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I don’t know, and neither do you

So, here we go. Or more accurately, here I go (what’s this “we” stuff?). People have been nudging me for years to start a blog…but i still don’t know exactly what a blog does, or how it’s different from me prattling on FaceBook or even Twitter. Yeah, I get the character limit thing in Twitter, and the weird and ever-changing algorithms on FaceBook, but that’s all entirely free. And reasonably effortless. Truth be told, I suppose one of the advantages of having my own blog is a sense of control, even if I’ve had to break down and fork over a few dollars to gain that. But, so be it. This is capitalism. No free lunches, you pay for what you get, all that. So…here I go.

I figure I know a little about a lot of things. I’m very curious, and enjoy discussing and opining on a great many things in my limited corner of the Universe. My writing skills are decent, and I love words, but my tragic flaw is … initial enthusiasm followed by a sudden stop. Very frustrating. But, that’s how I roll. Accordingly, I find it best to implement a solid frontal assault initially, and take what i can get on the follow-up (if any). Sporadic is my middle name, it seems.

I am conflicted, or at least vaguely unsettled, about doing this. I do not like to assert myself as having anything of value to offer, or to be perceived that I believe myself to be skilled or offering anything of value. To engage in honest humility, though, I have to accept that I am not the best, nor the worst, of writers and what you see is what you get. Additionally, some days are better than others, and so it goes.

I journal, and have since i was a kid. It’s always come pretty naturally to me. That will continue, I am sure, but blogging/posting offers me the opportunity to have witness, comparison, perspective. More public audience gives me a reactive community of practice relative not only to the craft of writing, but to thought and self-assessment. the psychological distance inherent in online work affords untold risk-taking opportunity, for better or worse.

Lately, i have been focused on topics surrounding justice and equity in this country. I am revoltingly fascinated with the current political environment, which is more partisan and hypocritical than I have ever seen it. Perhaps that is a function of my age, since it’s been fairly recently since I’ve paid such close attention to politics and how it shapes life in this country. Equity, or lack thereof, is a product of the political environment and the public policy it yields. Equity on the basis of race, color, gender, and sexual orientation most gets my dander up, because discrimination on those bases seems particularly nonsensical to me. What difference does it make to another person what skin color I bear, or who i love, or which reproductive system my body expresses? Prove to me that any of that alters your life in any fashion. Contending that it does affect anyone else is simply…nonsense.

I don’t know if i have very many goals for this blog, other than a chance to perhaps maintain some control of the audience (if any). FaceBook privacy settings are unreliable, at least in my opinion, so when I have rampaged through current events and posted that online, i have no earthly idea who reads that. I suspect that I may have been profiled by at least one potential employer, and if that is true, I am sure that’s not the only one. Ultimately, it’s not earth shattering if that has happened, because once again, I thrive on being reasonably transparent – what you see is what you get. I would never want to accept a job based on a false impression of who i am. Better you should know, and better i should know that if it made a difference to you i probably don’t want your job.

My true color

I speak the language
And mostly look the part
But you have no idea
The color of my heart

Many people have tried to categorize me as Mexican or LatinX until they realize that I can not speak a word of Spanish beyond “Gracias”. A few have decided that I must be Polynesian or Filipino. Whatever, y’all. My birth certificate says Negro, so put that in your pipe and smoke it.

My ethnicity and race don’t really matter because I am more concerned with other things about me. Things that make me annoyingly human, and frustratingly isolated. My blood is red, and my heart pumps it strong, but … it’s a bit singed around the edges from the scourges of guilt and shame and the blistering flames of betrayal. It’s got an uneven frame of dark umber; further in, there’s a splotchy patch of almost neon purple, outlined in a sickly yellow. That unwieldy shape marks the bruising from a never-ending sequence of cannonball shots right to the core of me. It may never fully heal.

The pain of all my ancestors is held there, along with my own, reminding me to keep my guard up and be ever vigilant. Because I have such a great capacity for pain, however, even this is often not enough to save me from trusting when I should not, from thinking every narcissistic charlatan is a friend, from ignoring clear signs of danger. That has nothing to do with melanin, ethnicity, race, or even culture.

Notwithstanding all of this, somehow and against the odds, I’m still here. Easily confused and consistently error-prone, but still here. Sometimes that amazes even me.

I’m watching snow fall outside my window. It’s been falling all day, and has left the landscape enshrouded in a thick, fluffy white blanket. There are still a few drivers on the nearby road that was not plowed today, but mostly the normally bustling main thoroughfare is quiet and nearly peaceful. The sun is predicted to be out tomorrow, and some of the fuzzy blanket will melt, along with the ice from a previous storm that is buried a couple of inches beneath it. This will make for dangerous travel, and many of us will remain cloistered for another day until it’s safer to navigate.

Fortunately, I have not lost power, so I was just watching a short reel somewhere on Substack. I follow the page of Joan Trumpauer Mulholland with tremendous gratitude for her legacy. She’s a white woman and a veteran of the Freedom Rides and other work in the Civil Rights era. She was a very young woman then, born with a soul that called for justice and fairness during a time when justice was the last thing on the minds of many people who looked like her. She was undeterred and saw it all, including the jail cells and the bloodied faces of those who walked beside her. She’s about 80 now, and still a free-spirited hippie without an ounce of pretense or arrogance in her cells.

At any rate, I saw a reel from her page earlier that feature a man walking outside along a snowy road. He told a story about having seen his postal carrier earlier in the week, and they shared a few words. He recounted that he told the other man to be careful, with all the ice on the roads and sidewalks, and they smiled and parted ways. The narrator said that much later, it occurred to him that just saying the words :be careful” wasn’t really enough to make his sentiment real. He needed to take action to make safety possible for the object of his sincere hope for safety. So, the next day, he went back to his mailbox, which was a fair pace from the house and down a significantly long paved pathway. He found the pathway covered in ice, and a bit hazardous to navigate. So, he took a small shovel and chiseled a path through the ice so the mail carrier was able to easily reach the mailbox. He took an extra step to make his wish come true. For someone else.

This story impressed me a great deal, because I often forget about taking the extra step that makes my platitudes carry weight. I learned this from a workshop facilitator a while ago, but forgot it. The facilitator told a story about a fisherman who frequently encountered another angler at the fishing hole. The other fisherman wasn’t having the same luck, so the fisherman shared a few tips of the trade. That was a nice thing, but the facilitator went on to explain that if the fisherman truly wanted to see his peer achieve success, their relationship would not end with generic advice. The more successful fellow told also told the other man about the best fishing spots in the area, and further, that he would meet him every so often to fish with him and lend his expertise if that might be helpful.

Just saying nice words about thoughts and prayers, be safe, and so on may not be enough. If I am truly invested in someone having a successful experience, perhaps there is an extra step. I hate being set up for failure, or feeling that I have done the same to another. I’ll remember to ask myself if there is more I can do for a successful outcome.

I wonder

I am sitting here, for the 3rd day, held captive by the last gasp of the monster winter storm that did a fly-by over the weekend. While me and the dog have been languishing in our privilege of heat and shelter, with no power interruptions during the storm, another peaceful observer of protests against ICE in Minneapolis has lost his life. The perpetrators have attempted to control the narrative, claiming the victim aggressed upon them, brandishing a firearm. Nyet, nope, nah. Numerous videos disprove that entirely, showing the now-dead man attempting to assist a woman who’d been pushed to the ground by so-called agents of Border Patrol. The only thing he was brandishing was a cell phone, but they nonetheless mobbed him to the ground, disarmed his legally carried and unexposed firearm, and shot him several times while he was pinned down. This is murder by any stretch of the imagination, but the wheels are grinding to absolve anyone involved of accountability. I cannot sort out my emotions on this, nor on the similar cases of Renee’ Good, Keith Porter, and others who posed no threat to agents going about the business of implementing an illegal mission.

Accountability is a cloudy thing when there’s an imbalance of power to begin with. If the accused is systemically protected by class privilege, or is cloaked in the mantle of authority, those directly impacted by their actions are likely to see nothing even close to justice. Many blame the current executive branch administration of the United States for this, but in all honesty, this has been an issue from the earliest days of the nation. While current times are full of blatant and documented disregard for the Constitution, the rule of law, public ethics, and common decency unearned privilege has long been an impediment to accountability.

Many are questioning the pubic response to recent high-profile cases of rampant disregard for the most basic standards of equity; would public outcry over the murder of Renee’ Good be lessened if she were a woman of color, or not a mother? Even asking such a question presents a visceral reaction, because we are tired of having to ask this question. Too often, the answer is what so many people of color have come to expect.

When George Floyd was murdered, there was tremendous pubic outcry, large protests and demonstrations, and finally conviction of the police officer who knelt on the victim’s neck for several minutes and caused his death. In the wake of this came more deaths of unarmed men of color at the hands of law enforcement. Those responsible for these deaths were mostly white officers, although one of the more heinous murders, in Georgia, was perpetrated by a group of Black officers. The common denominator in all of these murders, however, regardless of the ethnicity or race of the killer(s), is the training philosophy and systemic infrastructure. Privilege is inherent to that system, which is derived from slave codes that presume guilt before innocence of Black or Brown bodies. That basic premise has evolved to the assumption that an officer is “in fear for his/her life” whenever interacting with a resistant “suspect”.

The root cause of such inequity is, of course, racism. In some cases, it is overt but more often than not, the causal factor is covert. We are wired for racism, and our endorphins go wild when privilege becomes a factor. Toddlers on a playground enjoy being top of the heap, the winner of the most marbles, the most high. That’s a simple matter of dominance, as dictated by the inclusion of homo sapiens in the kingdom of animals. We are built to survive, and our chances of survival are inherently comprehended to be greater if we express dominance.

Dominance instructs us to win at all costs, although our human brains have begun to differentiate the merits of “all costs”. In some cases, the human brain can deliberate, wait for reward, see a bigger picture than immediate gratification. But, it’s not our natural or instinctual response. Our natural response is “I want what I want, and I want it now, and if you’re in my way I will do whatever it takes to get past you.” When there is more thought, or patience in achieving victory, some of us cannot understand the delayed response. We see that as weakness, lack of grit, assurance of loss. Perhaps we need the benefit of further evolutionary change.

How do we blend humanity and compassion with the “win at all costs” mentality? Is that even possible? Psychics and channelers say there is a pending split of dimensionality, and some of us will not make the journey. They say we’ve been in the 3rd dimension, whatever that means, far too long and our species is attempting to progress to the 5th dimension. Depending on whose thoughts you happen upon, the 4th dimension is kind of hazy. Regardless, it does seem as though our decision point these days is less cognitive than spiritual. Many of us have what I have seen described as “spiritual blindness”, or the ability to not see the ultimate impact of our actions. In many ways, that simply means self-absorption.

I suppose the “how” of change in our case will be the result of intentionality because we have free will. Some have postulated that free will has been somewhat of an experiment in the cosmos, making Earth somewhat of a lower vibrational entity. That would seem to make sense, although my human mind cannot imagine the alternative to free will. Would there still be “will”, but not “free will”? How would that work? Would you simply be compelled to do the next right thing whether you wanted to or not, or would that be the only possible action you could take? That’s painful to contemplate.

So, because I have free will, I get to choose whether or not I want to move along the trajectory of raising my vibration. I don’t have to, I suppose, but somewhere in my experience I seem to have accepted the fact that higher vibration is a good thing. I’m not entirely sure of the evidence for that, but it somehow feels correct. Of course, I could be a victim of the materialistic “more is better” mentality, but I’m not sure it matters. My gut feeling is that I can accomplish more of what I want to do with a higher vibration. There’s risk, however, and that’s what makes it a bit frightening.

I can talk about risk for a second, because it’s a pithy subject. What is the risk of progress, of raising vibrational level, of changing status or class or status quo? I suppose the risk is…what if I’m wrong, and I run into the wall. Do I lose my pervious gains? Do I forfeit everything I have to begin again, from the beginning? That’s the fear, I suppose, that I will lose what I have. That’s formidable, and frightening. Because we’re materialistic, my animal brain says I need to keep what I have, because it’s mine and I need it. I need my “stuff”to survive, and the more “stuff I have the better I can survive. Right?

Well, maybe that’s true, but maybe it’s not. Some believe we can manifest whatever we need, and simply have to match vibration with whatever is desired. Hmmm. I want to win the lottery, so does that mean I have toknow the vibration of the game? My brain says it is not that simple. Somewhere along the line of my life, I have taken on lessons that give all kinds of reasons why it’s not such an easy thing. Most of those reasons end with the word “fear”, I suppose, but some involve words like, “can’t” and “deserve”. When I was a member of the Catholic Church, what I learned was that I could achieve things like success and prosperity if it was the will of God that I have such things. In my experience, it seemed like God did not will me to have much of anything…just enough to get by, just enough to be somewhat respectable, just enough to show others that I was a hard worker and was reaping the rewards of being such. At some point, I believe I started to feel the rewards involved being unhappy, and that was as good as it got. Besides, everyone was essentially unhappy so stop complaining.

Now, there’s an interesting point. Is happiness part of the expectation for living? I suppose I never thought about it much, and didn’t allow it to enter my considerations for what trail to follow, what move to make. Over these last few years, I’ve begun to realize that I have no idea what happiness is. I suppose I’ve not felt it long enough to recognize it, or to modify my goals to include that outcome. My outcomes have always been about survival, and responsibility, obligation, expectation. Happiness rarely entered, at least not on a heart-centered level. Writing that makes me sad.

So, what am I to do with my entirely human brain, and my lower vibrational level? I wish there was a switch I could simply flip to make the changes I want to make, instantly. But, alas, there is not. That is probably the sentiment of a low vibration, but what do I know? I don’t know much, but I feel a lot. I don’t know much, but I think a lot. I don’t know much, but I wonder a lot. An old minister friend of mine used to say that to know myself at a higher level, I needed to be aware of what gives me awe and wonder. Sometimes, I think everything gives me wonder. I look at random things and wonder how in the hell does that work, or how does that even exist. Sometimes that’s about people as well. I look at some of my friends and acquaintances who are good at things I’m not, who are talented in ways that I’m not, who move with grace and wisdom that cause me to catch my breath. How can someone be a math major and just know how numbers work? How can someone open their mouth and sing with a pleasing tone, correct pitch, and melodic vibrato without breaking a sweat? How can a dog know when someone is going to have a seizure? I suppose I must just accept there are more things in this world that I will never understand, but which give me wonder and, sometimes, awe.

The last question of this rambling for today may be whether or not I have awe and wonder relative to myself. That’s a tough one, because I mostly think I’m just mediocre at most anything I attempt. I play music at a dangerously mediocre level. Some people tell me that I’m a good writer, but I don’t believe I’m all that much of a big deal, at least not a publishable one. I would love to be published, but I would also love to win the lottery (national Powerball, thank you very much). If I am merely mediocre, is that a bad thing? I suppose I’ve always wanted to be significantly better than mediocre at something, but maybe that’s just my ego. Admitting that I don’t know is frustrating but…I don’t know. Famous last words.

Memory

We forget quickly, but events in this world have been speeding by at dizzying speed since the new millennium dawned. I remember strange things, horrible things, that are no longer mentioned in the public square. My surety these days is that none of what we’re seeing now is new. The hatred and intolerance, the greed and immorality, the ambition of rogues is as old as recorded history, but now we see it in technicolor and real time. Lucky us.

Over the past few years, I remember Margaret Hassan, a humanitarian worker who was kidnapped and murdered by ISIS militants in Iraq in 2004. Like other victims perpetrated by militants, she was held for a lengthy interval, during which time she appeared in videos made by her captors that showed her begging for her life and explaining she would be killed if money and military concessions were not made. Reports surfaced months after her ordeal began claiming that she had been executed while imprisoned. One such report told of a blindfolded woman in a prison jumpsuit shot in the head in the prison camp. Although her husband, himself an Iraqi, begged for release of her body, his pleas went unanswered.

Margaret Hassan had been working in humanitarian aid in Iraq for years. She wss known and well respected. The ambush kidnapping occurred on her way to work on an ordinary day, at least a day as ordinary as it could be in a war-torn country with religious extremists undertaking a grisly revolution. She chose to be in Iraq, making the intentional choice to live amongst those she wanted to help. Her life came to a brutal and undeserved end at the hands of those same people.

Again, this is really nothing new. Cruelty has been documented since the first appearance of humans on this planet, as has greed and misguided quests for absolute power. Power is a drug, and a currency, and we are addicted to the pursuit of both. It’s hard-wired in our DNA now, and to some extent, it is who we are as humans. We cannot escape it, but fortunately, it is not expressed as strongly in some as in others. We are, after all, merely animals who are instinctively bound to our need for the social hierarchy of dominance. How we are dressed is irrelevant.

I don’t know why Margaret Hassan’s story has stayed with me since she was killed in 2004. Perhaps it is because I cannot forget her tear-streaked face in one of the hostage videos as she begged for her life. She looked haggard and desperate, and she knew this was not going to end well for her. She was an ordinary woman doing work to helpl others in the middle of a revolutionary war in a country that was not even hers. She was just a white, European-born woman, doing exemplary work in the service of other people who found themselves suffering in the middle of a war, and she died for that.

Margaret Hassan has, perhaps, reminded me of my own mortality. Life can change for any of us in the blink of an eye on any given day for reasons we can’t understand. When there is such incredible cruelty involved, I am nearly paralyzed with fear and incomprehension. I wonder when she gave up hope that she might survive the circumstances in which she found herself I wonder if she was beaten and raped every day. I wonder if she prayed to a long-forgotten deity for mercy, or freedom. or both. I wonder if she thought of her husband or her co-workers or her childhood. I wonder if she hated her captors and what they had done. I wonder if she was afraid of death but prayed to die.

I will probably never forget Margaret Hassan, and I have no idea why. She was not the first nor the last of those kidnapped, imprisoned, and executed in the Iraqi war. Some who were taken were publicly beheaded, but when your life is taken from you it may not matter how it happens. When you are in such a position, I can only imagine that you comprehend the full extent of the concept of powerlessness. I can only imagine what you think during every agonizing second that could be your last.

For whatever reason Margaret Hassan has become permanently attached to my memories, I cannot forget her. I will remember always, and will tell her story when I can. It is a painful memory because there was no sense in her death. Murdering her did not change the outcome of the war, did not convince a single person that the Iraqi state was strong or superior to all others. Murdering her did not change the balance of power in the Middle East, and it did not afford the murderer with religiously prophesied reward. He was somehow captured and convicted of the crime, and now serves life in prison. He is no one’s hero.

Rest in peace, Margaret Hassan. You did a fine job until the end, and at least one person who witnessed your ordeal from afar will not forget you.

What is this, and why now?

OK,so we’re going to be “in charge” of Venezuela now. For a little while, they say. I wish we could be “in charge” of the United States for a little while, because it seems as though no Americans are in charge of it at this point. Highway to Hell is where this road goes. This is going to be an amazing and unbelievable year, I think…there will be secrets revealed, more information than we can wrap our heads around, changes that make us giddy, and everybody will not make this trip. If we’re luck, this won’t look like the end of a Shakespearean tragedy, with bodies strewn across the stage and blood everywhere.

In the midst of all this whatever it is, I am having my own personal moment of confusion and apoplexy. I had a love once, and it ended badly. Times at least 3 or 4, but this is a fairly recent one. My anger protected me for quite a while, but I’m swearing off rageful scenes and trending more toward peaceful mindfulness. That’s just great, until there is unbidden bleed through from the past. Out damned spot!

This reprise of strong feelings for someone who is not good for me started coming up around the holidays, and that timing sucked. I see this living spectre frequently, and usually without note. But one night, I saw them, and a feeling that I did not want crashed into me and I remain stunned, stupefied, and amazed. I found myself with an unwanted realization that i still love them, will always love them, and have loved them in another time and place. Hm.

I don’t want to restart the abortive and dysfunctional interaction we had previously. They are with someone else now, and they deserve each other. In no way do I want that with this person, and in many ways never did. It was more than a sexual thing…at least for me. It’s still wholly sexual, but it is about passion and an unfettered heart. I think I was more comfortable when I hated them.

What is this, and why is it happening now? It is beginning to scare me just a bit, because I do not want to be robbed of the few moments of peace and serenity that I have been experiencing over the past few months. In a lot of ways, I want these feelings to be gone, but in other ways they cause me to feel slightly more alive. That seems grossly unhealthy.

I have been feeling unfulfilled for the past couple of years…retirement, big deal. Having no money is merely an annoyance, but I’ve been there before. Isolating in my third floor apartment is safer than navigating out amongst the lunatic fringe, but gets somewhat boring. I have sworn off the purely social scene for quite a while now, and really don’t want that. The last thing I need is to get involved with someone sicker than me just because they give me some kind of twisted attention. I’ve gone through that for decades, and I am literally too old for it now. Don’t want it, don’t need it, not asking for it.

There’s a weird kind of longing that’s making its presence know in my heart, and I don’t like it. This person treated me unkindly, and the situation ended badly because they have very little fortitude, When things get tough, they’re under the table. I definitely refuse to have anyone in my corner who vanishes at the hint of conflict or difficulty. I also don’t want someone in my corner who is high maintenance, rather stuck in their own aura, and wants what they want by any means necessary until they get caught in their own web of deceit and cowardice. I just don’t understand why I’m having any feelings pop up about them at this point in time. Our last interaction was several years ago, and I’ve kept them at several arms’ lengths since then.

This is all getting very confusing, and beginning to be annoying. A couple of days ago, I happened upon them accidentally while looking for someone else. I bolted rather quickly, but after the fact had a wanting professing these feelings of love and whatever the fuck this is. I wanted to come very close, from behind, and whisper my realization that I will always love them. I’m not sure what that would get me. It’s probably just my overdramatic fantasy of some Hallmark movie moment where I’d play a tragic heroine of sorts with a bleeding heart of gold. Or pewter, Or something precious. Where in the world is all that coming from???

Maybe I’ll never understand myself, Maybe I’ll never have that fairy tale relationship where love transcends everything including warts and false teeth. Maybe I will indeed die alone in this apartment and the dog eats my nose. Maybe I’ve just never grown up and live in some kind of alternate reality of after-school specials and romance novels. Whatever it is, I wish it would go back where it came from and leave me in peace. There is no good ending for what I’m feeling, so let’s go to the last scene where I ride off into the sunset alone. Let’s just get it over with.

So, happy New Year to me. Proud to be curmudgeonly, proud to be a desperado, proud to be still standing after all these years. Not so proud to be still living in the same patterns I’ve always lived in. Not so proud to be still trying to figure myself out. Not so proud to still be moving around in such pain and confusion. I suppose I chose this on some level, but … what the fuck was I thinking? Maybe I wasn’t thinking at all, because I have had fun before and this is not it. Not by a long shot.

Fear,and its better friends

Fear, anxiety…lions and tigers and bears, oh my. Fear is sometimes the appropriate response to a stimulus, such as the stimulus of being approached by someone with a loaded gun pointed in your direction. Unfortunately, people who are wired as I am often do not progress beyond the fear response and become frozen. I’ve never felt as though I had good reflexes, probably because when the stimulus is offered my brain wants to begin analysis, and that is time consuming. Sometimes you don’t have time to consume your normal menu of thinking about the possibility of eventually thinking about the perfect response to a gun pointed at you. Some people are very quick off the block in situations like that, immediately cognizant of the danger and reacting in less than a heartbeat. That’s not exactly my modus operandi.

I just stumbled upon an “influencer” on YouTube, in the realm of those who make predictions about the future, whether that is tomorrow or next month or the next few years. Sometimes those folks are entertaining, and sometimes they may have an insight or perspective I had not thought of. This one was slightly different, however. She was talking about creativity on the level of creating reality. She grabbed my attention by saying that she understood why so many “psychics” have different, even conflicting, predictions for the future. According to her, the reason for that is free will, namely the collective populus. The psychic is getting insight based on a somewhat static environment in the moment. As the collective consciousness co-creates its own reality, things shift and change quickly, so the next seer gets a different picture. That caused me to raise an eyebrow, because I had not thought of that before. I just assumed some psychics were better than others, and the ones who had correct predictions were the better ones. Maybe not.

She talked quite a while about how to manifest your desires, which is not a new topic, but she did not take the usual path. Her focus was on eliminating fear as a barricade to manifestation. She very clearly said thoughts become things, and we can manifest quite the opposite of what we desire by allowing fear to direct our energetic force to exactly what we don’t want. That makes sense, and I’ve heard some echo of that from others previously.

Her big message had to do with personal empowerment, more from the standpoint of personal clarity and fearless emotions about what is desired. Affirmations, vision boards, etc. are not helpful according to her. Recognizing where doubt and fear exist when envisioning something that we desire is more what blocks us from manifestation of a desired product or outcome. Her formula includes finding the root cause of the fear or doubt, and then working to dispel and disempower that. I get a lot of resonance from that, and heaven knows 12-step recovery work is big on identifying and coping with fear. So, I am intrigued.

The weird thing about fear is that what is feared is not always real. If I am in fear about public speaking, of what exactly am I afraid? When I’ve had anxiety about speaking, it’s usually wrapped up in layers of no self-confidence, fearing that what I have to say is irrelevant or easily disproven, that I will have made erroneous citations or misquoted someone famous. After rattling thoughts such as those around my head for hours, if not days before a presentation, I would rather stay in bed.

When I dig a bit deeper into the fears, I have to ask myself what is the worst that might happen if some or all of those doubts were valid. If what I have to say is disproven or found to be false, that would be embarrassing. People in the audience might think I’m a fraud, or lack intelligence. Worse, they might project that I am simply adequately prepared and asleep at the wheel, either lazy or incompetent. I would be written off as someone not worthy of attention, and would get a proverbial black mark attached to my name, my reputation. Why even bother to try?

Looking at this worst case scenario causes me to realize the common element in what I fear is ego-based. What will people think of me? How will I be respected if all those things are true? How would I be able to maintain respect of others after such a poor performance? How would I be able to ferret out any self-respect, let alone confidence? Those are valid questions, but I must admit they are relevant only in terms of me and my ego. That’s not a horrible thing, but I must admit the truth of it. It would, perhaps, be more gracious if I were concerned with not imparting the information planned, and the impact that might have on those who planned to listen and/or learn. There;s a thought.

At any rate, I am a human animal who has an ego that is paired to sentience. My ego is there to protect me, but when it is larger than life, too large to allow farsight, it’s not a good thing. At times, it becomes absurd, blocking not only the light of perspective but the entire luminescence of my self-identity, my being. What others see when this is the case is a very large, very awkward, and very angry asshole plodding about in small spaces and making huge mountaintop out of molehills. This is not pleasant for me, nor those who find themselves in the red-hot aura of this volcano, and it doesn’t get me any closer to safety or success. Bleh.

I wish that I could maintain my sense of self and be fully present when I am feeling unsafe or threatened in situations that are, essentially, inconsequential. Things are slightly better in the past couple of years, whether due to aging or depression treatments. I’m not sure I care, but I don’t want to slide backward on that improvement. The alienation and isolation that result from these eruptions of misplaced anger do not benefit me, or anyone else. Sometimes, there is harm done, usually on my part. That’s not good.

In 12-step recovery, I learned a simple explanation for fear. It is the anxiety that I will not get something that I want, or lose something that I have. That’s works in limited context, but I am a very complicated being operating in a simple frame, and I usually need to dig deeper to understand the triggers and how to avoid them. Best defense is no be there, said Mr. Miyagi in “Karate Kid”. That seems to work consistently, although it often takes me a few minutes to realize that I need to defend rather than take hostages and vent my will upon everyone in eyeshot. Live and learn, grasshopper.

Eden, still

So, let me get this straight – the President of the United States believes that he can “take over” municipalities in the United States. Claiming that crime is out of control in many cities, namely those led by Democratic mayors, he intends to save the day by sending in Federal troops. He sent Marines and National Guard to Los Angeles. He’s now sent the National Guard to Washington D.C., and you’ve got to wonder how those who have been unexpectedly deployed are feeling about that. He is threatening to send a military response to Chicago next and possibly Baltimore, although no one has requested his assistance. He says those cities are “a mess” and he must restore order.

Ummmm, despite his spurious claims that data showing that crime statistics from Washington D.C., Chicago, and Baltimore are manipulated or erroneous, he’s doing nothing more than playing to his own fantasies. There is no room for dissent, his word is the only one that matters. We’re not heading into authoritarianism, we’re already living in it.

As an aside, I am waiting to see how the National Guard fares in New Orleans. Their vehicles will probably wind up on blocks with the tires removed after 24 hours there. NOLA is uncommonly irreverent and not impressed by shows of force. The last time the National Guard was there, they were inspecting ruined houses after Hurricane Katrina and counting bodies. This time, it’s slightly less serious and far less organized, so they may well wind up “patrolling” Bourbohn Street.

Be that as it may, I’m more than a little confused by why this trend cannot be slowed, if not stopped entirely. Truthfully, I don’t believe these are moves engineered by the man who sits in the Oval Office. I believe these decisions are being made by a consensus of several people in the administration, e.g. Stephen Miller. The POTUS is simply the overly enthusiastic mouthpiece of these unpopular trends. Regardless, this is apparently the state of the union at this point, and unless the other branches of government, namely the legislative and judicial, sop enabling him, this is going to get much worse. But still, is not any hope of bringing this assault on democracy to a halt?

This is what happens when narcissism is used to leverage numeric minority power grabs. This is what happens when the forces of the dark side get a running start on furthering their agenda. More than one friend of mine is eyeing Canada as a port in this storm, but I am wondering when Canada might close its doors to U.S. immigrants. It’s not that current policy is making us any friend of other usually friendly nations – Greenland is a bit hot under the collar at this point, as is Scotland and most of the rest of the European Union. Most of Africa is watching and waiting to see how this all turns out.

This is a moving coup d’etat? They are taking authoritarianism on a less than scenic tour of the United States. Things look rather bleak for the future of democracy as we have known it, and maybe that’s not totally a bad thing. The democracy we spoke of has been eroding for quite a while now, and now the erosion is in full view. The damage continues, and no amount of reinforcement or shoring up of the skeletal remains is going to stop that. Perhaps we should devote our remaining energy toward a celebration of life for that late, great democratic idealism and give it a good burial. So then what?

I might argue that, at this point, it’s time to build. Not re-build but construct a new entity from the ground up. It’s time to figure out what the hell we want in a country that we can be proud of, that will allow us all to thrive, that honors our journey here but allows the story to continue. It’s time to figure out who the hell we really are, not the static picture of the Mayflower landing all those years ago. We’re something more than that now, whether any one of us likes it or not. We’re not as white or homogeneous as we used to be, not as compliant as we used to be, not as competent as we used to be, and definitely not as clear on the point of any of this.

If we choose to end the story here and return to a previous point in the story – which is actually impossible – it’s our choice. I don’t believe it’s the best choice, or a choice that will yield success. We can’t be successful at pretending to move backward and act as if we are living in some other time. We’ll continue to be at each others’ throats by trying to do that, because moving back in time is actually impossible. The best we can hope for is cloaking the present in the garb of the past, but scratch the surface and reality will come roaring through. Maybe that’s the solution, then – remain superficial, never let them see you sweat, walk hard and carry an enormous stick. I don’t believe that will be a successful endeavor, seeing as how it has consistently failed in the past, but we’re allowed to try, regardless of the death toll.

I can only imagine the Divine sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of their favorite beverage and turning the pages of some cosmic chronicle while checking the time and chuckling at our stubbornness. Like the small children that we are in a Universal sense, we’re having a tantrum. As a species, we have thrown ourselves on the floor of the Garden of Eden, screaming in frustration, because nobody told us that eating the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge would bring us…here. To this moment, to this knot in the fabric of Time, only to find that our reward is more choices. The Divine smiles indulgently, drains the last drops of a calming brew from their cup, and stands. “Shall we continue?”, they ask. “No rush on the decision, but let me know. Until then, don’t burn down the house, and remember to clean up after yourselves because this is still the Garden of Eden, a.k.a. Paradise, with everything you need to get by.”

When It’s Cloudy

When it’cloudy, I find myself looking to the sky, expecting something more. Cloudy often seem to precede a significant change in the weather pattern, like the frontage of a storm. Perhaps I am always expecting more from basic omens, possibly because I cannot rely on my intuition to foretell what’s next.

IIn many areas of my life, I have overlooked the significance of signs and omens, usually to my own detriment. In some cases I have not been willing to see, in other cases I lacked the visual acuity to see clearly. I envy those around me who can immediately respond to what they can see and assess quickly. That has never been a part of my skill set.

Over the past few years, I have described myself as a delayed processor. . I suppose that’s more or less truthful, but delaying processing does not mean that I delay response or reaction. Particularly when anger or hurt triggered, and consequently fear, the response is ill considered, and much like a reflex. i don’t consider that a particularly flattering quality, but it is what it is.

The problem with these reflexive and knee-jerk responses is that I miss quite a few salient points that are revealed later in more detailed processing. I had a manager once who frequently screamed at me over the phone, and I said nothing. One day, as I was driving to a job site, she began the familiar ritual of assuring me that I was mistaken if I thought I was doing a good job on the assignment, and that I should be prepared for more critique when I returned to my desk. I imagined myself as a cartoon character, sitting alone in my vehicle, with a very red face and puffs of smoke coming out of my ears. But i said nothing, and threw the phone across the cabin of my pickup truck. That ended the conversation for the moment, and I later blamed the interruption on loss of signal in a dead zone.

That has been years ago, and that particular manager is now deceased, but I still remember the incident with maddening clarity. When I am under stress and/or at the bottom a depression-inspired low point, I relive the conversation, word for word, thought for thought, and chastise myself in current time for what I should have said, what my reaction should have been, etc. This is not particularly productive, since I cannot go back in time to give the perfect response, but usually results in associations with other incidents from my past when I have felt consummately disempowered. That becomes.a death spiral of me assuring myself that I am truly worthless, and destined to allow blowhards to treat me badly. When it’s all said and done, I have what amounts to an emotional hangover, usually followed by binge eating of something that is not particularly good for me…and more berating of my inadequacies.

I am not a stupid person. My skill set is not hierarchical, and I learn more by repetitive actiondoing than by detailed instruction with demonstration of conceptual mastery. This frustrates people who have power over me, particularly men who rely on hierarchical and compartmentalized thought processes to survive. That’s very true in a technical world, and I find that while in the technical work force, I often had to teach myself how to do things. Impatient linear thinkers were eager to move on, write me off as one of the slow learners, incapable of technical acuity. I am not a linear thinker, and have never aspired to be, I learn by observing relationships between components of systems, whatever they are, and then intuitively manipulating the components based on my observational reasoning. Again, this frustrates traditional linear thinkers, who demand that I show them how I got to the correct answer. I can’t, so then I become a fraud and a one-trick piney. I am neither.

Why should I care what work force managers think about me? Mercifully, I am no longer in the technical work force, so why does any of that matter? I suppose it matters to me because I was figuratively crucified for sub-standard performance due to things I couldn’t control, but which were very much a part of who I am and how I learn. Nobody cared about that. Show us your work, and then show us your metrics. How many widgets did you move today, and how many times did you complete the task after the deadline? No matter whether the task was done correctly, but if it was late it barely mattered. Some of my colleagues persistently completed tasks incorrectly, but closed them out within the agreed upon timeframe, so they were evaluated at far huger scores than me (who had taught many of them how to do the job in the first place). Whatever.

At this point, it does me no good to remain angry. There’s nothing I can do about any of it. I prefer to believe those responsible for the most intolerance will have consequences in another place, another time, another life. That’s not my business. What is my business, however, is how I can live my life with a higher degree of competency. I want to be empowered, not give away my power with emotional outbursts and waste time on things I cannot change. I don’t want to continue reliving conversations of the past late at night, remember what I could have said, should have said. That is senseless and tiring.

I am beginning to believe that my ego is a bit outsized, and that may be the root cause of my delayed processing since the beginning. Over the years, I’ve done a lot of work on my ego, and realized a while back that when my self-esteem is low, my ego will be puffed up and in the lead. When I’m in that position, I tend to believe that I am one step away from annihilation, only one step ahead of catastrophe. When I’m in that position, I tend to believe that I am grossly inadequate, eternally insufficient, and I need to aggressively protect myself. My ego is like a blister protecting an unhealed wound from long ago. In those times, it’s difficult to discern whether threats are real, or at least whether I am in need of protection in real time. When that happens, I’m reactionary in real time, and that’s often a very disconnected response.

All of that to say, when I don’t feel safe, I have to run. Lately, running has been in the form of shutting down, isolation, withdrawal. Not the best of solutions, but it beats the hell out of an outpouring of rage and aggression. That doesn’t get me any closer to success on any level, and there are consequences.

I may take my last breath still trying to figure out what this is all about, but hopefully I will no longer be paralyzed and stuck in the effort. I have to believe that I am going to be OK. I have to believe in miracles and Santa Claus and sometimes the Easter Bunny. Having a core value of doom has gotten me far deeper into the bottomless pit than I care to be, so no more of that. It’s dark in there, and I would rather be about light. Today is a cloudy day, so I will have to bring my own.

It’s Christmas Eve…and?

It’s Christmas Eve, and a couple of days after the Winter Solstice. The latter is more significant for me, but even though December 24th is not particularly important for me in any theological manner it still feels quietly sacred. Perhaps all days are sacred in some way, but that’s another discussion.

There is a part of me that still believes in Santa Claus, or at least has some faith in the magic and the miracle. It’s about the return of the light, in Christian tradition as well as Jewish. Hannukah is all about the light, and the lamp that burned for 8 days with oil that should have been exhausted after one. Christmas tradition asks that we light the tree and the abode in order to guide St. Nick to our chimney.

It’s all about the light, and that feels particularly appropriate these days, when so much darkness abounds. It’s not just the inane black patches that redact information in files released by the government, it’s about the black patches in the heart and soul of the nation. Rev. Barber said years ago that America has a heart problem, and we need a defibrillator to get it back into a healthy rhythm. That still feels true.

People are, once again, discussing how to get information the government wants to hide. There has always been information the government wants to hide, since its inception. It’s usually about how and where power is disseminated, because that’s how we’re wired. If that didn’t cause so much suffering and inequity, it would be absurdly funny. Unfortunately, there’s nothing funny about playing a board game with very real human consequences for putting a hotel on Park Place.

For myself, I’ve felt largely misunderstood for most of my life., functioning with a dimmed and muted light. I’m sure that’s not a unique sentiment. I learned a while back that I am not terminally unique, that I am not the only one who feels disconnected, broken, and confused on a daily basis. I am, however, the only one who’s in my skin and behind these eyes. I’m the only one who sees things with the particular experiences that make up my history.

The other day, I was thinking that it would be great if I could really enlighten people around me to what it’s like to be in this skin, behind these eyes, with this history and with this spirit. Upon further review, as they say in football games, that might not be such a good idea. Would I really want to subject people I love and respect to the cacaphony that goes on inside my head every minute of every day? It’s noisy in there, and most of it makes no sense, just random sounds and thought fragments that have no discernible origin or even meaning. It’s like ADHD on steroids, I suppose, with a mega-dose of seratonin reuptake and the impulse control of a mosquito. Such is my life, although at this point it mostly amuses me.

When my life does not amuse me, however, it shows me dark and ciruitous paths in collective history, and reminds me there is nothing new here. Human beings have been doing insensible and inhumane things to each other sense before recorded history was evident. We are cyclic artifacts of random and free-floating chaos, and like chimpanzees given typewriters back in the day, it’s likely that, based on the odds and elements of chance, pretty soon we’re going to produce a masterpiece.

The masterpiece has been created, as far as I am concerned, and it’s kind of an impressionistic visual assault of a mad artist. This is a living work, however, and so we can all dabble in the paint and clay, like pre-schoolers in day care. We routinely build and destroy each others’ creations, often allying with other finger painters who are the most assertive or seemingly visonary. It’s a mess, and it challenges us with every breath we take, as the kaleidoscopic image continuously transforms our perceptions and outlook. Some of us probably see Jesus eating a sandwich or the Pope riding a lawnmower.

Because none of us has the power to control the end result, we find ourselves addicted to the delusion of power, and we forget that no one of us can overtake the free will of another. That frustrates us no end, and the constant tug of war over power ensures that we’ll never have peace, never rest, never realize our true place in the enormity of existence. We’re a tiny dot in a nearly infinite array of other tiny dots, but in our own minds, we’re the largest and most well-heeled of all the tiny dots. As pundits have divulged previously, that means we’re just shifting deck chairs on the Titanic.

I had a friend once (maybe she’s still a friend, but I don’t know), who frequently quoted one of her co-workers saying, “Whatever is happening is a major event when it’s happening to me, and it’s minor when it’s happening to you.” “It” could be anything from loss of a loved one to being diagnosed with a deadly disease, or anything in between. That sums up our common average level of humility and compassion these days. Basically, it sucks to be you, so use your free will to pull yourself up by your bootstraps (whatever those are) and carry on.

I do not doubt that compassion and humility exist in the hearts and souls of some human beings. It seems, however, those are very temporary conditions, and frequently dependent on how well one’s life is going. We desperately attempt to explain why there is unbidden suffering, but we collapse all thoughts of fairness and equity into the inherent reality that it is what ir is. There’s no explanation for why some of us suffer and others do not because we cannot see the incredibly big picture. Perhaps we are ALL suffering on some level, but only some of us have become aware enough to realize that some days you’re up, and some days you’re down, and that’s just the way it goes.

So, once again, I do not wish anyone else to live inside my chaotic and randomly firing heart and soul. I no longer care if there’s a definitive explanation for why I make such horrendous choice that bring nothing positive to me or anyone else. I don’t care if there’s a label that can describe the overgrown forest of kudzu that chokes the fertile ground underneath. I don’t want anyone else to grapple with answers to these unanswerable questions or beat themselves senseless trying to discern whether or not this was a conscious choice. These days I care enough about other people to not wish this interminable sequence of random blips of a useful signal on anyone else.

You’re welcome.

It’s A Day

There is always a day after. Today is the day after the Winter Solstice, and the day should be a few seconds or minutes longer than yesterday. I’m not entirely sure what to do with more daylight, since right now it’s cloudy and the time gain is mostly negligible. It’s the cycle of the year, yadda yadda.

There is not much to report from here, longer day or not, but I’ll be glad when this Western holiiday season is over. That includes New Year’s Eve, and the Super Bowl, all that making up the denouement of Christmas. I have not been out very much, not looking for parties or get-togethers or anything purely social. Depression? Possibly, but without a lot of family left, this is kind of how it is for me. I have great friends and somewhat of a support system, but when it comes to major holidays in our culture, people batten down the hatches with their genetic kindred. That’s for better or worse, and many dread the obligatory family gathering as much as I dread the commercialism and solitude, but at least it’s temporary. When I had more living family, namely my mother, I did the whole enclave thing like everyone does…but I didn’t prattle on about chosen family and telling everyone they were welcome at my place. But that’s another story.

I am in no way attached to any theological bonds of Christmas, but it’s a festival of light and color and up-tempo music (unless you are trapped in a place like Starbucks with music from the Peanuts Christmas Special on repeat). There’s no real sadness for me, but a great deal of boredom. I may go for a drive to the mountains on Christmas Day, but not sure. The older I get, the more I worry about having unexpected problems with my 20+ year old truck. It’s in very good shape, but I’m less physically able to contend with catastrophe than when that truck was new…and I was 20 years younger. That’s a first-world problem, though. I am warm and safe, I have food to eat, my dog is healthy, and I am mostly well. There’s quite a lot of gratitude for all of that, and I take that seriously.

If I was able to choose something I wanted at this moment, it would be to win the lottery. Either the state powerball or the national power ball drawing would be fine. I truly want only to be in a comfortable financial position, where I don’t have to worry about the unexpected utility rate increase or insurance premiums rising. There are things I very much want to do that do not involve my personal comfort, however, like a legacy for my cousins and my community. I would love to leave the un-church something significant, like maybe a satellite building or some brick-and-mortar structure for social justice. Or, as I’m writing that, a recurring conference or workshop for social justice or social activism. I’m very serious about that. Even a scholarship at a university for something in that sphere would be great. I am dreaming big on that, far beyond things like vacations and cars for myself. I just don’t want to have to worry and feel as though I’m on thin ice financially, and I’m sure I am not alone in that.

It occurs to me there’s so much to be done in the world that money cannot improve. It certainly helps, but as I watch the current events in this country, I am more and more convinced that money only allows select people to further their illusion of control. If I had billions of dollars at my disposal, I would be the first to say that nothing I fund would actually control people. It might change some of the circumstances for a small number of people, but ultimately it would not change people’s hearts or behaviors. We have free will, a blessing and a curse, and there is nothing any individual can do to override that.

So, earlier today I was thinking that one of my biggest disappointments is that I don’t feel particularly talented about much of anything. I have a few above average skills, but I usually refer to such things as evidence of spectacular mediocrity. I will never be a professional musician, I will probably never be a legendary writer. Some enjoy what I put forth musically or linguistically, but my ego always wanted me to be one of those best-of-the-best figures. That doesn’t seem to be my path, and it disappoints me a bit. I’m not entirely sold on the fame and fortune part of virtuosity, but am very attracted to being elf-assured about my skills. I second-guess myself at just about everything, question whether I’ve done my best, convince myself that whatever I’m producing is merely average and not unique, not creative. The self-criticism is tiring.

Recently, I’ve read writings from a couple of people referring to their gifts as medicine rather than talent, or skill. Indigenous people have referred to medicine similarly, and teach that all animals have “medicine”. I observe this is animals, and people. A dog’s medicine is unconditional love and immediate joy, an ant’s medicine is strength and/or patience, and the honey bee’s medicine is about community and purpose. I have a friend who is very unassuming and finds her place wherever she goes. She is an incredible example of accepting people at face value. She does not practice contempt prior to investigation or experience, and feels as though she embodies kindness and self-centeredness. Her medicine is full acceptance of people as they are, without judgment. She is not one to gossip or speculate on the motives or character of others, which is refreshing.

Some people have bad medicine, and I feel as though I’m a magnet for them. Socoiopaths, narcissists, generic assholes find their way to me without invitation. Or maybe I’m inviting them in some underhanded fashion, but my remedy for that is to isolate like a champ. I’m not interested in risking that attraction, so as Mr. Miyagi said to Daniel in “The Karate Kid”, “Best defense – no be there.” That’s my strategy. I can’t attract these folks if I’m not where they are. I am committed to staying in my apartment for the duration, because I can guarantee they are not here. That works.

Christmas is still a day of quiet energy, solstice energy of the light reborn. It’s about the light, the Star in the East guided the Wise Men to the manger, the Hanukkah lamp burned for 8 days on oil that should have lasted for only one. Christmas decorations light the way for St. Nicholas to find his way through the night. The longest night is a metaphor for the womb and the tomb, dark places that protect spirits in transformation before their emergence into the light. Seeds that are deep in the blackness of the soil are destined for new life in the sunlight after spending time of uninterrupted growth and development. The dark has a bad reputation, but it is necessary for the light. Even cosmic black holes originate in light that has been focused into a singularity. Light cannot exist without dark, and vice versa. Polarity is a requisite of existence, it seems.

Today, I have done absolutely nothing. I believe I took a nap in the early afternoon, and I ate a bag of kettle corn. I had an english muffin with blueberry cream cheese spread and nothing else. I should eat something with a bit of substance and possibly some protein. I had 3/4 of a protein shake with the english muffin, but now I’m hungry, which is not a bad thing. A body has to be nourished, although I’m still getting the hang of eating nutritiously. It irks me that I can’t eat like a 5-year old and be healthy. Life on life’s terms strikes again.

Now what?

So. Here I am. I’m not entirely sure where that is, but it is what it is. Or maybe it’s not. Maybe I am filtering reality based on my expectations, or lack thereof. I’m disconnected, befuddled, and clear on that. I’ve been through deaths of loved ones, death of myself on more than one occasion, and I’m not entirely sure where that leaves me. I suppose here is relative, and if I was supposed to be elsewhere I would be there.

It’s the holidaze. I’ve been isolating since long before this time of unbridled consumerism. I don’t trust myself to safely travel the social labyrinth. That’s nothing new, but I’m too old and bruised to keep repeating the same mistakes. I’d rather be forgotten by those who have chosen to spurn me for being a largely flawed human who screws up in the most unflattering fashion. I have true friends, and that’s enough, although I am lonely much of the time. That’s preferable to being at war with the world, to feeling as though I have to be armed and ready for battle every time I’m in the company of unknown carbon-based organisms.

Right now, I’m a little stressed about money, but it will be OK. It has to be. I am trying very hard to attract prosperity, although it remains somewhat of an abstract endeavor. Depression is still an overlay to most of my life, but I refuse to answer the call of despair. Some days are more difficult than others, but I’m still here and not planning to depart. The unknown is daunting, but that’s how it goes. It seems that acceptance is the lesson for this lifetime, but that doesn’t mean it’s all sunshine and lollipops.

Speaking of this lifetime, I continue to wonder if I am on course, off course, or whether there is a course at all. I read somewhere that the purpose of life is to live, and that may be as good as it gets. Mistakes and change appear to be the only constants for me, and so it goes. My life has been characterized by moments of near brilliance, punctuated by long intervals of abject stupidity. I’ve done some very good things, and some things that have not served me well. I’ve hurt some people, I’ve hurt myself, and I’m not the same person I was yesterday. That is a blessing and a curse, I suppose, but the past is the past and time travel is not in my skill set.

If given the chance, what would I change? I would not have lived so much of my life a television show or a dramatic novel. I would not have lived so much of my life believing that people are trustworthy, that I can be a competent judge of character. I would not havebeen so much of a people pleaser, or perhaps slightly less loyal. I would have been more self-defined, more self-activated, less tied to the sentiments of others. I would have known who I am much sooner on this journey, been more courageous, and made better decisions. I could have been a contender, whatever that means.

Yes, I wish some things were different. However, I have believed for quite some time that if any part of my past could be edited or revised, I would not be sitting here writing this at this moment. All of the screw ups, the errors, the mistakes were necessary for me to be here now. That’s frustrating, but it takes what it takes. I don’t feel as though I am a victim of my own life any longer, which is a good thing, but did it have to be this difficult? I suppose it did.

December has been my favorite month for a very long time. I always loved Christmas, even after it no longer had a specific theological significance. My birthday is shortly after the traditional holiday, and I’ve been rather spoiled to that over the years. Much later, I chose to get sober at the beginning of the month, so there is now added sentiment to this last month of the western calendar. Over time, I’ve added the winter solstice as part of my attraction to this month, and I love the cold. The darkest of the dark nights, the shortest of the days, the turning of the wheel provides me with trust in the constancy of life itself.

At this moment, I feel as thoughI am babbling the same tale and signifying nothing. For some reason I am feeling very disconnected, but perhaps that’s because I’ve been isolating for such a long while. It feels safer, but disconcerting in large part. In a very literal sense, I cannot afford to risk new experiences or experiment with the unknown. I have no choice but to live one day at a time, but I do seriously wish the next several days would pas quickly. I’ll feel a little better after all of this hollow commercial craze is over for another year.

Some days, I wonder if I should have reconsidered my decision to have no children, to opt for a life of solitude. When I was younger, I really had no hormonal urge to reproduce, or to be part of the marriage ethos. I very much wanted to be in a relationship, but truth be told, only because I believed that would have pegged me as a successful adult. I suppose that designation was more for the observers than for myself, although I think I wanted to be loved. The problem, though, was that I had no idea what that really meant. It was still the expected response for my age, for my circumstances. It was what one was supposed to do, unless you were a bona fide loser. That’s what I believed, and I lived as a bona fide loser for many years. My outsides did not match my insides, though, and I was ultimately a self-made delusion.

At this point, I’m not sure where I had choice, and where I had power. I felt that I was doing what I was supposed to do, although in many cases, that was doing exactly what I was not supposed to do. I felt controlled, caged, not free. That was reality for me at the time, and so I lost myself entirely. I settled for what I got, and had no idea that I could demand more. It’s taken a long time for me to accept my responsibility for all of that, for not knowing who I was and what I could do. There is still a part of me that feels as though I have squandered the gifts I was given, and perhaps there is some truth in that. But, as usual, it is what it is and that is all that it is. It’s been a long strange trip, but aren’t they all?

My question, at this point, continues to be…what now? I feel as though my wick is growing shorter by the hour, but I suppose that has been true since the day I was born. I still don’t quite know what I want, still don’t quite know what constitutes happiness. Is that the ultimate goal, to acquire what it is that you want? Does that make one happy? I tend to believe there are no absolutes, but I am not absolutely sure about that. I am not absolutely sure about much of anything these days, except that I am here and this is now and I am not in control of much of anything outside of my Self. I suppose I came into being for some reason, but my brain is not big enough to know what that is. I hope I didn’t piss on anyone else’s breakfast or cause permanent damage to any other person. I tend to think I’m not that powerful to have done so, but just in case, I don’t want to be remembered as a douche bag. I’d rather not be remembered at all if that was the case.

Accepting the fact that I have the bladder of an old woman, I am going to get up and visit the little old ladies’ room for a moment, then feed the dog. Life is good, or at least it is life. I am grateful that it is so.