Persuasion

This is the slightest case of jet lag I've ever experienced. I have to close my eyes and concentrate to even feel it. 

No, that can't be possible. It is the restless boy sleeping next to me all night. Children are so active in their sleep that it's no wonder they need so much of it. He flops and twists and sits up and falls back to the pillow, or just to the bed, he'll turn sideways unexpectedly, sleep with his face down and back elevated, he talks and mumbles and squeals in his sleep. He likes to sleep close to me, so I get to detect each of these movements and sounds. I am a very light sleeper, so no energy is lost. I can pick him up and re-arrange him in a more sensible position and it doesn't even wake him up, nor does it last. He'll be waking me up again in a few twists and turns later.

Rachel went skiing yesterday while I attended to the napping boy. His cough seems to have subsided and neither Rachel nor myself feel any sickness coming on. It's a minor miracle considering how much the boy has been perpetually coughing and breathing on me. Children need more love when they are sick, not less.

Breckenridge is true "white girl heaven" and Rachel is brimming with happiness here. She would stay the entire week, I am certain of it. I like it, but not quite the way that she does. It speaks and whispers to her, it tickles her silly.

She will try to persuade us all to go skiing today. She has been describing the pastime to the boy in such a way that I have very little hope of doing anything else. She announced that there was snowfall at Copper Mountain, not far from here. She stated it as if the simple fact was all that there was needed to be known. It will require me getting out of bed. 

Now that I have grown used to the hotel room I would lie here for days.

I'll enjoy it once the familiar movements come back to me, cutting the sweeping S shapes, gliding downhill. The day will be over sooner than I would hope, and then the next and then the one after that, on and on just like that.

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Breckenridge Blues, Vol. 2

(Nikon D700, 135mm f2.0 DC)

Stuck in a hotel room with a sick boy, nothing to do but write another post. Emails into the void.

I don't do well with boredom. I'll take almost anything over flatness and lethargy. If I didn't have the boy to care for I would wander. It's not as easy to be a free-spirit when you're not, though. All of the men that I know that have had children struggle with it. Several have privately told me that they envy my predicament, to be separated with only one child, a son. They tell me that in a year I'll recognize the freedom for what it is, rather than the horror of uncertainty that it is now.

It seems odd to me, for other people to look into my life right now and see something enviable there. It's not that I don't occasionally enjoy things as they are, it's just not what I dreamed of. It's like arising from a dream that causes you confusion upon waking, rather than terror, or the sense of sleep pleasure's passing. My life is a daze of doubt.

Focusing on work helps, oddly, though one can not work all of the time. The restless, messy life awaits when the clock strikes close of day.

It seems nearly impossible that it was sexual attraction that landed me here.

Now that I am old and wise and full of wisdom... young kids will come from miles around to listen to me, and to heed the many warnings of my words.

Let's all hope not.

There were other things also, of course, beyond sexual attraction. Though some of those things now seem just as inaccessible as the other. Hard to believe, hard to forget.

It is a good and lucky thing that nature fills a parent with love for their child. I shudder to think what life would be like now without that. Love is a choice only up to a point, after that the trees and the stars and the sound of a young boy coughing take over. I find myself feeling useful to a creature who knows nothing else.

Some question the supposed additional meaning of parenthood. So much is hidden and yet revealed in the mysteries of usefulness; deceptive in its mundane practicality, peculiar in its power.  

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Letting the Days Go By

Breckenridge, deep in the wallet of the Rockies. 

We arrived late last night, after some time spent in the hot springs at Glenwood. I didn't go in the pool, didn't feel like it. The hot springs pool was impressive, no doubt about it. There were two of them, one hot and one very hot, arranged next to each another so that they stretched quite a distance, as if they were one long pool. 

Everywhere, there were people lounging about, presumably improving their health in the mineral rich waters. If I could have switched my eyes to black and white sepia-vision then I would have believed myself transported somewhere to the century before last, only the occasional bikini would have given away my proximity to the current age. 

Going on vacation with your wife, from whom you are separated, and your young child is an odd experience. It has brought me no shortage of unsettled feelings. Questions without answers, or worse. The what ifs and whys re-occur. You've already answered the revisions for yourself, and considered the many alternatives, but then there is this fluctuating sense, the tingle of lost love.

Invariably, something will happen, something will be said, and you'll snap out of it. All the reasons that things don't and won't work will galvanize around one facial expression, the tone of one clipped sentence, the sense that there isn't even a need to look at one another for confirmation any longer.

And you may ask yourself, Well, how did I get here?

The sun is rising over the snowy mountains in pinks and the blues of the sky. I would take a picture of it and post it here but I am too lazy.

Okay, I tried. Through the hotel blinds, it did not convey the essence of the morning. It rarely does, maybe never.

The boy has a cough, which might prevent us from continuing on to Longmont, CO as we had planned, not wanting to bring sickness to our friends. It's just a cough, we will have to wait it out and see. 

We may be stuck here, surrounded by natural beauty, attending to our boy together. Who knows, maybe we will fall in love again, though I tend to doubt it. Love requires a willingness towards one another that we no longer possess. A quality that we once shared as the earth's natural aquifers, where two hot springs meet. 

We also might be stuck here in the hotel merely enduring one another, for the sake of the little boy.  

We have plenty of practice at that, too.

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Daddy, Uncle Diogenes Wants to Slice the Turkey

We spent the holiday with a large, warm, well-adjusted family. I focused on being pleasant, and when the opportunity presented itself, even charming. Not too charming. That's the key, try to avoid being "too" anything. That strategy has caused me problems in the past. Insisting on one part of myself, using it as a social mechanism, a wedge to prove differences. I would call it a "defense" but too often it comes across as an offense, a heresy. The Martin Luther of Thanksgiving.

All families possess both microcosmic and macrocosmic components. It is best to understand that before announcing "interesting" large-scale social ideas at dinner. If somebody says "We need to get rid of the politicians!" I'll respond with, "Sure, as a start. Then we should behead all of the older cops."

Nice people are nice, though. 

Niceness provides a comparative perspective from which to better assess certain human attributes. I almost wrote "comparative basis" but that would be disingenuous. I don't wish to mount an attack on the underlying meaning and value of "family" and the potentially strict, poisonous qualities of others' "expectations of pleasantness" this morning. 

Families can be very warm and supportive, up to a point. You must wish to be somewhat like them and act in accord with their values to fully enjoy the benefits of their love. Decorum is doctrine. Few families encourage lifelong directionlessness, particularly the artful or intoxicated kind. I don't necessarily mean alcohol, or not just that. I mean the intentional compromise of one's faculties through the regular excess of the mind, though also in the occasional augmented capacity. 

I partially kid, in an effort to distill then dilute, my meaning. 

In the few paragraphs above I tried to find a way to say that we all had a nice Thanksgiving. Do you now see the dilemma? Some who read here might not, others will. It is a common affliction, to know that you will only ever fit in to the degree that you can contain, and even betray, yourself. It is the value-exchange that many are willing to make. It happens everywhere and for all time. The benefits of part-time family membership are mitigated. Many covet the gold card amenities. 

The idea of having one's own family was sold to me as the ideal antidote to this feeling. I should have recognized earlier that maybe all I ever wanted was a part-time membership. It was the purchasing of the full condo in the hills instead of the time-share on the beach that seems to have finally forced this realization. The homeowner dues nearly broke me. The association bylaws contained so little negotiable fine print. It all became a crash course in contract redesign, renegotiation, and the subtle art of reneging. 

Though everyone at the front desk seems quite happy to keep me on as a silver-card holder. 

I just have to remember to always bring my own towels.

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All cops are created equal

(CNN's "Hubby and the Squeezer")

Like broken clockwork, I awoke at 2:20 am. Even in a  different time zone I'm fucked, spend my hours passing through darkness alone. Except this time I am not quite alone. Rachel and Rhys are here in the room with me at my father's house. Rachel moved to the floor at some point, said the bed was too soft, that it would hurt her back.

The boy is sleeping in a "pack-and-play" next to the bed. We spent 12 hours traveling yesterday and he did pretty good, didn't start fidgeting until the 11th hour homestretch.

That is my travel update for you.

Ferguson. We all got a chance to see "equality under gunfire" in action. 

The police would like to remind us that the kid that got shot could have just as easily been a white kid. It was just sheer dumb luck that he happened to be black.

The cop probably never even noticed. When he pulled the trigger twelve times he might as well have been shooting Frank Sinatra for all he noticed or cared. He was finally doing his duty. His life was in danger, a hundred and fifty feet from where he had been attacked.

I wouldn't be surprised if they promote him to the position of police sniper. The kid's really got a natural feel for it.

Online you hear the common retort, They go out there and put their lives on the line every day.

My new response will be, Those odds aren't quite good enough for me. Just so that we can even the bet up a bit is there any way they could put their lives on the line every night, and weekends also?

I've given up on having opinions on it. I support all of the troops, especially the local ones. It's true that cops have to deal with a lot, but one thing is becoming increasingly clear, that they'll never have to sully themselves with accountability.

I should stop, today is the great yearly reminder of gratitude. I try to be grateful, but it's not always easy. It's because I have an imagination.

Things could be worse, is usually how I access feelings that approximate gratitude. Sort of.

Things could be better, is often how I excite my sense of youthful passions.

I try to keep things interesting by not wallowing too much in either thankfulness or righteous indignation. To keep a healthy psychic balance I remind myself how lottery winners all suffer the same fate.

Last night at dinner my father was relaying how he has been smoking for 75 years now. So, for those who take their medical cues from anecdotal sources, Smoke Up! The old cancer won't get you, unless of course it's just your time to go. Then it won't matter if you were smoking or not anyway.

I love listening to people reason, particularly when they employ the time-tested "Everything Happens for a Reason" methodology. Whenever I hear people say it I always want to respond with: What, like masturbation?

Well yes, it sure does happen for a reason. I can list a few of them. I always know why I masturbate. When it's all over I say, Well, that happened because of her.

All things sure do happen for a reason, stupidity most of all. It self-contains what is known as a "cause and effect" relationship. It's a form of intellectual karma. If you do nothing, the universe will reward you with non-knowledge. You will have achieved the much desired state of eastern nonsense.

If Karma is a universal and meta-physical record of actions then shouldn't Buddhists deny it altogether?


If asked what I have to be thankful for today I'll look around the table while holding hands with loving strangers and say, From Christ's Sermon on the Mount: Blessed are the uneducated hearts because they will receive invitations to Charles Manson's wedding.

Now there's an idea... I should start an online competition of original submissions for Charles Manson's wedding vows. Let's Crowd-Source this event.

America had better hope that I never come in to immense wealth and unexpected power. My life would be an acid blood-bath orgy of obscene misuse of potential and resources. Imagine Rupert Murdoch, The Koch Brothers, George Zimmerman, Charles Manson, and Bill O'Reilly all on my board of directors. I'd create a special "Naughty-For-Prophet" charitable tax haven, a sort of Political Action-figure Committee, a Super-Duper-Power-PAC.

I'd call it "The City of Turds, Ferguson, LLC"

Or, "Everything Happens for A Rifle, DBA"

Maybe that's too... I don't know, overt...?

Simple is best:

A-men, Inc.

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We are all on our last cruise

Judging by the online community's reaction I'm surprised that Michael Brown didn't get killed much sooner. There are many who feel that he got precisely what he deserved and it was only the heroics of our boys in blue, with their herculean restraint, that kept him alive as long as he was.

We're reminded that the "grand jury" saw all the evidence and has made their decision. There simply wasn't enough evidence to indicate that a crime might have been committed. 

If I was a black guy in the US, with access to the internet, I think that I would be fucking terrified. There seems to be no shortage of people online that would love nothing more to one day be in that cop's shoes and pulling the trigger in just the same way. 

Death to the thugs! 

Not coincidentally, they are the same group that claims that racism is now a thing of the past. You know, we have a black President.

I'm not sure what it is about justice that angers the darkies so much.

For once, the far-right white men all seem angry at the "24 hour news cycle" that has "caused" all of this. It is strange... to have them so close to questioning Fox News for the first time in their lives, but still somehow missing the point.

Well, enough on all of that. The riots should keep everybody happy for another few days. Few things confirm the need to shoot blacks as much as looting. 

If corporations are people then they have 2nd Amendment rights, too. It's only a matter of time that Fox News will be reporting on Fox News shooting looters, as they're reporting on them. That should boost their ratings and forever erase the murky question of "journalistic ethics." 

Finally, the media is taking its responsibility to this nation seriously.

I woke up at the pre-zero hour again. We will be leaving for Colorado soon and I need to prepare. I have only packed my bags insomuch as I charged the batteries for my cameras yesterday. There are two packs of unopened Calvin Klein t-shirts stuffed in with a bunch of dirty blue jeans, a few socks, and a pair of underwear.

Rockies, here we come. 

Last night I was explaining to the boy that we'll be going on an airplane tomorrow. It's old news to him now. He was mainly uninterested, though he did ask me if I paid for him to be upgraded to first class.

We'll be leaving the little pup behind. Grandma shows up here in Sonoma later today to care for him. They're old buddies.

I can feel it already, a very long ways off, this will be one of the strangest Thanksgivings ever.

My father is rather old, his health is beginning the inevitable descent of aging, at that age. Each time I see him I can not help but wonder if it will be the last. It is a grim thought, and one that I can not easily drive from my mind.

There is no escaping it, the unavoidability of mortality.

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Poppy Tears

(Afghani Dreams)

I don't want to leave the bed in winter. When I do, I only wish to return. If I had a fireplace then I would sit next to it nightly in a big chair, wearing slippers and a robe, smoking opium, if I can get it.

I know now why my friend told me not to look at the tv or internet last night. Ferguson. There are a variety of ways to feel about what is happening there, then there are two types of people that insist that you feel just as they do, without variation. It depends on where you see injustice. Some people are all for law and order, and some are a little too much for it.

One thing that I did find humorous about all of it was an online post I saw: If you were killed by a cop, which store would you want looted in your memory.

It all seems senseless, particularly the part about the grand jury never indicting a cop. I wonder if there has ever been a grand jury that didn't indict a cop killer. That should help serve as a comparative basis when considering what justice is, or should be.

I might write about it more. I just don't feel up to it now. 

Today is my last day of work for a little while. Tomorrow we leave to visit my father's family for Thanksgiving. Cusicks meet Cusicks, familia y familia. We will drive west from Denver through the Rockies tomorrow when we arrive. It is a beautiful drive. I look forward to it each and every time that I've done it. It offers a true sense of passage.

That's all there is to report from the personal essay desk this morning. If anything changes then you will be the first to know.

Keep your eyes on this blank space:

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Where the sky meets the air in my chest

Towards the last few years of my life as a touring artist I developed an intense fear of flying. The day or two leading up to a departure were often filled with dread. I became cross with those near me, reminding them of my love, of myself as a mortal. I would sleep as the plane pulled back from the gate and taxied. Though this was not sleep as you might know it, but the troubled sleep of reason. I would awake with a start, jumping up suddenly from a pool of monsters. 

A doctor described it to me as one possible response to anxiety, the fear of death, a perversion of the fight-or-flight instinct and a form of narcolepsy, brought on by decades of drug use and a willing disruption of the sleep-wake cycles.

That same doctor prescribed to me many anti-depressants and anti-convolusants, to disastrous effect. I was rendered unbearably erratic by the very cocktails that were designed to bring me solace. Escaping them was a more profound struggle than the affliction itself. 

My life had become like progressive rock; insistent, technical, convinced of its own worth. 

Smug. I forgot smug. My life had become unpleasant, endured mostly by enthusiasts. 

A pilot who once sat next to me described my condition otherwise. He claimed that it's a natural reaction to the feeling of suddenly having fulfilled all of your responsibilities. He likened it to coming home at the end of a very long day and dropping all of your bags and sinking into the couch. He mentioned the myths of pressurization and commented freely on the medicinal effects of red wine, insisting to use the phrase "spirits" in discussion.

When I awoke again we discussed the variant speed of sound at different altitudes, as well as strategies to understand its meaning. The speed of sound gives us some understanding of the very meaning of time.

There are a number of accepted standards. I started to look them up just now but a close friend asked that I not look at the internet or tv before writing. I suspect it is because of the curse of unneeded factuality.

He is likely right.

Few things make me feel as free as the momentary wish for abyss.

When I would awake during takeoff I would keep my eyes closed and grip the seat, feel the intense weight of falling upwards as if there were no end to the gravity of flight, no end to being pulled elsewhere, as if the sun and moon and earth were conquered all, and at once. 

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With No Direction Home, Like an Incomplete Unknown

(Egon Schiele)

I used to read much more than I do now. I miss it, time for self. There was a sense of calm that it afforded, a sense to which I can not seem to return. I rarely watch movies any more, also. I had told myself that there were lessons there to be learned, embedded somewhere in the tales of remorseless excess. 

Now, I am not so sure. These stories seem to have no better prepared me for life than anything else might have. Addiction might have conferred greater lessons than fiction. I tried to extract partial lessons from both, in the hope of combining them. Somewhere along the way I was supposed to decide on a way of living and then live by that self-defined etiquette. I adopted a few different approaches to life and must have decided at some point that they all seemed nearly interchangeable. I'm not so sure now. Nothing seems compatible any longer. Though also, nothing seems substantial enough on its own to feel complete. My memories are tattered scripts, unfinished scraps of dream long forgotten.

There are occasional periods that I pass through that take me by surprise. Emotional turbulence bubbles to the surface and I am causing some new personal havoc of sorts. It is exhausting, to live a life of unstudied emotion, to give in to unconsidered impulse. Sartre called it "magical," though it is left to the reader to decide whether it is of a black sort or not.

One partial solution is easy, of course: stop adding kerosene to a fire that I wish to subside. 

But the devil's voice glows and invites, doubles as embers in the darkness. 

The temptress kisses in the crucible.

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Tijuana Cock Fight

Friday, with a team of three other untrained experimental research scientists, I assisted in the design and construction of an appropriately-named killer attack robot. I tried to upload a video of its final victory but Google is being weird. It nearly swept the competition in a brutal to-the-death match series involving thousands of other applicants.

I had been quiet about this up until now because I hadn't realized that it would make international news, which it still hasn't, but I'd like to get out in front of this scandal before it happens. It's no surprise to many that read here that I very well might be announcing my candidacy for office sometime this weekend.

Here is the short list of my qualifications:

- Can do pushup

- Wear underwear, often designer

- Eat red meat for every meal

- Haven't had red wine in hours

What has my opponent done? Silence.

These times call for more than just silence, they also demand reverence towards sanctity. In the face of yet another Benghazi report  that clears the White House of any and all wrongdoing this nation needs someone willing to ask the difficult questions like, What the fuck is a Libertarian anyway?

- Why don't they seem to want Libertarianism for others?

- Why do the best works of 20th century literature lack protagonists that qualify as heroes?

- What do they keep spraying out of commercial jet airliners?

- Why do vaccines that contain mercury cause Epolio?

- Why doesn't The Constitution include a Right to Privacy?

- Do albinos have past lives?

- Why is there no agreed upon measurement of time?

- Is there a possibility of intelligent life elsewhere on this planet?

My opponent has voted against all of the measures designed to prevent unregistered harlequins from enrolling in our grade schools. I have supported measures that increase the chances of pregnancy. 

My opponent has angrily voted against proposals that would have provided education for all politicians.

Is that really who you want sleeping on the big red button in the middle of the night when Russia finally comes knocking on Sarah Palin's front door?

Vote No on Missionary Proposition #9. 

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The Tauntaun Toddler

Note the Star Wars pajammies.... in pumpkin collars and cuffs.

I want a matching pair. I'll find them, too. I mean, I am your father, and all of that, etc.


The time is arriving on padded Ewok paws when the boy and I will sit down together and watch Star Wars for the first time. It might still be a few years off but I can feel it approaching. Call it the Force, if you must, but I do feel it. Chalk it up to the many midi-chloridians.

I don't have the energy to make a bunch of nerd jokes here. Do Jedis ever really apologize? We'll keep our eyes wide for Order 65.


Don't worry, though... I'll also take the warrior to his first Peter Framptoon concert. What could possibly be more important to a young boy than the bookend summers of '76, and '77, when Corvettes and Trans-Ams ruled the roads and even serious artists were taking stabs at a quick disco hit....

The night is dark but the sidewalk's bright, and lined with the light of the living...

Yes, young Jedi; bright, it is.


Some Boston, barely an infection from Aerosmith (not too much). Then, as a matter of pure course, the eternal fight against the evil of the many Empires.

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When the Levy Breaks

I hate taxes. 

I no longer require the services of the government. I was forced to "let them go," to relieve them of their duties. 

A few days ago I thought I was wealthy, but then I checked into this unexpected and astonishing fact a bit further. It turns out that the government is just waiting for me to try and access any of my wealth and then they will swoop in and take an insulting portion of it away from me. Little matter to them that I already paid them once as I made this money. They want to take some more every time I look at it, or wish to use it, or talk about it here.

I fail to understand how this does not qualify as double taxation, income and then sales combined. Shouldn't they just be excising funds from the person that I give my money over to, once I have finally decided precisely what mechanical marvel it is that I want?

What an enormously lucrative scam, this tariffing of people in this way. 

They've built super-computers to scan the information posted here to determine if it represents a threat. They took some of my money to accomplish this herculean data task. They've hired analysts that are presumably more adept at perceiving perilous remarks than the computer alone could ever be. I can count the bots that scan and index the pages here. Their behavior is markedly different than that of a human's. 

With a little research this morning I discovered that I am far less wealthy than I had thought. The government is just sitting and waiting to take my cash away as soon as it twitches. They are the massive spider sitting at the center of the lattice, wishing to wrap its convulsing dinner in bureaucratic silk. What venomous fuckers lurk deep in the cobwebs of the device. 

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"Some day you'll know...."

I awoke to the sound of rain falling in the darkness. I'll sit at my desk and listen to the drops making their way through the trees and to the earth. I want a day off so... a time to do nothing at all. 

Soon.

While on the verge of one vacation, last night I planned my next, a return to Florida. I will see if I can make it happen. It will be towards the end of January while it is still quite nice in Florida, where the skies are pleasant and clear, stretching to cover almost all that can be seen and felt within a day.

The uncomplicated skies of Florida make it a minor challenge to feel sad. The open azure are is as ice-skating for the eyes. The mind floats and glides in wide circles, and great figure-eights.

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That's not how you spell "Gandhi"

(Literacy without Laughter)

My whole body is tired and sore. It feels as if I slept on boulders last night, irregular ones with rough edges. I knew it was going to happen. As I was trying to fall asleep I was uncomfortable, restless. My neck and shoulders and back were fighting between themselves. I couldn't arrange the pillows in any way that seemed to benefit me. The muscles in my neck seemed to be playing tug-of-war with the ligaments and tendons in my shoulders and back. I have an unusually large and heavy head. It was built by the Irish, with all the buoyancy of the flagship from the White Star Line.

I am supposed to present new material at work today. Luckily, I am not doing this alone. Coffee only excites the pain points, accelerates my thoughts concerning my twitching discomfort. I did not even drink last night. It's just age and cruel time working together, and against me.

But, I am a rich man now. It happened all of a sudden. I just found out. I rarely ever monitor my accounts and investments. I prefer to just ignore them and treat them like an unchecked lottery ticket. They could be either useless or priceless. I am confident that the American economy will confirm this one day for me.

I prefer mysteries to modest fact.

I checked this morning and was shocked to discover that I am what John Lennon always hoped that I would never become: a Working Class Hero on the way to Baby, You're a Rich Man.

I should get a safety deposit box. I'd like to have a place where I can go and open a weighty steal box in private, a place in which nobody questions the odd, expensive things I choose to horde. I could pretend to be a villain in a place like that. If the lights were right.

It's where I would store all of my Gold Bonds.

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It is the point

Another great sunrise. I'm getting really good at those. Just in time, too.

Why do vacations always fall a few weeks distant from when you really, truly, desperately need them. It's like having to piss while you're in the car, in traffic. You can hold it as long as is needed, most of the time, but not a single millisecond longer. True pissing happiness is always somewhere in the past. The present piss is often a nearly averted tragedy of uric proportions. 

I bet death is like that also, just more painful.

I knew it had to happen soon. I could feel it coming like a siren, but holy fuck I didn't think I could wait another moment.

I have a vacation coming soon. Next week. I need it 

Tonight, I go swimming with the boy. We go to classes together where he learns to hold his breath and trust me. He is loving it all more and more: life. I am loving it right along with him, with a swimming limp, yet still able to keep up. 

The experience of being a parent really does take one, at times.

It might not make any of this more meaningful... for some, somehow. It certainly makes life more wide and deep, for me. I suppose it might require a cursory understanding of how meaning is derived; for and of the subject. Meaning gasps and struggles, sometimes. No true teller would tell otherwise. Though every now and then, with a nice clean underwater streamline stroke, there is that sense of weightless gliding that is like no other. It feels earned and deserved, somehow more valuable as such. The pushing off, or diving in; the depth, the suspension; the weight of the water around you, reminding. Freedom as a result of it, rather than freedom from it. 

The dry analysts of immersion are many.

If meaning can be measured in richness of experience then I suppose that is how some might somehow miss the thing itself, life. A child can occasionally validate intense emotion as an authentic source of aesthetic experience, with seeming effortlessness.  The results can be intense.

No true Romantic would fail to sense that.

That's no cruel criticism, either, brother.  

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The wave model

(The filthy skies of Santa Fe)

Red skies this morning.

The eastern shore didn't stay red for very long; transitioned to orange by the time I could walk past the trees. Then it was just me, a slight chill in the air, and the disappearing evidence of atmosphere.

Night, you were never dark enough for me.

This morning, I passed through the visible spectrum. The blues and purples scattering out long before they reached me, or all trying to escape from the west, sneaking out the back door of morning.

It's a myth that pollution causes the best sunrises and sunsets. The molecules that are most commonly produced by pollution are far too large and would scatter light unequally, or absorb much of the visible energy from light that we regard as beautiful. Comparing the size of a photon to the nitrogen oxide particle (for example) that constitutes part of photochemical smog is nearly pointless for all but those who study such things. A photon has zero rest mass, so it allows for light's frequency dependence where mass and radiation achieve thermal equilibrium. That's your science lesson for the morning, dear readers. Photons for breakfast!

If this common myth of sunset-pollution were true then smog would create beauty and Beijing would best the Bahamas for most photographed sunsets. This claim is silly, and observation easily defeats its basic premise.

So, go back to uncritically enjoying a sunrise and sunset every now and then. 

It won't kill you.

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A surge in new membership

The KKK has involved themselves in Ferguson. That should help clear matters up. They have announced their intention to defend themselves, with the use of lethal force, against the peaceful terrorists. 

Terror, what a flexible concept. The group to claim offense becomes by default the group to accuse the other of terror. The tactic is as much involved with victimhood as it is with anything else. 

So, now the KKK are the victims, preparing to defend themselves against this latest uprising. Their message echoes that of the police force, somewhat. There are things that they simply will not stand for, or against, or anywhere between. Once you start threatening to rape white women then you have crossed a line.

"You have awakened a sleeping giant" reads the flyer the Klan has been distributing. A true sleeper cell, that one. Decades passed with the KKK getting such a bad name that many of their chapters have moved north, to Idaho and Pennsylvania among other states. Ferguson is much closer to Chicago than it is to Atlanta, maps remind us.

Now, don't all those silly southerners feel... well, silly, having long ago mostly eschewed this neighborhood club of friendly do-gooders.

If the first sentence of their missive announces that a sleeping giant has been awoken then what are we to think of all of those decades when they were being less than vigilant, napping on the job of maintaining racial purity and all that. What does a sleeping giant eat when it wakes from a long, deep sleep? I bet it must be hungry.

They make it too difficult to understand their message sometimes, The Klan. It's so hard to have any pride in what they do, protecting us from the threat of others. 

Where are the ol' Bald Knobs when Missouri really needs them. 

And why hasn't Charlie Manson weighed in on these radical racial tensions. He was always good for fresh insight into what ails society most. I suppose his marriage is working out well, has calmed a few of his raging demons. She's weaned him off coffee so he's feeling a bit edgy of late.

Gun sales in the region have risen, of course. Everybody has the right to protect themselves, sort of. 

The law is pretty clear about a person's right to use lethal force to defend themselves against an unlawful attack, or the reasonable expectation of an imminent attack. So, as long as it's not a cop shooting at you, emboldened by the law, then you are as golden as the day is long. Shoot straight, answer first.

I swear, I thought the cop was going to shoot me. He was drawing his weapon, and I know what that means.

Things tend to spiral out of control pretty quickly as soon as people start defending themselves from the police. That is something that no stable society will stand for. The KKK has jumped barrels first into the fracas to stop innocent cops from being harassed in their homes.

Who might have ever guessed that? 

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Poems that Demand Bad Breath

The greatest thing about middle-aged women, their finest moments, will likely occur to me in slow-motion when I arrive comfortably in the diaper of my late sixties. 

I will look about and think out loud, Yes, yes, yes... she moves like a lovely viagra inhalator. 

Contemplate the oval mystery that is woman, the imperfect elliptic of life.

Oh, sweet mother galaxy... provide thine oysters. 

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Sleep Tigers

The boy slept at my place last night. It was the first time he spent the entire night in his own bed here, coughing and wheezing through the night. I will be sick in a day or two, hacking and trembling in cascading echoes of his ailment. It is surprising how children can sleep through a coughing fit. I whisper his name but he is riding sleep tigers, capturing the pirates of the parasomnia. 

There is the familiar and welcome sound of rain hitting the leaves outside, it percolates through the trees and bushes, then to earth. I would like to take the day off from work and lie in bed and listen, reading and napping, letting time pass through me without need for measuring task or accomplishment.

A friend is in town, so I will go and meet her for dinner tonight. We will have much to catch up with in conversation. So much has changed since the last time she was here. Though I complain of lethargy and diminished inspiration to write here, in truth I am happier now than I was then. Perhaps that is all that has changed. Happiness does not translate well or for very long into interesting writing, and do not believe anyone who would tell you otherwise.

Don't take my word for it. Read a novel about the life of a happy human. There are not that many out there. The imaginary Amazon shelves are endless with self-help tomes but not so many novels. Some of them might be written well, a pleasant way to pass the time, but none will be considered great by the the consensus of time. Literature investigates struggle, and does not always need to concern itself with supposed solutions. The tragedy of life is sometimes simply laid bare, nothing more.

Comedy is a device used in defense of the void, and it should not be confused with happiness, nor its occasional result, laughter. 

This is not at all to say that a writer can not express a range of pleasant cheerfulness, only that books that attempt to project happiness as their central theme are generally dismal reads, insufferable in their prescriptions for living.

Ah well, that is not what I wished to write about. There will be some who disagree, recommending the latest Eckhart Tolle book, The New Joys of Nowness, or some such rubbish.

Ok, I should stop.


Just found out that Rhys is too sick to be at school and will have to come home for the day. Just might get my wish for a day listening to the sniffling rain.

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My Rhythm, My Rhythm, why have you foreskinned me?

(You have much candy for me?)

I have ceased living an interesting life, for the time. I'm in a museless lull; an auto-tatertot. 

If I had any moral courage I would stop writing here, though that represents a cessation of self-pleasure. We then risk me writing in my sleep. Nocturnal Onanisms. 

It is safest and bestest to continuest for the futurest.  

Boredom:

There was having a child. That was a content-creator for some time. 

Then, there was splitting up with a wife. Even I have bored of that, though I must have been among the very last.

Now, I go to work and the gym. There are not enough stories to tell concerning those things.

I don't give a shit about politics, or music, or people right now. I haven't taken a picture since Halloween night and didn't try much that night at all. 

I've only been reading lacklusterly.  Google is trying to tell me that's not a word, lacklusterly.

I say it is. It very is.

Arguing with an online algorithm is a close proximity to prayer for the hairy of this damned age.

Why Algo, why? 

(Gimme some chocolate, now...)

(I become a trick dinosaur ghost. Boo!)

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Unfinished Simpering

Note: I give up. I wrote this at 6am, when I arrived at work, never finished it, didn't bother deleting it, now it's yours:

It seems that some days, no matter how early I wake up, I am still not rested enough to write a post here. Somehow I don't have enough time.

I had thought that maybe it was just sinful lethargy, from a return to reasonably light drinking. Though that doesn't make any sense. It's not as if it was any different when I was an abstaining Christian.

I left the house at 5am this morning, for reasons that I can not explain to myself. I arrived at the SF office in the dark. 

This version of life can not be right. I think that I have fucked up my body's natural melatonin levels by falling asleep before the sunset too often.

I'll be an albino vampire soon, living on the blood of lambs.

If I could just reach the bat belt...

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Does this kid make me look fat?

Oh man... that little boy is becoming a lot of fun.

Yesterday, after the 49ers game I brought Cato over to cook miniature hamburgers and grilled chicken. The boy ran around, excited for there to be a guest in the house, and excited for dad to be there as well.

Me holding him upside down is one of his favorite pastimes. It's becoming increasingly difficult, at 40 squirming pounds it requires a firm grip on both ankles, then a rollover set-down from the waist.

He can't get enough of it.

I've been trying to lose some weight again but it is a depressing endeavor. In the past it seems that the weight would melt off as if by mental will, barely any effort required. Now, no amount of physical will seems to loosen its flabby grip on my belly and bones. I stopped drinking for about two and half weeks and tried to watch my diet carefully, exercising about five hours a week, cardio and weights. 

I didn't lose a single pound.

So, I spent the weekend restoring beer-time and football to its proper place in my life. I didn't gain any weight but neither do I feel exactly rested.

Ah well, as CS has reminded me several times... I am just at that age, and to just accept it. I'll probably never be thin again. I might accomplish it with sustained effort but the weight will come right back once I return to my normal habits. It is depressing but I try not to let it get to me.

There are lots and lots of women who are still willing to have sex with me, so there is that to console me on those cold and lonely nights. Pictures of strangers, offering themselves up to the void.

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Don't tell...

(Oleg Oprisco)

I slept a fair portion of my Saturday away, falling asleep some time in the late afternoon and awaking in the evening and then struggling through the night, lethargic and barely rested. It is only what I want sometimes, that secret life passing in darkness. Having more control over my sleeping patterns would be preferable.

My back hurts from the choices I have made, and endured.

Rhys has started talking back to his little kid's videos. The Little Mermaid will sing something and he'll implore, "Don't say that, don't say that..."

I know that I am becoming one of those lost souls that believes everything their child does to be of an exceedingly adorable nature, but I suppose that is better than being the other kind of parent. 

I was at a park recently and a father was trying to explain condensation to an uninterested four year old boy that was playing on the climbing ropes. On one level it was understandable, even touching, that he wanted to describe the world to the boy. Then, on the other hand...

I should be cautious in my assessments. I might become the worst kind of father, trying too hard to be a mentor, a god. There is always that danger, the likeliness that lurks in the absence of honest self-knowledge. Everybody embraces their justifications for being a certain way, and renounces most outside input. So far, fathering has been a mixture of instinct and learning along the way. I'm hoping to hold that balance. We'll see. 

I tire easily of super-parents, armed with clinically tested theories and nonsense ideologies. 

I have noticed that fewer strangers are attempting to interject their opinions on me now in public. With a newborn you will have complete strangers approach you in public and tell you how to do something, or what not to do, etc., etc. It is them trying to be nice, I guess, but it ends up being mostly presumptuously annoying. 

I arrived at a point where I was tempted to just respond with, "All of the important studies disagree with you." 

I try not to be so hostile to the opinions of the super-market experts, but they do not often make it easy.

Now, I'm instinctually tempted to just lean down and whisper to Rhys, "Tell them to Fuck off!..."

He'd do it, too. 

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.... where credit's due

Haircut at Auntie Lisa's house. She had said she would cut my hair also, though the requirements of dual parenting did not quite allow for it.

He is becoming a darling little boy, day by day. 40 pounds and 40 inches, approx.

A genuine wonder and a true pal.

Well, if you're enjoying a lazy Sunday and happen to be a Beatles fan, then here is an old collection that I put together for a friend. For years I had thought that he did not give me any credit for having made it because I only looked at the page that you are about to see if you click that link....

Then, sharing it with a friend this morning, she pointed out that he does in fact give me credit in the introduction, a warm and pleasant bit of credit was lurking there all along, waiting for me when I need it most, I guess.

I'm a twat, but the boy seems to think highly of me.

(Addendum: A friend reached out and immediately corrected me on this story, explaining that he had already explained that I was credited in the audio of the mix, and that I seemed to understand this at the time that he told me. I suppose that I am succumbing to the ol' Irish Alzheimer's, I've forgotten everything except the petty grudges...)

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Beaver Moon Rising

I had always thought that the lyrics were:

No sweet thing exists, oh off the stage lines
Could make me feel bitter, or treat you unkind. 

Nope, it's:

No sweeping exits or offstage lines... 

I drove up into the hills to watch the moon move. I wanted to keep driving upwards though the roads ceased to be, ending in lone driveways, perched houses. I turned to look and the valley slumped before me, a gaping inward arch. I sat and howled and howled, an un-packed canid.

I spooked the horses.


Sonoma would be a good place to go to high school. It's visually memorable, contained, and sensible. Anybody growing up here would develop a strong sense of elsewhere, also. A local place for local people. It is a good place from which to escape, with an easy return policy. No receipts required.

I hear it all of the time, people discussing with pride their years elsewhere. The dream that didn't work out. The return to where they seem to belong. Home, here. People try to avoid themselves, often by leaving. But then home again, here again, jiggity. 

I try to imagine Rhys becoming a high schooler, and can't yet see it. It is too far off and too much personality still needs to form within him.

Childhood living is easy to do.

It's starting to look as if he and I will leave this valley right about the same time, fifteen years from now, approx.


I spoke with my own father last night. There were things I wanted to talk to him about but didn't bother him with it. It was after coming down from the hills. I didn't have it in me to force a conversation on him.


I awoke in the middle of the night to piss, one of the two new feral felines that my roommate recently got went scurrying into the darkness, back to hiding under the bed, whence it came. Terrorized by monster I in the dark.


It is still a week until payday. I will feel more free for reasons that make no sense, mathematical or otherwise. I sometimes wonder how some people can afford lottery tickets. It is the closest thing they have to a dream, I guess, to be the recipient of a fantasy by pure inexplicable chance. I see them in the stores, having filled out their many multiple choice bubble sheets. Always getting an F- when the universe gives back the grades.

People don't win the lottery, numbers do.


The things you wanted...

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Adult male rabbit seeking casual relationship with anybunny

It's impossible to do everything.

Each day I set a few modest goals: workout for one hour, write here for one hour, read for one hour, work ten hours at my job, father a two and a half year old boy, sleep for 6 hours, spend one devout hour in bed before sleep practicing preemptive atheism.

Then, there is of course time spent eating, showering, getting dressed, brushing my teeth, hugging people when I see them, hugging them when I say goodbye, chatting about my day, listening about theirs, driving places, fixing things, taking pictures, reading emails, preparing food, taking note of the hills and the sky, drinking coconut water, considering what qualities to esteem and adore in middle-aged women, wrestling with the flesh in my pants when it gets feisty.

A flattering number of people arrive here most days, to see for a moment through my eyes, yet not one of them has ever offered to go to the dentist for me.

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