disappointment, my brother was the golden boy. That's a story for another time and place.

I have one burning, specific memory of a mothers day. I realized at the last minute I had no present for my mother, mainly because I did not care so I did not plan ahead. I ran out to get one. In Henniker. Henniker is a very small town. There is nothing worthwhile to buy in Henniker. Nothing.

I bought some cheap candle fucking thing and was done with it.

When my mother unwrapped it she hit the roof. She went ballistic complaining how cheap and thoughtless the gift was. Can you imagine that? She could have taken the high road, you know, it's the thought that counts. But she didn't. She went right for the jugular.

Admittedly, it was a cheap piece of shit. A pet rock would have been a better gift. But isn't a mother supposed to be sensitive to her kid's emotions? Not my mother.

That incident sums up perfectly her view of the world. And of me. That intensity of disgust and disappointment was directed at me many times over until I escaped into marriage.

Mothers Day now is sacred. It means something. Because Carol is the woman that the Mothers Day holiday was created to celebrate.

She raised our sons with sensitivity and intelligence and intuitiveness and gentleness and perceptiveness and empathy and LOVE. My sons were and are the entirety of my heart and soul and existence and it killed me to be away from them all the time working jobs that ripped my soul open to bleed.

When I was studying for a Masters Degree (which I never completed) at night I would get home after they had gone to bed. I would grab a beer and sit on the floor in the dark in their room. Many times I would sit on the floor in the dark in their room and silently cry. That's how much I hated to be away from them.

But Carol was there for them every day all day. There could be no better protector and teacher. I was 100% comfortable knowing she was in charge of taking care of my sons.

To this very fucking day Carol will tell me about something Keith would do or say or Craig would do or say that I know nothing about. Because I was not fucking there. This kills me every time it happens. There are pieces of my sons' lives that I was never a part of. I die when I think about that.

But Carol was there. And thank god for that.

Mothers Day is for Carol.

Not my mother.

Crippled Inside

 "You can shine your shoes and wear a suit, you can comb your hair and look quite cute, you can hide your face behind a smile, one thing you can't hide, is when you're crippled inside"

From Crippled Inside by John Lennon

April Is Dead To Me

April is dead and gone.

Like Jesus, between Good Friday and Easter Sunday, I lost a bit of time.

Couldn't do much with it or about it because I was hobbled. A bit of a shame because April represents the beginnings of good weather, as thin as that can be.

We are careening into May, whoa there, baby. May is exceptional. May is the first month that fulfills the promise of Spring. Today is May 7. Good weather is ripping by like a Formula 1 race car.

I have had to take drastic action.

Two Fridays in a row I have worked 11 hour days. Two weeks in a row I woke up crippled on Saturday. Back on the fucking crutches. I even iced my knee up twice at work yesterday, to no avail.

Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me. Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.

I get the message.

I have to work next week. There is a lot going on, the box office manager set up a schedule so me and my two compatriots cover the box office 100% of the time it is open, freeing him up to do everything he needs to do to get everything ship shape.

I cannot let him down. I have to work. But only in the box office, no shows, no 11 hour days.

I am taking the week after that off. 100%. No work at all, my strikingly handsome face will not be gracing the turf of the box office. My plan is also to take the next week off as well - 100%. Part B is negotiable to a limited extent if I make a miraculous recovery during Week 1.

I am sick of dealing with this.

I went back to work too soon and I knew it; I did it because I felt obligated to, given the poverty line that Carol and I live below.

Fuck that. It is my deeply held belief that if I wasn't working at all, my knee would be 100% healed by now.

Patient heal thyself.

However, I am not a fool. I have made provisions for our financial well being.

I bet $50 to win on Crown Pride in today's Kentucky Derby.

Wishful Thinking? (Hopefully Not)

 "Never realized the passing hours of evening showers, slip noose hanging in my darkest dreams, I'm strangled by your haunted social scene, just a pawn outplayed by a dominating queen, it's four o'clock in the morning, damn it, listen to me good, I'm sleeping with myself tonight, saved in time, thank god my music is still alive..........

and someone saved my life tonight................

From Someone Saved My Life Tonight, by Elton John and Bernie Taupin

Something I Fucking Hate About Myself

I am a straight shooter when I deal with customers at my job at The Capitol Center for the Arts in Concord of New Hampshire.

This is why people like me. No bullshit, a sense of humor and I am knowledgable.

I work with a guy who is Disingenuously Optimistic. He tries too hard. I don't like that about him, but I do like him as a human being. He's a gentle guy.

If I walked into work on Monday and announced: "I have Stage 4 Entire Body Cancer and I am going to die in 15 minutes", he would cheerily say "At least you got 10 good minutes in you."

Too much, man.

If I connect with people I am fun. If I sense any condescension or attitude, I am cold and I don't fucking hide it. That's life baby.

But there's one thing that I do that is entirely ridiculous.

I enjoy swearing. Many people will say swearing is immature, but fuck them - swearing adds punch to communication.

I am dealing with a customer, we are getting along, I'll slip a cuss word into the conversation - then I'll raise my hand to my mouth and go "Oops, sorry." Like I am embarrassed. Which I decidedly am not.

I feel like Caspar Milquetoast when I do it. It is SO disingenuous. Christ, man - if I came face to face with Jesus Christ and he asked me "Why do you say Jesus Fucking Christ all the time?", I would say "Because you're a fuckup."

I do it because I am an actor. I am paid to be an actor. But I know the customer is not buying it.

This is called affectation.

Always

It is deadly to allow ancient wounds to fester.

They always win in the end.

Wild and Precious

"I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

With your one wild and precious life?"

This is an excerpt from a poem titled The Summer Day, by Mary Oliver

"Wild and precious life" seems like a far-fetched way to describe your life, doesn't it? You might have the "precious" part down - I doubt it, but you might - but wild? Then why are you so fucking bored?

Our lives may not seem wild, but they are unique - every human being is unique, every life lived is unique. That is an incredible thing to say in a world of almost 8 billions lives. You may not be jumping off of mountains, but uniqueness is what makes your life wild. Ain't nobody else on planet earth like you, baby. So shine the fucking light.

Eighty or ninety years feels like a slow moving thing until you get to the finish line. Then it is a heartbeat. That slow moving thing becomes predictable, repetition kills gratitude and blindfolds perception.

Doesn't mean that wild and precious isn't there. It is. We just become numb to it. Big mistake.

Most of us don't "plan to do" anything with our lives. We just live them. We settle into some kind of groove, usually not the one you might have imagined for yourself, and you ride that groove numbly to the point of no return. Big mistake.

"The unexamined life........"

It is all about your soul; it is not about everyday life. Enlightenment is unattainable without critical self-examination, which we usually "don't have time for."

None of this suggests weakness or stupidity on the part of tiny humans; it just is what it is. We live our lives as if we are immortal. "Oh, I have time." Meanwhile, everything is a struggle, and most of us are not strong enough to overcome the burden that everyday life becomes. To transcend it.

Plus, we don't have fucking time. Anyone can die at any moment.

None of us have answers to this situation, it has been an issue since time immemorial. Each of us has to figure out how to make "wild and precious" the first thought in our head every day and live accordingly.