Your friends won't kill you, unless they turn on you and forget to turn back. Turn back! before it's too late. Sh.....ucks.
Panic disorder is not understood. This makes it stand out among emotional disorders, all of the others of which are completely transparent to the medical community. And that other community: therapists, counselors, social workers, attorneys, politicians, cab drivers, and band front men. Not to mention your spouse who knows absolutely everything.
What doesn't kill you? Will wound you. Probably. My status as an only child (only a child) gives me special understanding of mental illness.
Narcissicm. What will kill me can be avoided or cured. I will live forever. Which is not as long as is generally believed.
It just feels like it.
I repeat, what will kill me, I should really avoid. No matter how much fun. For instance, merry-go-rounds. I know you're thinking Harmless! but there's something sinister, especially at night, after the park is closed. And those happy plastic creatures, like the dolphins in Bob's song.
Best to say goodbye to your children and drink a last cup of wine, sez Bob.
I want to relate the interesting and (you won't believe it) unbelieveable benefit I have gotten from years of unremitting anxiety (it remits occasionally). Nothing scares me anymore. Seriously. I am pumped plumb out of adrenaline. Last week my friend and neighbor had to shoot a rattlesnake in our pump house. I was the one who "found" the snake -- that is to say, I was inches from it and upset its afternoon nap. No fear! On my part. Poor snake was terrified. I thought maybe it was my breath, and I was right. Another example. Hit a lizard on I40 just east of Memphis. No adrenaline. Not much reaction at all, although the bastard tore up the front of my Civic.
I really want a big Lexus. And to be a pimp for real live hookers. Not high class, not low. I have no (real) fear, only silly fear.
The situation really kills me. I don't need late night TV. I have life for comedy.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
A Man's Gotta Do Whatta Man's Gotta Do
I have NEVER believed this, believe it is meaningless. What is it, a John Wayne thing? He was an actor. I've seen him on TV.
Much prefer Clint Eastwood. That movie based on the life of John Wesley Hardin, or Harding. Whichever. Where he shot people dead and then spit on them. Awesome.
John Wesley Hardin was a misguided Texan Confederate survivor trying to buck history. I could wikipedia it, but my recollection is he was not executed but rather died in a silly gun battle after a bit of incarceration. Hated the carpetbaggers, I know. Which irks me, since I am one.
But what does that mean? that expression..... Nothing. A man doesn't have to do anything. A man has to do stuff in order to achieve goals.
And sometimes a man (I've discovered this recently) is completely, I mean completely, without the means to some ends.
For instance if somebody doesn't love you, oh well. Or if somebody is too afraid to do a right thing, nothing will budge them except -- now note this exception --- an even worse fear. We all, at some time or other, lack the courage of our convictions. But I am toying with this idea of "a greater fear."
I think it is my only hope.
I know you crave more detail. Let me try an example. Pretty easy actually. The parachute concept. No way Hozay you're gonna jump out of a plane. But wait, the plane is on fire! How long would you hesitate? Not even a minute.
Similarly, you believe that if you (another example) leave your job, you will not find another. You will not be able to pay your bills, etc etc. I actually had this worry in 1980. Then I dealt with the torture of being too afraid to leave my miserable (to me, prestigious to others) job by taking so many pills and drinking so much that my liver got really enlarged and leaving/quitting the job just happened. When I awoke, I had a new life. The money and jobs came. I smiled. My liver shrank back down. Life got pretty good. Really good actually.
A man's gotta do.....pills and booze. Is the moral.
Much prefer Clint Eastwood. That movie based on the life of John Wesley Hardin, or Harding. Whichever. Where he shot people dead and then spit on them. Awesome.
John Wesley Hardin was a misguided Texan Confederate survivor trying to buck history. I could wikipedia it, but my recollection is he was not executed but rather died in a silly gun battle after a bit of incarceration. Hated the carpetbaggers, I know. Which irks me, since I am one.
But what does that mean? that expression..... Nothing. A man doesn't have to do anything. A man has to do stuff in order to achieve goals.
And sometimes a man (I've discovered this recently) is completely, I mean completely, without the means to some ends.
For instance if somebody doesn't love you, oh well. Or if somebody is too afraid to do a right thing, nothing will budge them except -- now note this exception --- an even worse fear. We all, at some time or other, lack the courage of our convictions. But I am toying with this idea of "a greater fear."
I think it is my only hope.
I know you crave more detail. Let me try an example. Pretty easy actually. The parachute concept. No way Hozay you're gonna jump out of a plane. But wait, the plane is on fire! How long would you hesitate? Not even a minute.
Similarly, you believe that if you (another example) leave your job, you will not find another. You will not be able to pay your bills, etc etc. I actually had this worry in 1980. Then I dealt with the torture of being too afraid to leave my miserable (to me, prestigious to others) job by taking so many pills and drinking so much that my liver got really enlarged and leaving/quitting the job just happened. When I awoke, I had a new life. The money and jobs came. I smiled. My liver shrank back down. Life got pretty good. Really good actually.
A man's gotta do.....pills and booze. Is the moral.
Friday, April 17, 2009
objectionable content
I'm confused (you knew that). I am aware that my blog contains highly objectionable stuff, but I've been careful to refrain from the use of profanity and do not let the reader in on the intimate details of my life, like my occasional bathing or other hygiene.
So it's probably just another software glitch (it looks like that), this thing that comes up oddly on the screen that says I have flagged my own blog as containing OC.
Crap.
I'm not gonna worry about it. I have high water to drive thru today. I'm gonna worry about that. I know, Turn around, don't drown! But should I actually listen to THAT computer.
I hate computers, but they are my mother.
F
D
So it's probably just another software glitch (it looks like that), this thing that comes up oddly on the screen that says I have flagged my own blog as containing OC.
Crap.
I'm not gonna worry about it. I have high water to drive thru today. I'm gonna worry about that. I know, Turn around, don't drown! But should I actually listen to THAT computer.
I hate computers, but they are my mother.
F
D
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Doing the Impossible
I Live
with a Bear.
Bear is a dog.
Gone it.
The other dog. The really cool one.
She could herd cows. Loud.
I was sure she'd be trampled, but for her twas no prob.
And she fed herself. Not in the human way, not the suburban way I mean.
She killed rabbits
and ate road-kill
and the occasional fried turkey wing.
Bonzenal.
I dug a hole in the backyard in February and laid her in there.
I was worried she wasn't really dead, but the rigor mortis was pretty much of a
giveaway.
I like the urban dictionary, but I don't consult it much.
I like the playing of guitars, but not often.
I approve of reading, but when?
I like a big stage and lights. They make me smile.
I've been on and off those stages since I was about 20.
40 years. Almost impossible really, since I am no
Mark OConnor or Yoyo man nor a natalie mcmistress, nor even
Blevans or other jazz giant.
I'm just a little guy who feels the music and carries a work ethic so heavy
it weighs me down in my sleep.
I awake working.
And recently I find I enjoy practicing.
It is a relief from the unbelievable insanity that is my life.
The intense love of several other humans.
One claims she's an alien, but that's obvious.
Smart Martian.
Another seems to love me so much she can't stop crying. And her airport was broken. (She says its grief, but there is no such thing as grief -- euphemism for regret)
I love everybody I know. Indiscriminate. And when my remark "Sustaining anger takes so much effort I would rather just forgive..." is met with silence, I worry, and forgive.
Lest I come off saintly or daily lamish: None of it is working, while it all works.
Luck? Good luck. Bad luck. It is all luck.
And I will please all the people all the time, and I will love all my loved ones and it is impossible. And there's always tomorrow. Til there isn't.
with a Bear.
Bear is a dog.
Gone it.
The other dog. The really cool one.
She could herd cows. Loud.
I was sure she'd be trampled, but for her twas no prob.
And she fed herself. Not in the human way, not the suburban way I mean.
She killed rabbits
and ate road-kill
and the occasional fried turkey wing.
Bonzenal.
I dug a hole in the backyard in February and laid her in there.
I was worried she wasn't really dead, but the rigor mortis was pretty much of a
giveaway.
I like the urban dictionary, but I don't consult it much.
I like the playing of guitars, but not often.
I approve of reading, but when?
I like a big stage and lights. They make me smile.
I've been on and off those stages since I was about 20.
40 years. Almost impossible really, since I am no
Mark OConnor or Yoyo man nor a natalie mcmistress, nor even
Blevans or other jazz giant.
I'm just a little guy who feels the music and carries a work ethic so heavy
it weighs me down in my sleep.
I awake working.
And recently I find I enjoy practicing.
It is a relief from the unbelievable insanity that is my life.
The intense love of several other humans.
One claims she's an alien, but that's obvious.
Smart Martian.
Another seems to love me so much she can't stop crying. And her airport was broken. (She says its grief, but there is no such thing as grief -- euphemism for regret)
I love everybody I know. Indiscriminate. And when my remark "Sustaining anger takes so much effort I would rather just forgive..." is met with silence, I worry, and forgive.
Lest I come off saintly or daily lamish: None of it is working, while it all works.
Luck? Good luck. Bad luck. It is all luck.
And I will please all the people all the time, and I will love all my loved ones and it is impossible. And there's always tomorrow. Til there isn't.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
fool that I was
is likely the fool that I am. Though I feel wise today. Oddly I am certain I will forget today.
A Thursday? AH, I had a rehearsal. At the church. The christian soldiers were marching marching, quietly to the bathrooms. No, that was on Sunday Sunday. Monday, that's a day. I often rehearse with a band. Great band really. "the creative opportunity." "the creative thing" is what people miss when they depart. I do the best I can. Honestly.
But I'm paranoid. Classic paranoid. That's why no posts for awhile. Paranoia is boring kids.
1. They are all out to get me.
2. They are all crazy.
3. The outcome is unpredictable and will not be to my liking.
I have a young Facebook (or is it FaceSpace?) friend whose little motto talks about kissing a lot.
And kissing well. An easy well in which to fall. I kissed this friend once, and I think it startled her. Her neck was kinda sweaty. Which I ordinarily like, but she's such a young thing, and I am not. She's a friend of friends. And I am not.
Friends. Yes. Always liked Quakers. For years, I have been one. It's the paranoia.
Understandable, given the shifting sands, waves of salty water, and onslaught of telephone messages requiring response. I tried really hard in about 1999, and again in 2002. I believed the outcome would be mainly good, acceptable, understandable. I might get some disease and die, but probably not, and I was strong and could handle shit. Fool that I was.
A Thursday? AH, I had a rehearsal. At the church. The christian soldiers were marching marching, quietly to the bathrooms. No, that was on Sunday Sunday. Monday, that's a day. I often rehearse with a band. Great band really. "the creative opportunity." "the creative thing" is what people miss when they depart. I do the best I can. Honestly.
But I'm paranoid. Classic paranoid. That's why no posts for awhile. Paranoia is boring kids.
1. They are all out to get me.
2. They are all crazy.
3. The outcome is unpredictable and will not be to my liking.
I have a young Facebook (or is it FaceSpace?) friend whose little motto talks about kissing a lot.
And kissing well. An easy well in which to fall. I kissed this friend once, and I think it startled her. Her neck was kinda sweaty. Which I ordinarily like, but she's such a young thing, and I am not. She's a friend of friends. And I am not.
Friends. Yes. Always liked Quakers. For years, I have been one. It's the paranoia.
Understandable, given the shifting sands, waves of salty water, and onslaught of telephone messages requiring response. I tried really hard in about 1999, and again in 2002. I believed the outcome would be mainly good, acceptable, understandable. I might get some disease and die, but probably not, and I was strong and could handle shit. Fool that I was.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
bin laden
I was eating meatloaf with a friend today, and he looked up (from a half a forkful of mashed potatoes) and said a bit malevolently "Osama bin Laden is a pussy!"
The purported murdering part of the man is not admirable, the fanaticism is stupid and dangerous, but a "pussy?" No, it's not that. I think maybe compared with Joan of Arc for one, he is pussy-ish.
But it would be stupid of him to just step out and get caught and then say public stuff to rally his peeps and write poetry before he got executed. He probably would not actually write poetry. Remember he's just a rich kid with an exotic hobby that has cost him his health and comfort. I don't believe him to have a great deal of creative drive, though he must have some charisma and some imagination. Anyway, he's so 2 thousand and 1.
What I want to know is why my government has spent, what, billions trying to catch this guy, and they haven't spent a penny trying to catch me. Is it that I don't know what to do with a Kalashnikov? Hell, he probably doesn't either. I was growing a beard last week, but they come in so grey now I always cut 'em back to the flesh before I get even a week's worth.
I have been laden. What will you give for him?
And more importantly, why? I'll see you to martyr.
The purported murdering part of the man is not admirable, the fanaticism is stupid and dangerous, but a "pussy?" No, it's not that. I think maybe compared with Joan of Arc for one, he is pussy-ish.
But it would be stupid of him to just step out and get caught and then say public stuff to rally his peeps and write poetry before he got executed. He probably would not actually write poetry. Remember he's just a rich kid with an exotic hobby that has cost him his health and comfort. I don't believe him to have a great deal of creative drive, though he must have some charisma and some imagination. Anyway, he's so 2 thousand and 1.
What I want to know is why my government has spent, what, billions trying to catch this guy, and they haven't spent a penny trying to catch me. Is it that I don't know what to do with a Kalashnikov? Hell, he probably doesn't either. I was growing a beard last week, but they come in so grey now I always cut 'em back to the flesh before I get even a week's worth.
I have been laden. What will you give for him?
And more importantly, why? I'll see you to martyr.
Friday, January 30, 2009
all downhill from here
I woodshedded a bit, played a lot of gigs, supported the ever-growing family the best I could as a musician. Then lo, lucked into a business which made use of my music skills and in which I learned more music skills, more people skills, and the art of scoring to picture. Other stuff too. Built a team to do more work than I could do alone. Great team. Great feeling. Great run.
Now I'm rich and can kick back and let the kids do their thing. Pat 'em on the back. Every so often they call me in when they need a heavy hit of some sort. NO! It's all lies. Not rich, not trusted by my "team." Can't hit at all anymore. I've been doing $50 club gigs, writing songs I hope will make somebody love me (which fail usually -- and love is over-rated), and alienating every living thing in my path. All that was before this recession thingy. Now what?
All downhill from here. Can't wait. But mostly, that's what I do.
Although I did learn a fiddle tune this evening. Hell amongst the Yearlings. Got a version from Dale Morris, bless him, and iTunes had Benny T and the wild Clark Kessinger.
There's the big bucks. Contest fiddlin.
Tune of Choice. ? She'll be wearin red pajamas when she comes, scratch, scratch.
Now I'm rich and can kick back and let the kids do their thing. Pat 'em on the back. Every so often they call me in when they need a heavy hit of some sort. NO! It's all lies. Not rich, not trusted by my "team." Can't hit at all anymore. I've been doing $50 club gigs, writing songs I hope will make somebody love me (which fail usually -- and love is over-rated), and alienating every living thing in my path. All that was before this recession thingy. Now what?
All downhill from here. Can't wait. But mostly, that's what I do.
Although I did learn a fiddle tune this evening. Hell amongst the Yearlings. Got a version from Dale Morris, bless him, and iTunes had Benny T and the wild Clark Kessinger.
There's the big bucks. Contest fiddlin.
Tune of Choice. ? She'll be wearin red pajamas when she comes, scratch, scratch.
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