Another Rerun

Oh no. Not again!? (this is yet another Facebook complaint) I had a few good hours this morning. Now I'm crashing and falling apart, again. For the last sixteen years I can not get this body to work! So frustrating! Today I've just about had enough! Most days I smile and pretend and keep my crying to myself. Facebook. Isn't it the place where you fuss and complain and where you make the scroller stop and break the Tenth Commandment? (crinkling into mush on the keyboard) But I have stuff to do, which has turned into a three ring binder full. I hate lying down. I've already seen this rerun! Guess I didn't learn what I was suppose to learn; having to take this test yet again. I was gonna be somebody. It wasn't suppose to go this way. I had other plans. So hard to type this complaint. So I'm a Wha-Wha Dagnabit!!! oh, What a world....What a world.....

Brain Damaged

Oh...well...if you think you're doing okay I doubt it. I can come rescue you with.....I don't know what. As for me. As for me. How am I doing? Don't think so well... uh... well.... Feel crowded. A kind of crowding in which all my parts ache and surround me. Where my head is in a state of collapse. Me, the spirit me, is living underneath a heavy crushing mound of suffocating dirt. Meh..... My guts wrap tight, forcing me to lean forward so often. It is exhausting. It drains away my mojo. That stuff that's like the electrons of a battery. I become useless. Another reason I don't come here (to this blog) often. Dehydration, a constant fight. Should have brain damage by now. Maybe I do. How would I know?

Jerry Seinfeld, The MailBox & Me

I have been unable to sleep through the night. Haunted by many things. The many projects we've chosen for this house. The computer projects I've wanted to do. The bills. The truck. The overwhelming need to write. This woke Rose too; somehow she could hear my thoughts. So she went to craigslist to find me a job: this: and this hit me pretty hard; not pretty; absolutely. It is a most painful hit. It might have had something to do with yesterday. No, wait. It does have something to do with yesterday. Otherwise, how could I be mistaken. I mean, what was that? Yesterday? It began for me at an 8:30ish wake up. It jumped right into the plan to go to a yard sale in Phoenix. A yard sale we went to years ago. A yard sale from which I can only remember how we procured some five thousand magazines. So anyway. I got a show. Then.... Why am I telling this story about yesterday. Because yesterday turned out to be a bummer. We could title the day: 'The Mail Box' In which a boxed up package for Beaverton went into the shoot without paid postage. Although. My Zenith radio from 1951 arrived. It was quite beautiful. *said with four syllables like you would say, theatrical* Although again. The burger was pretty good. So I gave my problem also to Rose. Explaining how I am overwhelmed by all that must be done. Still, I don't think she understands. I was going to write it out in an essay. I said as much in an email. Also. During my time of unsleep I watched Howard Stern interview Seinfeld. In that interview Jerry said a few things that revealed who he was and how he works. Most disturbing to me. I wanna beat my head in with this keyboard. Oh. Really? You want me to...? Well if you want to know what I'm talking about I'm not going to explain it. You can watch it yourself. Here. Watch it yourself: the YouTube of the interview. Then there's Rousseaux Brasseur. In the blog he's writing for his wife he talks about the distance, the way in which he is unable to empathize with his wife and her tortures. I think also of my wife; her tortures of having to deal with me. You see, I am wondering about her empathies about me. Mainly because I barely understand myself as it is. The way things have messed me up. The ups and downs of where I'm at. How I'm thinking of telling him some of how she's feeling. But then. I am not so sure I could easily explain it. That's where that essay would have come in handy. Then to answer all that comes along Seinfeld. He addresses the limits when it comes to the mess I'm pondering all night. Now note that it is 5:24 in the am. And so it hit me. All this. And I hate myself for it. All this. What in the world am I going to do now? Seinfeld said that if he stopped working he would send a bullet into his mouth. He doesn't mess around thinking about it, talking about it, not doing it. He would say just get off your butt and get to work. Jerry said another interesting thing in the YouTube, at 32:29, he says, "Your blessing in life is when you find the torture you're comfortable with...that's marriage, it's kids, it's work, it's exercise, it's not eating the food you want to eat. Find the torture you're comfortable with and you'll do well." So here's where I'm at. I don't know. I feel like I should talk about it. With my self. Not with anyone else. This self talk. Unlike a joke maker a story maker works things out with more words. ...or... is that true...I ask...because what about John Carver. He wrote big stories with few words. Part of the problem I am having is the too many projects. And the direction we're running is all over the map. I feel like we're not staying on the road, or at least one road until it's destined end; rather we are trying out all the roads; uncontrollably mind you. And it's frustrating the heck out of me. Why can't we just work on one thing at a time. Why can't we forget the projects that are too far from here. Put them in the way ahead list. They'll be there when we can get done with more immediate needful projects. So then. What is the next action. To list, in words, on paper, or here in Evernote/IQTEll? or Dropbox or what ever man, all the projects and to-tos that need doing. I want to see them all laying out in front of my eyes. Then. How do we break them down into daily manageable actionable outlineable items. Otherwise. You see. I have these grand walls walling me in. They are also exasperatingly frustrating; leaving me always confused and stuck in waste deep quicksand, and I can't get out. I strain daily to break free and break forward but there are these chains pulling me back. How in the world do I break free? Another thought. I hate myself (disregard any extremes. this is a measurement) over my writing. But I fear if I continue down this sad road my measure of self-hate will increase in multiples. So. Maybe I should listen to Jerry and stop talking about it.

Getting Stuff Done / Hak5 / Everything

When you have physical troubles and their assortment of accompanying pains and misery it is hard to do just about anything and everything. I have this essay I'm trying to write for a friend. It takes some research. It takes some being gentle with the wording. It is taking too long. When your body does not work it takes away much more than normal functions, it removes the ability to use the brain. Writing an essay is right up my alley. It is one of those things that should be easy for me. But the difficulties are not your normal writer's block. They are the kinds of blocks that parallel or result from exhaustion or impairment. There are those moments I can function. Too often though, I use those chances to work on something mundane. Or I might go to an event. Like last night. I just had to go meet the star of Hak5. I did pretty good at first. But soon I had to push myself to the limit. I did my best at pretending, smiling, talking, and looking like an idiot because I could barely function. Finally, I had give up and leave before I fell on the bar room floor to froth about. And somehow, I made it home to frothed about during the last few hours. Now, finally, by what is it (?) 2:30 in the morning, my pains have reduced to allow me to say my thing. What has followed by my experiences with a body of trouble are my failings to complete simple tasks, and of achieving a place of unreliability. Physical problems are far more than just about being sick. They about messing up just about anything and everything.

Trying To Understand An Eternal Moment

Rose was gone from me, 250 miles. Too far for me to consider. There was a lostness I noticed. Something...trying to put my finger on it. The feeling or thought was: what if she had passed from this earth; was she really gone from me; is this what it would be like. It was only a few days but it stood as an eternal moment. It also made me wonder if I had known her at all, since I was in an eternal moment. What if I couldn't see her face, in my mind. How could I have forgotten her touch so quickly. It was as if she had been gone for a long time and I was having trouble recalling her touch; her lips against my lips; her embrace; the fun-lovingness she is. I was trying to remember her as if she had been gone for a long while. Is this what it would be like? Through my physical problems I have learned patience. I have learned to be still for hours, months. I have learned to want little; to do without; to let go of all I think I need; to be content with nothing. To have the Lord only. I wonder if that had something to do with it: the horrified feeling that I might be able to endure until I meet her again, though it could conceivably be decades for waiting. This depressed me from all angles of view. Looking down at myself I did not like what I saw. Depressed to not have her with me even though she was gone for a short few days. And now. The distance of time since her return and it is as if she had never left me; now sleeping in the room next to me. This thought of the eternal moment. She was gone for three days, gone for forever.

The Tranquility Of Pain

How do I return? Often, I return. To go back. To the pain. To the profoundness that it was. What was it? Did I pay attention? To there, the place, the destruction, the moments. No, these words are shallow. How do I capture? Those moments of my worst. Is it a comfort zone? Who am I to separate from it? Do I urge it back, to return to it each time? Do I desire the sickness? So that I might be taken back there? Back into the comfort of the misery, to capture again that tranquil place of pain, where I am brought again back to nothing and its miserable rest and its truth.

Outside Akron

A while back I was layin' there in my sorry state; my wife next to me. She asked if there was anything she could do. Well. As you know. That's always a hard one: there really isn't much anyone can do for you. So I replied as Dr. Chumley: (found the text) There's a cottage camp just outside Akron - in a grove of maple trees - green - cool - beautiful. I'd go there with a pretty woman. (that would be my Rosalie, my wife) A strange woman -- a quiet woman. (my wife actually happens to be quite level-headed--a reason I originally fell for her) I wouldn't even want to know her name (I just told you her name) -- while I would be just - Mr. Smith. Then I would send out for cold beer. No. [no whiskey...gives me heartburn] Then I would tell her things. Things that I've never told to anyone. Things that are locked - deep in here. (COUGHS) And as I talked to her, I would want her to hold out a soft white hand and say 'Poor thing. You poor, poor thing.' [For how long would you want this to go on, Doctor?] Two weeks. ... That's not asking for much, is it?