Now that I've grown up, it's time for me to leave home. I plan to take little with me. Like Tom Sawyer, or Ben Franklin maybe.
Just a few items of clothing wrapped in a diaper which will swing jauntily from a stick which will sit mostly on my left shoulder.
I will find me a city, where nobody knows me, and settle it down, on the old side of town. I'll find a feeling, and we will be happy, I won't ever run out, like I'm runnin out now. And I'll never be found and I won't have to pay for what I have to do, nor what we've done today [courtesy, HT Young]
The best t-shirts are old. The old t-shirts are trash.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Journaling
Journalling? Certainly not two ells. Noel is best. One 'ell is enough for anybody. But I've got a couple ells in my journalling.
I say, Yeah I journal. And everybody says, wow that's really great. But they haven't read the crap. I do all the time. It's sorta like watching a car crash over and over and over and..... really the same crap pretty much every day for about a year and a half. There's the part that's fun, which I downplay, and then the endless psycho-philosophical babble which can be summed up in a single word. Maybe. (That's the word) Maybe I'll do something different and break out of this hideous rut (rut is in the middle of truth), in which ALL I do is journal. You name it, whatever else it is, I probably don't do it. I, yes, play a little music, and write a little music, and earn some of the money I get paid. But who I am. That person came out last week at fiddle camp. A pleasant, decent sort of guy. Very tired, but decent. Too tired and too decent to journal much.
Then I got home, and out came the journal for the several hundredth recording of the agony and the sort of ecstasy, neither of which is so dramatic really. It's just what happens in the hours. And it is so boring I should stop. But there is a fascination. And fear. So I watch no TV. I wait for the next episode of my lack of a life, which I will faithfully record in my ninth book of journalling this year. Which I will read. And which will, yes, put me to sleep. Like the good dog I am.
I say, Yeah I journal. And everybody says, wow that's really great. But they haven't read the crap. I do all the time. It's sorta like watching a car crash over and over and over and..... really the same crap pretty much every day for about a year and a half. There's the part that's fun, which I downplay, and then the endless psycho-philosophical babble which can be summed up in a single word. Maybe. (That's the word) Maybe I'll do something different and break out of this hideous rut (rut is in the middle of truth), in which ALL I do is journal. You name it, whatever else it is, I probably don't do it. I, yes, play a little music, and write a little music, and earn some of the money I get paid. But who I am. That person came out last week at fiddle camp. A pleasant, decent sort of guy. Very tired, but decent. Too tired and too decent to journal much.
Then I got home, and out came the journal for the several hundredth recording of the agony and the sort of ecstasy, neither of which is so dramatic really. It's just what happens in the hours. And it is so boring I should stop. But there is a fascination. And fear. So I watch no TV. I wait for the next episode of my lack of a life, which I will faithfully record in my ninth book of journalling this year. Which I will read. And which will, yes, put me to sleep. Like the good dog I am.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
What doesn't make you strong
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.
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.
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.
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