I haven't spent a lot of time thinking about and dealing with redemption. But I got some this weekend and it was a sweet experience.

Back story: I have a sister with whom I have a very troubled history. She has more challenges to basically deal with life than I will ever imagine. But she is not a very pleasant person. Not even close. It is much like being with a thunder storm. About as peaceful, and the threat of explosion is constant.

This isn't a new situation in her life. It was that way for as long as I can remember. But my coping skills are much better. I had a very hard time with her when I was a teen. It was an ugly, volatile situation, and I have carried a ton of guilt about it since.

The redemption came in the form of a weekend visit. It was good to see her. And to see that she doesn't still push the buttons. And that her attempts to push those buttons hasn't changed. And to know that once upon a time, I didn't have the adult skills to deal with her rage and problems. That helps me forgive my own transgressions.

Better than a crapton of therapy.

And I can still deal with her. Just fine.

The house thing continues- we have had 2 THE HOUSEs, and neither has worked. The second one had an insufficient well. Sounds very odd for Western Washington, but there you go. Thanks geology. The builder was a total tool about it and tried to bullshit us as to what the yield was, despite the well report that HE supplied. We passed on that one. It was beautiful, though.

Hope remains alive.

The best part of this whole thing is that Kman and I are doing well as a couple throughout. I can see where this process could destroy a marriage. It's bloody hard to define what you want in the first place, and gets more difficult the deeper into the details you go. We definitely have some different parameters, but overall it has been very respectful and supportive. I like that.

I have some rules for this. I'll even share. Because that is how I roll.

1. Don't buy a house to end the fucking ordeal of buying a house. (I have teetered on this one more than once. Just. Don't.)
2. Don't fall in love until the paperwork is signed. (Failed this one on THE house #1, not on THE house #2- that was just a crush)
3. It may be a deal, but it can be someone else's deal.
4. It has to be at minimum 85% ready to go- otherwise it's a fixer-upper. We are NOT in the construction business, so walk quickly away. Nothing to see here, folks.
5. We each get a veto. It may be painful, but it is important.

So we have another batch of about 20 listings to dig through, and I will start vetting the options for Kman, and let him see the best of the bunch. Some day we will have our very own home. But for now, our rental is lovely, in a great area, easy to access, cheap as hell, and ours for the duration.

There has been so much happening that it's hard to keep it all straight. We are tying up loose ends all over the place. And saying goodbye. This weekend I say a final goodbye to my grandmother. On a mountain. In Montana.

Last week we said goodbye to Kman's home. We moved his mother to Oregon. We emptied his childhood home. Only the ghosts remain. I hope they are content. It was harder than I thought it would be.

We are also in the middle of a house hunt of our own. We found the perfect house. Then there was a bidding war, and we were no longer in the hunt. So now we sit and wait until another perfect house arrives on the scene, and hope for the best.

I am also in the hunt for another job. At the same company. But would love to find something else. Something overall more rewarding. More money too. But that is another topic for another day. I try not to let my bitterness show, but it's there just beneath the surface. I hate that it is this difficult. I can only hope that if and when it happens, it is worth the effort. Otherwise that would really, really suck.

It has been quite the summer so far. That is really about all. Just no time to catch my breath and really reflect on it all. So I keep moving forward and hope for a clean moment of time here and there to figure things out.

Saying goodbye

We're getting ready to move my Mother-in-law out of the house they lived in for over 30 years. I've had 18 of those years. It is sad. I'm not looking forward to driving away with all of her worldly possessions in the van. It not only means a concrete and irrevocable end to that part of my life and hers, but it also means that things will never revert back to normal. There is a new normal. And we get to deal with that.

It also means that I have aged, and am not who I once was. Recognizing that is generally not traumatic. But when it means walking away from people and places that have significance, there is pain.

Day 2- still not giving in to the paranoia. It's not fun, mind you. But I'm not as tense. I'm hoping that this "facing my fears" thingy gets a little easier.

If not, I'm in for a really nasty time of it.

Oh, and my legs hurt a bit. Excellent that- means stuff is happening.

Day 1- address the fear, keep breathing.

So I went for a walk. That might not sound like much, but when you're borderline agoraphobic, and apparently have been since your teens, it is kind of a big deal. Not that I walk in sketchy neighborhoods late at night, either. Very upscale community with a lovely rainforest park. That I have walked through with Kman many times. It's just the alone part. I have never been to a movie in the theater by myself either.

This was a big deal. I hate treadmills. They bore the crap out of me. I like being outside. I just am afraid. Not sure of what, really. It wasn't an issue when I was little. I would ride my bike anywhere and everywhere. I would walk to the school 6 blocks from home and play in the playground. I would walk downtown by myself and visit my mother at work.

Then something happened. Not sure if it can be only one thing. I think it was cumulative. Mainly because there was no traumatic event to attach to this fear. Just...time.

When I was in college, I just got used to driving everywhere. Especially at night. And having someone with me when I went for hikes in the mountains and parks. But I still went skiing alone, and walked to school. It wasn't a big deal.

Then came Tempe. Not long after we moved there a woman was found headless in a canal not far from where we lived. That scared the hell out of me. Angela Brosso. I don't think they ever found her killer.

There was an unsolved murder in my apartment complex.

My friends were very upset that I went to the grocery store alone after dark.

Nothing ever happened.

But the fear grew.

Seattle was fine, I could take the bus around town. I could drive anywhere. But walking in my neighborhood alone was beyond me.

So my fitness has been at the mercy of the ability to go for a walk with Kman. And not my own.

This doesn't please me. I don't like being afraid of things that don't exist. So I figured that I would go for a fucking walk today. And if anything happened, I would have something tangible to fear. Which I would prefer.

I got home just fine. Saw several rabbits. Decided that I don't want to be like them. Fearful and jumpy. I'm too old and too out-of-shape for that.

Ah memory.

It's memorial day. Appropriate.

Last night was a meltdown. I predicted it. I knew it would happen. If the right triggers were pulled. And I knew exactly what they were. And it happened. No one should be surprised, but someone was.

"Up" was on. That, my friends, was the trigger. I saw the movie when it came out. Loved it. Thought it handled love, loss, regret and aging remarkably well for a big-budget animated movie. Loved the humor. Loved the whole damned thing.

Then we lost my father-in-law before his time. Then we lost my grandmother long after hers, but still a loss. Then we lost our oldest and dearest cat. All within 6 months.

And apparently that is all too fresh for me to face "Up." I rather figured that would be the case, and have avoided it assiduously since it came out on video. But Kman thought it would be fun to watch. Until I broke down at about the 10 minute mark and had to go upstairs, as far from the movie as I could get. I do have a hope. I hope that some day, not too long from now, I can face the movie. And not lose it. And not succumb to what I think is the devastating combination of regret that I imagine the humans we lost dealt with. I don't think the cat would be overly worried. But the Father, yes. Too young. Too many unfinished beginnings. The grandmother, yes. Too lost too soon. Too many unfinished endings. It's just horrible to encounter this many ghosts via the simple act of sitting on the couch and watching a movie. Just horrible.

So there is the Memorial day. Spent remembering, all right. But sadly not spent moving on quite yet. I'm hoping that can happen soon. Ghosts get heavy.

Again with the patterns. They haunt me. And hunt me.

Right now I am thinking about times when creativity wasn't enough to inspire me to act. Yes, the skills were there. But the incentive wasn't. It just didn't matter enough. And from an objective standpoint (if such a thing is possible), there wasn't really anything that was lost by not acting. So, I didn't make art at some point or other. So I didn't write something. What was really lost? Well, the world lacks some stuff. Is that really so bad? When all I wanted to do was something else? Good question. That's the kind of thing I castigate myself with. It's all a big session of shit or get off the pot. Do I want to write? Well, it doesn't drive me to put words on the page with a focus beyond all else. It is fun. I'll give it that. And I'm pretty good at it. But it's not something that wakes me in the morning with the compelling urge to write. It's just something that fits around other things.

And probably the saddest admission is that there isn't anything else that is all that compelling. Nothing wakes me and fills me with the urge to do whatever-it-is. I find that a relief, in a way, as I have experienced that kind of urge, and don't find it conducive to being content and happy. It just feels like wearing an overly itchy sweater all the time in a very hot room. I don't like that.

So, what to do? What to do? I think the best course of action is to wait this one out. And see what transpires. I have found in the past that flexibility helps. So does the lack of the personal accusatory voice. So does plenty of sleep. So does not drinking too much wine. So does walking away from the computer. So does putting down the tv remote.

It'll happen. Or it won't. I'm not convinced that either will be a tragedy.

Today is meant to divert and play the role of a palate cleanser. Or to be more specific, this afternoon. Because enough, already.

It's never enough, though. Funny, when I didn't have enough to do, it wasn't enough. And now that I have too much, it's not enough. There seems to be a problem with either my definitions or my aspirations. I am going to personalize the problem, mainly because I don't know how else to tackle it mentally. If it's not me, it's you. And if you're some anonymous internet user, that's pretty presumptuous of me. So I'll own this one, and try and figure it out.

I suspect that it's the balancing act that is thrown off a bit. Lately it's been me on the head of a pin, spinning plates with a blindfold on. Funny how that works. Not very well, and there tends to be some noise involved.

For the last two weeks I've been immersed in my job. Almost to the exclusion of everything else. It feels a bit odd- like I need to struggle through and find myself again. But the weekend helped. So did an odd exercise that we did at work last week. It was strangely personal, and I brought it home.

We did a values exercise and determined from a stack of cards with words on them what our values are. Mine did NOT include Power, Influence or Accountability. But they did include Knowledge, Reflection and Family. Big shock there. Kman did the cards this weekend and had a totally different outcome. We didn't share any of our words. But the funny thing is that I predicted 3 of his 5 words, and ours were compatible and complimentary to a scary degree. It's cool to come to those kinds of conversations and have them confirm our reality.

Not to feel smug, or anything. But I might've felt a little smug. Then I was just tired. And then I slept.

I haven't said much about life in general- the lockdown on revealing diddly squat on Facebook has apparently extended to this forum. Likely a safer option. But things have been ... interesting. I still have a job. In fact, more secure than ever. But it is stressful.

In the last month and a half I have:
-put together a series of roundtable events across the country for about 150 participants
-put together a meeting that included our company CEO and CFO (yes, I met them. Yes it is very glamorous).
-put together a team offsite in Chicago for 30 people
-put together another team offsite here for about 40.

Overall, it resembles being a wedding planner. Something that I had absolutely no aspiration towards becoming. And still don't. So the hunt begins. I started today. We'll see where THAT goes.

I was thinking about influence. And aging. How things that didn't seem to matter at the time can have repercussions decades later. And how things that were perceived in one way look totally different later. This was all in the context of thinking about songs. Songs that meant something to me, and still do.

The first adult song that I remember being important was "Age of Aquarius." Yes, I was under the age of 5. But it still makes me smile to hear that song. I'll explain.

I remember a sunny summer day. It is morning, and the sun is shining. Dad has the top down on the convertible, and we are driving to Grandma and Grandpa's house. I presume I am going to spend the day there. The radio is on. We are at a light, I think that it is the one by the old National Guard armory on Euclid Avenue. That's how I remember it, at least.

The song is playing, and my hair is whirling in the wind, as I slide around the white patent shelf seat in the car. I am singing along to the radio at the top of my lungs. I only know the chorus, but I remember the feeling. I remember the day. It has been decades, and that day still matters. Later life would take some of the wind out of me, and I have never recaptured the ability to sing in public with quite that freedom, but I remember that day.

I still don't know the words to the song besides the chorus, and sure as hell can't hit the high notes, but it is the song of the 1960's for me.

I've been re-reading books that I loved when I was very young. I am looking for where my writing sensibilities came from. So far there have been some dreadful books that I couldn't finish. There have been a couple that were fun. Overall, though- apparently I naturally gravitated towards feminist writers. Who'da thunk.

On that theme- I'm growing increasingly irritated by the folgers coffee commercial with the woman who runs into her father and they discuss her proposal. It annoys the hell out of me that the boyfriend already talked with the father in that archaic permission thing. I would break up with a man who spoke with my father before asking me to marry him. I am not and never have been my father's property to give away. I cannot express how much I hate, hate, hate that whole idea. Well, I can express it. I just did.

So let's get this straight. Traditionally subverting healthy sexual appetites and functions, with the expectation that God will make that ok- check. Throwing the men with the allegedly suppressed appetites into positions of absolute authority- check. Ignoring signs of problems and covering up molestation when it happens- check. Incriminating records indicating that the corruption spreads to the highest authorities in the church- check.

So where in the FUCK is the proof that the church keeps whining about that this is some kind of fraudulent attempt to besmirch a blameless Catholic church? Right. Nice try, boys. I don't think anyone outside of zealotdom buys it though. So shove those shiny PR happy commercials that you are blasting the airwaves with "inviting" me to revisit my lapsed faith up your sanctimonious, lying asses. Fuckers.

I dream of shelves with jars.
In the jars are drifting glittery pieces of me.
They catch the light like dust motes.
They sparkle.

The jars stretch on and on,
well past what I can see from where I stand.
They glow and shimmer and change.

When I look at my body,
I see where the pieces came from.
Where there would be my own skin,
is a carapace of darkness, with some glimmer.
It's a hard shell of dark.
Housing a core of light.

Yes, there are some regrets.

So am trying something new for this insomnia thing. Just got up. Instead of struggling against the weight of all of the crap spinning around in my head. Just milling there. Like one big clusterfuck of a Russian grocery store circa 1975- when all of the broad-shouldered grandmothers would mill around waiting for the cigarettes and toilet paper to go on sale. Shoving and angry. That is my brain. Imagine if you will. Just the smell alone is deafening.

So the thoughts. They carry me along. Career stuff. Life stuff. The lyrics to songs that I thought I had forgotten. Sadly, I did not forget them. They are still stuffed up there, waiting for a weak moment to emerge and torment me. Yes, Genesis, I remember you well.

Also visiting me are the twin glories of fear and doubt. Love you guys, wish you would come by more often! It's great to entertain old friends in your head. Not crazy-making at all.

It's enough to inspire a colossal drinking round. But enough of that. It's 3:00 AM. Sooner or later, the sun has to rise on all of this, right?

I've been spending plenty of time thinking lately. Because that apparently is what I do. Mull crap over. Cogitate until it's dead and rotting. Zombie philosophy. Or something like that.

I haven't been overly fond of a trend I am noticing. It's something about uncompromising. I see it internally, and I see it displayed all over my work and around me. Hearing, "that's just unacceptable" just inspires me to a cold rage. Because that is one of the main symptoms. Yes, darling, it is acceptable. Because we don't always get what we want. And bad things happen. And people can be shits. And people can be nasty and difficult. And most of all, people can fuck thing up royally. And guess what! You have no choice but to accept it. You don't have to like it, but it is part of life. And biting that little tirade back on a daily basis has become my biggest struggle.

Because it all boils down to the idea that every mistake is to be taken personally, and that you are that bloody important. Somehow, somewhere, someone decided to fuck you the hell over. Well, reality check. It ain't about you, sunshine.

Now I feel a little better.

-sometimes I miss the feeling of a porcelain bowl forming under my hands. Mostly not. The act of creation almost destroyed me, and I don't trust it.

-I still wish that I knew how to blow glass. But I lack the motivation to invest time in that. I have enough excuses in my life and unfinished projects.

-There are days I ache with wanting so much. I don't even fully understand what exactly it is that I want. But it hurts. Like a bone-deep bruise. And it floors me.

-I often put myself to sleep with stories that I tell myself. Sometimes I star in them, sometimes not. And I always convince myself that they are only meaningful to myself, and I won't share them. I get to keep these ones.

-when I re-read my dream journals from 10 years ago, I can still visualize the dreams themselves. I'm not sure if it's comforting or alarming to revisit these dreams.

-I am fearless when I cook. My mother raised me to play in the kitchen with food. My father is an excellent cook. It rubbed off, and I am very lucky.

-I can't be a pot head. It would be lovely, but all I ever want to do while stoned is eat salty foods, be alone and listen to Led Zeppelin. That is hardly related to productivity. I hate feeling like a 14 year old boy, and being that lazy.

-I have always wanted to travel, but am so very afraid of disappointment that I refuse to do it. It would be supremely heartbreaking if the destinations of my dreams weren't what I have fantasized about for years. And since this is inevitable, I stay home. And pine.

-the smell of violets reminds me of being a child. I had a doll with hair that smelled like violets. She was my favorite. Until her little head popped off.

-I used to cut pictures out of books and magazines in order to collect them. I added them to my paper doll collection, and fashioned elaborate and intricate stories about them. I regret the books, though. And wish that I had kept the dolls.

-I am grateful and honestly pleased not to be a mother. I have never desired motherhood. I have never been comfortable thinking of myself like that. I never imagined myself with children of my own. Never. I am grateful that I live in a time that allows me that choice. I needed it. I would've made a horrible, resentful and selfish mother. I am a fabulous aunt.

-I love to drive. I have always loved to drive. I wanted my license more than anything else. I wanted the freedom. I wanted the ability to go wherever I wanted without telling anyone. I loved having my own life, independent of my parents, and belonging only to me. The only restriction was gas money.

-intense privacy is one of my foundations. I don't share some things with anyone. I keep them. I dole out information on a strictly need-to-know basis for the most part. I don't trust that what I have inside will readily translate. The people I share most of my days with would not understand. I have let enough out of the bag to know this for certain. It's just not worth it.

The downside? Feeling inauthentic. That is hard. Harder than I would've expected. But with authenticity comes responsibility. That is another kettle o' fish entirely. Not sure if I'm up to that one. Not that I think it's important to be some kind of zen master or the like. But still- it's harder to compromise your ideals and personal institutions if you are being all adult-like and authentic. It's also harder to convince yourself that it really doesn't matter, and that none of it touches you. Because once you make that stance permanent, there you go.

So I guess this points to a general lack of commitment. Oh, my. Shying away from decisions. Oh, my. These are the words of nightmares. Indeed.

So taking the persona idea a bit further- there is the stress it induces. It's really part of life in general- there's always the strain of meeting expectations. Of being who you think that others expect you to be. That isn't new. It's just keeping it all straight that can be a little confusing. In my case, it slips sometimes. And then people give me 'the look'. It's usually amusement plus a bit of shock. They didn't expect what came out of my mouth. And I am generally a bit nonplussed. Because the control slipped. And that's not the most comfortable thing in the world. Small wonder I don't drink around my co-workers.

But it's more than that. It's the feeling of being the odd man out in a deeper sense. Like there is a subplot that I am totally missing. But then I realize how many of the people around me aren't all that deep. So the subplot isn't anything deep- it's more of an appearances thing. And yes, I am missing that. And that's just fine. I don't think it'll inflict lasting damage on my soul. Just a bit of discomfort. Which is also fine. Discomfort makes me explore things, and learn.

But I tell you what. I am not interested in several of my old personas. They have been retired for good. And that is a large comfort. The goal ultimately is to feel like I belong in my own skin. And that I like it there just fine. It's a work in progress.