Had an interesting time at the park. We go there to feed the ducks. Evidently this is forbidden. We have never stopped at the kiosks and read the sign saying it is forbidden. We just go and feed them stale bread, and are all happy.

So today, whilst in duck heaven, two children- a boy and a girl, who looked alarmingly like the twins in "The Shining," came up to us and told us that feeding the ducks is forbidden. We saw their parents at a bench nearby watching. We listened to the children, and then Kman did something odd. He walked over to the parents and discussed the duck feeding moratorium directly with them. They were very put off that we would approach them directly. That is why they sent their children to do the heavy lifting. Kman was very nice about it, despite being rather pissed off at them using their children as tools. And the parents were pleasantly uncomfortable.

We then had a very animated discussion about parenting, and putting children into the role of being informers/policemen. I suspect that these folks come from another land, and don't realize that that kind of behavior can cause some serious ramifications in some places. Like parks in other parts of the area. Where the people being told not to feed the ducks might be a little less conciliatory about it. I dunno. It was ballsy and icky. I feel sorry for the kids. And the ducks. Who went hungry.

Oh my. These writing muscles aren't getting the workout they need. Bits and bites of words just don't lend themselves to anything besides the odd quip. Not all that satisfying.

But have been unable to sustain more than a casual relationship with thoughts lately. All the deep thoughts synapses have taken a break. I suppose that isn't too horrible. But it isn't great, either.

So, I just finished a crappy book by a woman who hates her mother. Take that back, it's more than hate. And what I thought was particularly pathological about her, besides the fact that she has children, is that she had so little insight into herself to recognize that she could use a heavy dose of therapy, and needed to lose the narcissistic self-absorption. I can only wonder what kind of train wreck she is inflicting on her children. Oh, and she was also chock-full-of smug self-satisfaction. What a toxic combo. I hope I never run into her when I visit old home town. The urge to punch her in the throat is pretty strong. Which I guess, means her book was successful on some level. It inspired me to hate her. I think that's a strong reaction. Augusten Burroughs didn't do that for me- just thought he was kind of pitiful. Ditto most of the other revelatory memoirs that I have ingested. They tend to have that unfortunate tone of payback rather than anything remotely resembling insight. I also have very little patience for what comes off as a bunch of whiney complaints- when they come from the keyboard of an adult, that is. From children, it's a different story. But I always thought you were supposed to grow out of whiney crap like that.

I am jealous. That she got a book deal in the first place. It doesn't hurt that her father is one hell of a well-connected man in the publishing world. It doesn't hurt that she comes from the kind of old money that Gatsby was so horribly fond of. Nope, doesn't hurt at all. And I am full of toxic sour grapes about it.

I guess this is one of the primary reasons I have always preferred biography to the auto kind. I like the filter of another person's perception. And the illusion of objectivity. Because I did read a long time ago an article by a biographer. The obsession needed to pull off the stunt of researching another human being and writing about them, and becoming an expert on them is something unusual. I don't share it. But I think it is interesting. And I do enjoy trying to parse out what the fixation of the author is. If they are an apologist, or an analyst, or what kind of filter they are trying to apply to thier view of the subject.

I also have always considered autobiographies to be lies. I see them as craven attempts to sway public opinion, by selectively telling the truth. I am not horribly interested in reading PR attempts. Not in my personal time, or in my professional time. I see them as manipulative and sort of crass. If these folks were all that interested in being honestly remembered for posterity, they would leave all of their archives of data to an institution and leave it at that. Let others interpret. Because by the basic premise of being in thier own skin, they aren't able to do so without prejudice.

There have been several autobiographies that I will admit are interesting- mainly because of the side-story that they tell. Julia Phillips in "You'll Never Have Lunch in This Town Again," gets the feeling and texture of Hollywood in the 70s down very well. But I didn't like her. And found her actual writing to be torturous. So in that sense, she got in her own way.

Probably the best of the bunch is Dominick Dunne. He is a star fucker, and always has been. I think he would annoy the piss out of me in real life. But he is very good at the roman a clef, and does a great job of reporting celebrity legal strife. I think that as a recovering addict, he has a better sense of humility in a way than a lot of them do, but still figure that he's up to something when he writes about himself.

I guess that this can serve nicely as my Declaration Not to Write a Memoir. And if I break it some day, anyone who reads this has my full permission to call me out.

I've been wearing my art school shoes to work. I haven't shined them- they are still smudged and scuffed from loading kilns and kicking debris out of the way. They are still in pretty good shape though. I have been trying to remind myself that this is part of my reality too. That it's not all business class and sunshine in a high-rise building.That there are bone deep realities that I can't just ignore and hope will go away.

There is the feral cat issue. Because at core, that is what defines a large part of me. It just is. I am ok with it, but can't spend a lot of time thinking about it or I get sad. Sad because so much is gone. And I miss the ferocity. I miss the passion. I miss the ability to just do things without worrying about cause and effect. I miss the ability to not worry about self-editing all the time.

The pressure mounts, the decisions get postponed, the actual work gets jettisoned in favor of being busy. And tired. Tired all the time. If Charlie Kaufman is right, it's likely cancer, and I will die. But then that is no surprise, really. I expect to end some day. And I don't know if it's really worth the effort to try and accomplish everything first. Futile, indeed. Ah, ennui. Welcome to the club. There are some very nice couches over there. Make yourself at home.

Another good one. There is a friend of ours who plays hockey every winter. He is a tough guy. He survived a plane crash, wherein his friend, the pilot, wound up simple for life, and he had his back broken. His main complaint was that the morphine drip made him horny, and his wife wouldn't accommodate him in the hospital while he was in a body cast.

So, he is playing hockey. And during the game, his hand gets smacked by the puck. He continues to play, until the bitter end. He pulls off his glove, and blood pours out. The puck had taken off the tip of his pinky finger. He went home and washed it, and put on a bandaid. His wife made him go to the doctor and get stitches. He was out for the season.

The following season, he was getting ready to hit the ice, and he put his glove on. The same one, of course, because it was only blood. But there was something in the finger. He shook it out, and something resembling a raisin hit the ice. It was, of course, the end of his finger from the previous year.

We love him.

I've been pondering something for several days now, with varying degrees of anger and perplexed confusion. I have several friends who are all behind the Facebook initiative to provide forgiveness for student loans. And I find myself bone-deep opposed. Just viscerally opposed. It is on such a gut level that I am actually amazed- that something that would benefit me and Kman would inspire such venom in my soul.

Here's my issue. I am not in need of a fucking government handout. I do not want the loan that I signed the promissory note for to become an additional burden on the American taxpayer. I budget to afford the payments, and don't really mind that, as it was part of the overall cost when I signed the papers. I will repeat myself. I don't need a fucking government handout. I understand what that would mean, and think that it would be a travesty. I would prefer that the money goes to people who deserve and need it more.

My interpretation of the effort, which to be fair, is probably a tad jaundiced, is that these are a bunch of college-educated middle-class kids who believe that they should be allowed to re-allocate their loan payments towards something more to their liking. And if it is a true financial hardship to make the payments, ought to consider coming up with a budget, or getting another job. Because no one put a gun to their heads and made them sign the promissory note in the first place. No one said that they had to go into debt to get an education. Plenty of people work their way through school, and yes, it takes one hell of a lot longer. But they do it. Others attend cheaper colleges to afford it. Something about keeping the long-term goal of living debt free in mind seems to have escaped some of these folks. And it pisses me off. Fucking whiners.

Now that I have vented, I know that I am probably being unfair. If so, please educate me. Tell me why it's a priority to provide loan forgiveness and a larger tax burden. Tell me why these college-educated people need money that jobless people also need. Tell me why. I want to understand, but my emotions keep getting in the way. I don't want a fucking government handout. That's what resonates in me right now.

I am unsure how far their efforts will go. I kind of doubt that congress can get this one passed- it seems like a really tough pill to swallow. Especially if there is an across-the-board examination of what these people bring home pay-wise. I suspect that the money would be better spent providing scholarships to kids whose parents have lost their jobs. Or to spend the money on a boosted unemployment system, perhaps. Or to assist people who have lost their jobs in paying their house payments/utility bills, etc. Or to bolster the budgets of local food banks. All more worthy in my opinion than a bunch of people who don't want to be bothered to pay for their own fucking educations.

Ah, and there I go again. Getting all worked up. Nice. I had hoped that writing this down would temper my ire a bit. But I don't think it's going to happen like that. I think I am going to keep getting pissy. So seriously, if you have a differing opinion, please share. I want to understand. And I promise to keep my temper under control and listen. Or do my best to try.

Following my own damned advice

There was a little girl named Poppy. I love the name Poppy. It sings. It reminds me of food.

She stank. No one knew why Poppy stank, but she stank. (full disclosure- Poppy is the cousin of a childhood friend of Kman)

So Poppy stank. The teachers called her parents, and told them that Poppy stank. Her parents, mortified, did everything that they could think of. They bathed Poppy. They perfumed Poppy. They watched what Poppy ate. Nothing worked. Poppy still stank.

Rather than raise a permanently stinking daughter, they finally took Poppy to the doctor. The doctor was perplexed. Finally the doctor had an idea. He took an xray of Poppy's head. Then he operated on her head.

Seems that months and months ago, Poppy had stuck a couple of paper drinking-straw wrappers up her nose. There the wrappers had rotted in her sinuses. And made her stink. The doctor removed the wrappers surgically and treated the infection that had caused the prodigious smell.

Poppy didn't stink any more.

I got reconnected with some old friends recently. You can figure out the social network device that I used- no need to belabor the whole thing. But interestingly a few of them have stayed in their hometowns. Not necessarily the same as mine anymore, but they have lived in the same place for decades. I just can't fathom. I just can't. Like my father, who lives in the town he grew up in. The town where his father was born (or actually 10 miles East of there, if you need precision). I just can't fathom.

I needed to escape. It's a lovely place, really. Hard to imagine being smothered by a place so thoroughly when you go there. A huge valley, surrounded by mountains, and more sky than expected. But still. It smothered. It constricted. I needed to escape. I didn't go far at first- just to another valley. Narrower, with mountains that were closer together and a river. But it was enough for a while. Then I escaped further, to a desert valley, where the mountains shimmered whitely in the distance, and the landscape lacked all signs of life and hospitality. But I did come back. And it was familiar and strange at the same time. And still, after a few days, I feel the walls closing in. And I need to leave.

I just can't imagine knowing a place where I live to the extent that my friends do their hometowns. I just can't. I wonder if they see new things anymore, or if they just muddle on and do the regular. I don't actually really want to wrap my head around it, as the idea of being a resident of a place for that long just makes me shudder. I have become a nomad in my older age.

Ok, interesting side effect of the cold. I am having more vivid dreams. Not VIVID dreams like the porn studio. But the kind that I can parse out the next day and get interesting ideas from. One in particular solved the main issue that I was having with my writing project. So now I have to take a bunch of notes and get rolling on that project again- which is probably the best news I've had in weeks.

And in other news, we get to keep the kitty. Sanity in the form of the husband with the firm stance took over and overrode the momentary lapse. I am relieved, because it is now a love match. But I am still sad for her. She is not really happy about the whole thing. Which I can understand- I think a large part of it is a sense of being out of control of something important. She is one of those mover and shaker kinds of women, and not being able to solve this one seems to really bother her. I can sympathize. Being jobless for so damned long a few years ago kind of solved that for me. Had to assume a more Zen path or go batshit. But that doesn't mean that I don't go there myself on occasion. Just to visit.

More convoluted dreams of the past, present, and things that never happened posing as history. In a way it's like being in my very own personal Terry Gilliam movie. But the disturbing thing is the discombobulation upon waking. The photo albums I was looking at with my father in one of the dreams don't exist. The photos aren't real. But they felt like it.

I guess I should credit being sick and kind of jittery when I go to bed. Does something no doubt to the synapses. That or I am finally losing my mind. Could be. Could very easily be. There has always been a rather tenuous feeling of grasping at my sanity- just one little step in the wrong (or right) direction, and everything will alter. Or that's what if feels like. Very good reason to leave unprofessional pharmacology alone. And I do. But I wonder.

We have seen two movies in the last week that had Edie Sedgewick in them. Not like I should view that as some kind of omen, just cause for comment. Both examined her maybe relationship with Dylan. Only not using his name. Because of lawsuits, I am guessing. Betcha he has some very mean attorneys. I am guessing. No one gets that famous and lives that long without some line of defense. He seems like a cagey man anyway. Never have been fond of him. Not likely to develop an affinity at this late stage.

And now on with it. Gotta muster up some enthusiasm, put on the game face and proceed onward, as though it all matters.

So the fun of groggy thinking and feeling unable to string a coherent sentence together is in full force. Just because I have the cold that is going around hereabouts.

Otherwise, it has been nothing to write home about. Nothing.

It has been a couple of days of feverish dreams, without the fever, achy bones and sniffles. And at the heart of it, the realization that I haven't left some things behind very far.

I have always had trouble calling in sick. Basically because as a child I faked it a lot. In retrospect these were mental health days. I hated school. Absolutely loathed it. I loved learning. But hated my classmates. They were horrible little beasts. And all I wanted to do was escape. It was so much easier to convince my mother that I was feeling sick and avoid the whole thing. But I knew that I shouldn't be home. That I should be in school. Enduring them.

To this day, it is hard to call in. Mainly because even if I feel horrible (like yesterday), I still hesitate. I feel guilty for the time spend not working. I feel guilty for the time spent at home. I feel like I am goofing off, even though it feels necessary at the same time. And I certainly don't hate my co-workers. I gave up on keeping those kinds of jobs years ago, when I realized that life was too bloody short to endure that kind of self-inflicted misery. (In your face Financial Aid Department at major PAC 10 school- you fuckers).

Frailty isn't my strong suit. But there you have it. Gotta just give in. And not feel integral to the machine for a day. Because in the end, I would feel worse infecting others with this one. Oh, and the cats want me to return to bed. They love the large warm thing that just lays there. It's better than the bed alone.

Yeah. All is sort of well now. But it's a holding pattern. And I think that no matter what certain things will end in tears. Not sure whose, but they will happen. But then there's nothing overwhelmingly unique about that. Lots of tears out there.

And now I am listening to the news people savage the scary, crazy lady who has too many kids. I think that the whole point of it is that she wants the attention. But giving it to her is bad. I say ignore her. She'll go away. And eventually the state will step in and take over the children. Or not. I really can't muster up more than apathy about the whole thing anyway. Just don't really care. It's just sad. And sordid. Whatever.

Some rapper dude beats the tar out of his girlfriend. Who also happens to be famous. Oh well. Just shows that domestic violence happens to famous people too. Again. Sad and sordid. Whatever.

Don't quite know when I got all jaded. But it happened. And right now I'm fighting a cold, and feeling unusually passionless about this crap. Whatever.

Sweet Jesus. I am listening to the news. They are discussing cost cutting whilst going out to eat. "Choose an appetizer as a main course." "Don't pick up the tab, share the cost." "Drink water."

How about this, just eat at home if you can't afford to dine out? Ya think?

I am getting frustrated by the whole economic thing. I get very full of rage (chock full o' rage) when I think about bailing out people who don't have the sense to not spend what they don't have. Especially when that sense of entitlement is involved.

Oh, now see, here we go. All up in the judgment space. This is where I am very comfortable, feeling all superior. But I don't really like this place. Not really. Because I know that it is mean. And I know that it is transparent. The same scrutiny that I pull on others doesn't look so good when I apply it inward. Oh my, yes.

Now since I haven't achieved my Zen master state yet, these are the pitfalls I get to fall into on a daily basis. Like everyone, no? And I will admit that I haven't been knowingly working towards Zen master. Looks a little unlikely.

Now Jedi master, maybe. There are a couple of Jedi mind tricks that I have up my sleeve. But just talking about them makes me so very not a Jedi.

And this is getting stupid. I am going to work now. Where I can put on my game face, spread joy and sunshine, and polish up the Jedi mind tricks on the unsuspecting populace.

No I haven't forgotten you. The original wordspace is always in the back of my mind. Mixed with guilt, I should be writing more. But then. There has been a lot to deal with.

A death in the family. Unexpected. But still sad, nontheless.

A layoff round at work. Not as unexpected, but changing the course of things for many forever.

A leaper at my workplace. The 28th floor is very effective at stopping the heart. And no, he wasn't laid off. Just messed up.

A round of dentistry. The right side of my mouth is fixed for a very long time, I hope. This week we tackle the left. Then we are done.

Work issues for Kman- his boss quit suddenly. And now there is a lot of change in his air too.

And over it all, just tired. Very tired. Felt like it took everything in me just to get out of bed in the morning.

Ah, but putting on a happyish face in the other outside land of words and friends and coworkers and whateverthehell you call them. Because the walls have ears, and the friends aren't always as bedrock as you would like. But there you have it. The danger of networking. And mixing the metaphors. And mixing the worlds within which you roam. But I am not really complaining. More like explaining.

But you likely know all this already. Because you patiently wait for me to find the words. And take the time. And express whatever.

Had a rough week- and wasn't up to writing much.

Still like that- trying to follow the golden rule about nothing nice to say=keep your trap shut.

But it's hard. Nothing and no one rises to the occasion, and there are so many cracks in the firmament. All I want to do is point them out and fix them. But it's not my job. It's not within my capacity. And in some instances, it is none of my business.

So I keep it to myself, and let it roll. Figuring that I'll either get over it, or accept it, and move the hell on.

But it takes time.

And layoffs suck. Even when you get to stay. Mainly because there's not any guarantee that it'll last. Now both of us have experienced it, and neither of us is going to be much beyond hunker down mode for a while.

So, yeah. That's where it's at. January appears to be the culmination of a ton of crappy shit. Hope February goes a little further in the positive direction. Feh.

I was thinking about writer's block. And, yes, it's personal. And I have it. But the reason makes sense to me, and will be summarily dealt with.

Years ago, I was in art school. I loved it. I was committed. And then I hit the wall. I came to understand that in order to continue, and be an artist I had to deal with two very difficult issues. The first was that the art world is chock full o' assholes, and I would have to kiss many of their asses to get ahead, and thus bury my self respect in a deep hole. The other was that I would have to fully embrace where my art came from. To be honest, it is not a very pleasant place. Or wasn't at that point in my life. I would have to let the dark side really out of the mason jar in the upper shelf of the closet and use it to create those pieces that needed to be created. In the meantime, I knew that I was becoming more and more difficult to live with. Both inside and outside. And I made a choice. I chose to take a sane road and leave the art thing behind. It was not easy, by any estimation. But I don't regret it for a minute. Not being batshit crazy, living alone and dealing with art world assholes is just fine with me.

So the writing. The problem comes from a similar place. Not the mason jar of goodies, exactly- that has been opened in a safe place and dealt with accordingly. But more of a place of fear. I am at the place where I need to get the hell out of the way of the story and the characters and let them live and breathe. And the process scares the hell out of me. Being (oh surprise!) somewhat of a control freak, letting those voices just flow is really unsettling. Funny thing though, that was the part of creating art that I loved the most. The flow when it hit. I remember those times the most. But I am having a little trouble allowing it back. And need to just step aside, and trust that the infrastructure that I have built as my life in general will be just fine. Ah, there is that tricky word- trust. Never a strong suite in my deck. But I suppose it is better than faith. Because that suite is not represented at all. Trust. Feh.

So there you have it. Time to face the demons that remain and let the dice roll (since I am misusing gambling metaphors all over the place- I'll just throw them around like pixie dust). Because the story is a good one, and the characters have a great story to tell. They depend on me, and I have to man up and do this. Or I guarantee that I will have regrets over this one.

I've been thinking more and more about how very interesting the whole choices as destiny thing is. I can't help but fixate a bit on how one choice, that might seem inconsequential, can have the momentum and ability to shift a life forever. Not just the "driving down that road on that day" like in "Adaptation". But more like the decision that a person can make that basically dooms them through the resultant choices. The one tipping point that creates a downward spiral. The one that just can't be undone. I think that prisons are full of those kinds of realities. And in a less dramatic sense, lots of unhappy lives are part of that decision process.

Just been thinking about it a lot.

And as a postscript to my poor aunt's tale, seems that they found undiagnosed and untreated MS when they conducted the autopsy. Fuckers. Fuckers. Fuckers. Oh, and she died of pneumonia. Ah, the rage is building...

I always thought of my aunt as the glamorous one. First off, she was not my mom. That adds a certain luster. And she was fabulous. She and her husband were dynamic and fun. They played all the time. It was only much later that I was able to apply the Aesop's fable about the ant and the grasshopper to the situation, and be quite thankful that I am the product of ants. Versus the sad son of the grasshoppers. Not sure what he does with his time, but from what I hear it is generally kinda underachieving.

So she died yesterday. The first of that generation in over 20 years (the other death was shocking and an aberration of sorts). This one was natural causes, but my mother maintains that Canada killed her. She has good reasons for her bitterness. About 15 or so years ago, a mounty ran over my aunt and broke both of her legs and threw her through the windshield of the parked truck next to her. She never fully recovered from those injuries, and subsequently lacked both PT care, and developed arthritis in both legs. She also developed osteoporosis, and was in great pain for the last several years. I guess her death was hastened by a flu virus that was under-treated by the 3 different doctors that my uncle took her to in the last week. She was too weak to withstand it, and died in his arms yesterday. After 38 years together. He is just crushed. We are all sad. And my mom is angry as hell. Her direct quote, "she would've had another 10 years down here with proper care." No one can understand why the hell she wasn't in the hospital in that condition. It makes no sense.

But there you have it. The woman made fabulously poor choices with dramatic consistency, but lived a truly genuine life both despite and because of those choices. She was kind. She was pretty. She was funny and fun. And I wish that I had been in touch with her more in the last few years. Always with the regrets, no?

She ran around all the time. Outdoors and indoors.
She was barefoot all summer in the grass.
She killed bugs and spiders with delight and satisfaction. She thought it was heroic.
She tried to catch butterflies, but only to look, not to hurt.
She got into everything.
She liked raspberries the best.
She liked the smell of the dog.
She was slow to learn how to ride her purple bike.
She wanted everyone to like her.
She was full of ill-contained passion.
She picked everything up, but rarely broke anything.
She thought that everything was fun.

Got some words of wisdom from my mentor at work. She is really good. Comes from a different place professionally and personally, and I really value her insights. She told me to calm the hell down. I was in a dither about not having clearly defined goals, and slipping on some of the ones that are already established. She told me to stop it. Be good. Give it a month or so and reevaluate what is important.

Perspective, I think it's called. Been lacking around here in my head, lately. Just because I have slipped into the element of immediate. Everything appears important. Everything appears to be imperative. And it's good to have someone call me on that and tell me to knock it off.

I think that part of the problem is where I work, and with whom. It is merely a huge chunk of the culture there, and with them. That's not going to change any time soon, and sure as hell isn't going to be prompted to change by me. I am a small cog in a very large sprocket. And I don't think that I can totally pull out of the collective madness- it's just the way the place works.

But the personal stuff can be evaluated differently. As is appropriate. I push Kman to evaluate and make choices and pursue goals and develop dreams. I push myself too. But I am thinking that it might not hurt to relax. Just relax. And carry on. Wayward son.