Here is the end of a Facebook cow

I posted this a few seconds ago with the title: "Here is the end of a fucking cow"

Fecesbook deleted it. So, here you go again:

I'm really tired of writing. I'm weary of trying to organize my life in this way, to make some small sense out of any of it. 

If this is all that matters then it doesn't matter enough to me any more.

Fuck it, for a while. 

I want a non-verbal happiness.

I'll be the first to tell you all about it, if I find it.

.

The Stockholm Sin Drones

The woman that I am stalking has lately been reciprocating my feelings more and more. We are a matched pair, it seems, like two mirrors moving closer to one another. We are burning up our anytime talk minutes. We have recently agreed to limit our calls to one another to six a day. You would think that twelve phone conversations between us would not be a crunch, but that's cutting back from our previous sixteen to twenty. We've decided to stay on the phone longer, as a compensatory adjustment. 

At long last, two lingering lovers…. what is there to do when stalkers fall for one another. 

When we're not on the phone we are sending a stream of texts and emails; little communiqués, abbreviated sweetnesses, kisses at any distance. The sound of her voice in my ear is complete.

I wrote her quite the doozy last night; a weighty email, more than one page. I'm submitting it to the Nobel committee for consideration. I would hand it over to the Pulitzer people but they'll hand that prix-fixe out to just about anybody. 

We're finding new things out about each other on an almost hourly basis, she and I. When I talk to her it feels as if I am inhaling nitrous as she speaks. The sound of her voice acts as a palliative to my central nervous system, my sense of self. I've almost given up pornography. That is how strong the feeling is, it changes behavior.

------------------

I was sitting in a familiar cafe, having lunch, when a local nuisance kept inquiring about what I do for a living, though she has asked me many times before. I tried to let her know that it was complicated enough that I did not care to describe it. This did not stop her. She's a real go-getter. She then proceeded to question me concerning my love life, so I directed her to pictures of the woman described above, hoping that would forever establish my disinterest in her. She seemed incredulous that a man as gruff as I could lure such a lovely stalker into my view, and then gain her favor. 

So, I showed her a few of my favorites, pointing out how beautiful the many details were. When I arrived at her eyes and noted how they had two distinctly different colors, one a very unique green-sih that gave way to an outer hazel ring, I encouraged her to also take note of one of the many reasons why this woman deserves to be considered in full. 

Excitedly, and too much so, this woman who was nearly my age grabbed my shoulder and started jumping up and down, her heft making it nearly impossible for me to type, or else. 

I tried to indicate that she was violating my sense of space, and self. She repeatedly insisted that I look into her eyes, as they were "just like" my lover's were. 

I glanced away nervously, tried to diffuse the moment. This is a person whose eyes will not be stopped, though. She nearly got me in a headlock that resembled affable familiarity, though it did nothing to advance any friendship between us. 

She again demanded that I look directly into her eyes and acknowledge that she possessed a quality that was indistinguishable from the woman that I love.

I obliged, and glanced through her prescription lenses for no more than a half second before I had found my response:

They say that 'The eyes are the window to the soul' and perhaps that is true enough. What I see in yours are pools of eternally unsatisfied impulses, misguided expectations dance across your pupils, and the disappointments of no less than four and half decades of weight gain have taken their cargo across the goddess Styx. 

I had considered mentioning the substantial hair collection she had defending her oracular region, like a satanic goat, as that was easy enough to draw upon now that we were in ancient Greece, though she was already backing away from me as if I was the one to be avoided. Tumbling down the paths of Olympus, as it were. 

Not to be beaten with confusion, she then rearranged herself in a more central position and proceeded to announce loudly to the entire bar questions pertaining to the crossword puzzle she must have assumed interested us all as much as it did her. 

It had to do with California lakes, an area in which she was clearly drowning.

-------

Okay, so sorry, back to my subject. Hell is other people. 

No. I can't write any more. Why would I even bother? Why are you even reading?

This titanic wreck of a failed woman has stopped just short of challenging me to a mustache contest. She will not be happy until she convinces an elderly gentleman that her jokes are funny. 

As far as mustache contests go…. I have her on spread, darkness, and thickness of follicles, but she vastly outnumbers me in creepy near-mouth population. If I hadn't heard a stream of noxious sound emerging from that abysmal maelstrom then I may have guessed that it was only an old man's useless ear. But no. This was no old man's ear. This was a woman's mouth. Anybody could see it, even less could deny it. None could stop it.

Her lips reminded me of the inside of the Himalayan jacket that I recently purchased, though it offered none of the reasons for having purchased; protection from the elements, warmth, silence, solitude, etc..  It seemed to take warmth out of the room and cover in algae the lake of my mind with a hairy-lipped woman offering herself up to any taker, while also refusing all deniers. Her ill-fomred sentences crawled upon me as kudzu. 

I felt as if I was being beaten to death very slowly at air hockey game that might not ever end, by somebody that had never even bothered learning the rules, having arrived with only a single quarter, much distracting face fuzz, and yet somehow still running the table.

I could not divert my eyes.

.

Love in a bubble

The kid is really figuring things out, and not just who has the bigger pee-pee. Yesterday, we were standing together in the hallway, trying to find him a pair of blue jeans to wear.

Are you sad about Mommy?

What do you mean?

That she's not here?

Sure, a little bit. It makes me sad sometimes.

Because I'm sad about you when you go into the city.

Sure buddy, it makes me a little bit sad. 


So, there it is. The kid's understanding of love outside of that which he feels directly from either of us. His understanding of the love of others is informed by the sadness of that recognition, that of loss. His biggest example will be of failure.

Good job, Mommy and Daddy... Perhaps we're only preparing him to be a writer.


Just now:

Daddy, do you like storms?

Well, that's part of nature buddy, and I like nature.

Do you like lightning storms?

Those are scary, aren't they?

No, those are just the super-heroes.


So, maybe it's me that doesn't quite have things figured out yet.

Seems likely enough.

.

Baby Jumps

(pic: Rachel Cusick)

A slow Saturday afternoon, one spent swimming at the pool with the boy. He has been "spitting" at people lately. He spit water at a little girl in the pool so he got an extended "time-out." On his way back over to her to apologize he must have lost sense of his footing and he fell first to his butt, then sideways into the pool. 

Grace under pressure.

I fished him out, made sure that he was okay and then sent him on his way to complete his mission. He made his way over to her and whispered an apology which she easily ignored, having likely not even heard him. Then he farted, which she definitely heard, and giggled in response. 

So march on the sexes, two by two, or by less.

When we got back from swimming and were changing he announced that I had a big pee-pee and he had a little pee-pee. I thanked him, but told him that this was all a matter of proportion and that one day he would have a monster cock like mine, not to worry, that mine only seemed enormous to him because it was always at eye level.

Sort of. 

True but for the last part, the thing about monsters.

The kid is asking a lot of questions lately, particularly about the differences between boys and girls, mommies and daddies, etc. The world must appear quite odd to him. I know it appears that way to me. Odd.

He mentioned a female friend of mine recently and I asked him if he liked her and he said, "Yes, she has a round butt." 

"What did you say?

"Yeah, I like her. She has a round butt."

I see. That is part of why I like her, also.

Later that evening I was chatting through text on the computer with the round-butted intimate while I reclined in bed and the boy asked if he could talk to her also. I explained that I was talking to her through written words. He asked if she lived in our house now. I said no, that she was in the city. Then he asked if she was staying here at our house while he wasn't here. Not wanting to confuse him I explained that she was staying in the city while she was here. So then he cut to the heart of the matter and asked if she had been sleeping in my bed.

So, he likes my friend because she has a round butt and he wants to know if I'm sleeping with her. 

She figured it out, of course, pointed out to me that the pants that she was wearing had a circular pattern on them and that her butt would have been at his eye level. He sleeps in bed with me quite often still so he must have naturally assumed that she might also while she was visiting.  He might have even been more concerned about someone sleeping in his bed than mine while he wasn't there. 

There was an innocent explanation to all of this. 

There is no way to completely insulate the boy from my life, nor would I want to. We had put away all of her luggage so as not to raise any questions in the boy's mind. The questions arose anyway, as bubbles in a bath, with rubber duckies ever floating to the top.

.

Me, My Sherpa, and Why Not?

Okay, last night I finally went shopping for some clothes for Burning Man. I gravitated towards women's lingerie, naturally, but ended up finding a mixture of used and new garments. Above is my Himalayan jacket (new), the last piece I bought. I first passed on it, thinking it too expensive. We left the store and walked to my friend's place, but then Cato and I scurried to the car and I arrived at the front door just as the shop owner was closing up for the night. It is nearly useless to me outside of this one event, and the playa is not very cold in the evenings, but once I tried it on I could not be without it. It's not exactly a goncha, but I didn't want to the leave the Upper Haight longing for its animal embrace. 

What self-respecting burner could, or would? I wouldn't be able to masturbate for a month with that weight on my conscience. 

I probably won't even wear it. I bought quite a few other pieces that were cheaper and perhaps more practical. Last year I basically wore what I wear around the house along with a collection of scarves and beads. I desperately needed to up by Burning Man game. I might as well have had a terrycloth robe on the entire time I was there. This year I'll have a few reversible Japanese robes to augment my middle-America collection.

We'll see.

My special friend is making me a piece also. So, I might have different outfits on from day to day, if I remember to change clothes. Most years in the past I've waited for someone to query me about "that smell" before I even bother. This year might be different, I have developed the habit of telling myself. Last year I think I tried to gargle with Gold Bonds powder at one point. 

I bought some nice butterfly stockings so that somebody might confuse me with the flute player from Fairport Convention. 

I'm trying to get a permit to bring my yack in with me so that I won't have to cycle everywhere, but the Bureau of Land Management are being a bunch of cunts about it. They are questioning my hand-written vaccination records as well as the noble beast's pedigree (also hand-written and part of the same document as the vaccination records). I told them that I once worked as a scrivener and that it was just as good as the original document, which was lost in a amateur chemistry mishap in a friend's basement, but they would not listen, and refused to understand. Some people you just can't reach. They continued to request the original document.

I would prefer not to, of course.

Okay, the boy and I are off to the camping store to stock up on the most powerful anti-inesct chemical compounds that money can buy. I will explain to them that I have an industrial license and to unbox the good stuff for me, the stuff they keep in the back for "preferred customers" such as myself. There will be a cash incentive and I will mention the Monsanto corporation a handful of times, of course, to gain their trust. I will explain that I need something that will clear a 30 yard radius of all living creatures, at all times. 

I hear that somebody is selling flamethrowers to civilians now.

And why not?

.

  

I'd fold ourselves away….

Few discoveries rival the moment of recognition of matched imperfection in another. The love that should shave us.

To reflect as much as can be reflected. So much reliable uncertainty, such familiar disappointment. So much joy. As if anything here should be shocking anymore.

Much this, and so much that.

Self, else, etc.

That's it, just us.

Oh my god, whatever, etc.

Somethin's beatin' on the wall, on the other side

Strange, lovers moan, each others' names, 

on by-hour sheets

For, the very first time

One of them's changed the other's some name 

she changes every time she lies, across his bed

But the light of the moon leads the way 

towards the morning, 

and the sun,

the sun's well on the way too soon to know, and

Oh my god, whatever, etc.

If I could, I'd fold myself away

like a card-table, a concertina, or a Murphy bed

I would, but I wasn't made that way

So, you know instead….

I'm open all night and the customers come to stay

And everybody tips, but not enough to knock me over

And, "I'm so tired"… I just worked two shifts

But the light of the moon leads the way

towards the morning, and the sun 

The sun's well on it's way too soon to know, and

Oh, oh my god...

Oh my god, whatever, etc.

.

The hall of mirrors

("My face feels weird")

Hush my darling, don't fear my darling,

The lion sleeps tonight….

I awoke to the memory of this song, which somehow gave way to the second half of this. I had promised that if I ever woke to thoughts of Jackson Browne songs then it would be time to finally do myself in, but now I don't feel like it. I guess it's not really a Jackson Browne song, so there is that. I think The Four Seasons did it. Saved by doo-wop facts.

There are a handful of Jackson Browne songs that can be listened to, but no more. I'm told that he's a great songwriter, but his songs can't hold my attention to the verse that's supposed to matter so much. Like Elvis Costello, there's a lyrical twist somewhere in the final verse where he flips the metaphor or something, but I've given up caring by the time it arrives with its inexplicable verbal twist. Snottiness alone can't sustain my interest. Great songs are supposed to make you want to listen more, not less. I think Elvis Costello only writes songs so that he can get the last word in a private conversation with himself.

That's what I would do, anyway.

.

Radical Self-Insecticides

Ugh. Burning Man is burning up all of my free time. I am as a man on fire, also. Part of me likes it, at least the flammable parts. 

The reports are now coming in from reputable sources that there are bugs everywhere on the playa this year. I would be lying to say that it doesn't matter. The environment is already pushing the limits of the inhospitable. Pestilence is prohibitory. Did the Old Testament teach us nothing at all about science and desert sustainability? I had planned to ride in on a giant locust at sunrise. 

It does not require an advanced degree in biology to surmise that once there are more people and more food then there will be even more bugs. I hate to be a doomsayer… but, things are looking more and more doubtful. Few experiences are rich enough for me to suffer in this way to prove enjoyment and pleasure to myself.

A terrain that tough can dispense of bugs quickly. A heat wave will do it, particularly a heat wave of organochloride. I wonder if the Bureau of Land Management has any old canisters of DDT lying around they wouldn't mind to trade? 

In these topsy-turvy times, one must wonder about such things.

.

Dancing Shiva

I left NYC four years ago, to the day. It all makes sense when I consider the timing of other things - my son's age, mine, the calendar that was never on the wall - but it makes no sense when I consider the emotional trajectory of it. Almost everything I hoped to have had worked here in Sonoma has failed long ago, though apparently not long enough. I would question why I stay if there were not such an obvious answer: the popsicle monster.

The failure of the previous relationship still hangs over me, somehow, a curse that moves with the power of unconscious force, motivated by unquestioned habit. Little things, and some not so little, plaguing me if only because they seem to get to my life and end up causing trouble even before I do. I arrive at the point of recognition, just after it might have helped. A volunteer fireman hosing down cold cinders, ash. The sound of sirens in the distance moving elsewhere. It is a mystery shrouded in nothing but clues.

Time creates and then distorts everything, destroying much. We are allowed to exist on neither side of it for very long; one side can hardly be reasoned with, the other will not be halted. 

It is best to live in the moment, the only place that's remotely safe.

.

Popsicles!

This is how the boy let me know that he wants a popsicle. I had no idea that he could even reach the door to the freezer, still only being three years old.

Why, just yesterday he…

I don't have much to say today. I rarely do when I sleep as much as I did last night. The boy and I enjoyed the luxury of an extended three hour nap yesterday and then twelve hours of sleep last night. I skipped in and out of slumber, but still stayed in bed with my eyes closed until well after sunrise.


I required a triumph. I got one; arriving in darkness, fleeing within the womb of morning, archiving the previous day, disappearing in the dust of wakefulness. 

.

Burning Bike Rangers

Three posts in one day. That must be a close tie for a personal record. I already miss my special female friend. I have too much time on my hands now and she really brightens the place up, etc. 

I rode my bike up to Gundlach Bundschu, a favorite old cycling route. I did not come close to matching my personal best in time, though it was nice to once again reaffirm the relationship between my head, legs, and heart. The latter of which nearly burst on the last 200 yards up the hill to the winery. Luckily, they had a pleasant fellow handing out water. Little could he possibly know that he likely extended my life from that moment onwards. I gasped at him as a form of thanks. He seemed to understand, acknowledging my appreciation with furrow-browed looks of concern.

Things are ramping up for Burning Man. The preparations are many and most of them seem to fall on my shoulders but that is the spirit of the thing, or what it becomes the more times you go. Having friends is a form of reliance, one that is deeply involved with self.

I should buy a box of Emerson's essay "Self-Reliance" and pass them out freely at BM, or in trade. It need not be any more radical than that, once its implications are grasped and fully understood. 

I don't normally talk with legal authorities of any kind when given the choice, as all of you know, but last year two pseudo-rangers stopped to talk to me, seeing me using one of my film cameras in the early morning sunrise. One of them was derisive concerning all of Burning Man's basic tenets, so I opted to discuss the principles in a broader context, a thing he did not quite seem prepared for, and then used those external concepts to arrive back at Thoreau's "Civil Disobedience" where the conversation became markedly more pointed, with my summation including a statement reiterating the citizen's responsibility to not allow authority to atrophy the conscience of the people through threat, intimidation, or any type of derision, focusing on the need to push back against misuse and abuse of said presumed authority wherever it is found to be less than serving its society. 

I then noted that the authorities were quite lucky that it was happening in such a peaceful way here in the desert, and that everyone should be grateful, and not to forget to count their blessings. That unsurprisingly ended the interchange, though not unpleasantly so. It was just a good conclusion point. 

I have some pictures of them around here somewhere.

Well, the boy is stirring, and the great game of baseball awaits.

.

Ardens Man

(Trey Ratcliff)

Well, I slept... a few more hours anyway. A little bit past the sunrise, a rare treat. Now, I can't decide if I want to go get breakfast at a restaurant or make some here. I am leaning towards the former of the two options. I have nothing to do today, but will pick up the boy in mid-afternoon and make something out of what remains. A local baseball game, maybe. The Sonoma Stompers.

I should do something to prepare for Burning Man. I need to find out how much a trailer hitch costs and a trailer rental for a week. The car is too small and there are too many passengers now. Last year it barely accommodated myself alone with the supplies I was bringing in. It looks as if two others will be driving in with me now from Reno. A real caravan.

My friend and I were discussing the newness of "Burning Man Parking Passes" and found out that they were only used for the first time last year. See everybody? Burning Man has changed... as if those of a certain age group needed any more affirmation. The claim is as tiresome as its makers. 

Okay, before I let the day pass me by here lying in bed, something else must also change. There is coffee to be had, some sort of breakfast food to be eaten, trailer hitches to be negotiated, money exchanged for goods and services. The movement moves inward.

 

.

"Buckets of moonbeams in my hand"

I slept like a baby when she was here. Now, I'm up in the middle of the night, whining to myself like one. Ah well, what can one do but stare into the darkness until forms appear, then hope that they are in the shapes of the shadows of sleep. I considered opening a bottle of wine, a leftover Malbec, though I do not feel like it. I am hoping to return to some form of exercise in the morning. It is what I have been telling myself. My hiatus from regular exercise has now stretched through the summer. 

Tomorrow is supposed to be a very hot day. I plan on taking the boy to a local baseball game. We will see if it makes any sense to do so. The heat here can be brutal, like Burning Man but without the dust storms. Ugh, I need to condition myself for that also. Perhaps that is why I can't sleep, my recognition of the conditions that I am about to enter. Two weeks and counting.

A close friend has decided in the last few days to go. We are now searching for a ticket for him. He has bought his flights, booked his bike, will be on the lookout for clothes. He and I could just swing by a plus-sized for ladies shop and be done with it all, though I am beginning to bore of dressing in drag. It is what happens to an aging man who has tossed away his last vestiges of femininity, eventually even women's panties lose their magical appeal. If I could just learn to deprive myself of them for a while then I know the magic of putting them on again would return anew, but I am a helpless devotee to certain forms of fiendishness, as many of you have already detected.

I need to confirm some clothes also. My collection of scarves and beads is waning and in desperate need of additions, something other than just accessories. Something dignified, an article that honestly expresses the spirit of my age. Maybe a nice red smoking jacket. 

My brother turned 49 yesterday. Next year I'll have to stop speaking to him. It is written. 

All the decades, disappeared like smoke.

.

She, My Selfy, and I

She is back in New York. I put her on a plane late last night after an afternoon of champagne and a late lunch of white fish and various veggies. She was being a very cute girlfriend and spent the day in the kitchen making stuff for us to eat, claiming that the only reason was because she didn't want to see the veggies go bad. I know better, of course. The way to a man's heart… Etc.

It's love, we have both conceded, whispered admissions of romantic defeat and all of that. I suggested keeping the relationship "open" for a few years, to make sure that neither of us felt physically constrained by the other at all, especially considering the great distance between us, though she seemed to wish for something more monogamous in our arrangement. Women are funny like that. 

I'm okay with being monogamous. It's easy enough. I'm so pleased to be sexually active again I would agree to just about anything. You should see the contraption she made me wear around the house.

I'm only kidding, of course, we've had no such conversations. The visit was a pleasant success. Getting to know somebody in person is a different thing altogether than forming an intimate correspondence with them. In many ways it is greatly preferable. One can always choose when and how to respond to an email or a text. Life is not so simple when lived authentically, though a person's physical responses to silliness are very telling about who they are. Laughter and frustration can not be easily hidden when standing or reclining face to face. It is this lack of concealment that brings forth much of the magic, rising to the surface like so many champagne bubbles. 

Concealment of self is why so many people choose Facebook over life. Some wish mainly to contrive a version of themselves. I should know, I have seen the crawling spiders of persona.

I would go into detail about the past four days but she is a much more private person than am I. I do not believe she had quite expected the sensation of seeing her picture here on this site, with me writing about our experiences together and people responding to her visit here. It did not bother her, she claimed, she was just perhaps not quite prepared for it. Most people exist comfortably between privacy and exposure, with parts of themselves leaning towards each, and an internal sense of control governing the space between. To have someone openly present part of your life to their world is an unexpected sensation. There is perhaps an exhilarating sense of sudden nudity to it, though whose is always a question.

That linked song in the last paragraph has nothing at all to do with she and I. It was only the phrase that reminded me of the song on one of my all time favorite albums. 

Okay, that's the love update for now. Next stop: Burning Man.

I have set my Tinder account to "Do Not Disturb"...

.

In a way, family matters

I'm not getting married and I'm not engaged. I'm just in love, though I do have a dentist appointment, which is the only engagement in my calendar.

People take my posts here far too seriously, for reasons that entirely escape me and always will. I write fictively about things that matter to me, that is all.

My extra-voweled-better-half (Shauna) leaves today. She returns to NYC, a city I have always wished to visit as soon as possible. She has promised not to cry at the airport, though I have promised to slap her if she doesn't.

See what I mean?

The girl and I are as lovers united at birth. I always wanted a sister like her, and now I have one. 

She cries when I talk about running away from home, so I don't.

.

Guarantee

No time to write today. Having a visitor has occupied all of my free time.

As my brother gently reminded, yesterday: Enjoy the moment. In the end, it is the only thing that we are guaranteed to participate in.

And you never get a single second of it back.

.

Time keeps on

An afternoon spent watching the sun move towards the distant hills, sipping a cabernet/merlot blend, seated together comfortably. Then, a drive into the city in which I fatigued the ears of the passenger by singing along with Beatles tracks. Dinner at our friends' place. 

Time is already passing far too quickly. It is the ongoing cruelty. I have no idea what will happen once she has returned home, though I know part of what will happen. Most every moment seems to confirm what we already knew, we are falling together. The sense of urgency is surging and swelling as we both become increasingly comfortable in one another's presence. Distance and separation now will arrive as a form of torture, an injustice that must be corrected with travel. We have acclimated quite comfortably to our sense of mutual physical proximity. Everything fits, as we both greatly suspected that everything would. We were as eager as teenagers to confirm. 

Two weeks occur between when she leaves and Burning Man. So, there is that. Only two weeks.

Then, I will likely return to New York for an extended visit. Afterwards, we do not know. That is the brief update on our flourishing romance.

The universe has changed course, expanding as rapidly as light and in all directions.

.

De Shauns

My bride arrived and we spent the evening and morning consummating my newly acquired international purchase. For anyone who believes that mail-order brides are "wrong" I'd like to point out that Freedom isn't Free. 

I used PayPal.

No, of course I kid. I used Visa. But my fiancé is here visiting. She's delightfully prepossessing, but also quite shy (see above). We shot about a thousand nudes last night but most are far too explicit to post here, though my new black and white camera captured the loveliest of her contours. The images are both thematic and graphical in content, as well as tone. The image above was taken at the moment when I described to her what I wanted her to do for me. It was a great photographic success but I do not wish to challenge ol' CS in his chosen area of expertise. 

I made the mistake of taking her to a local place last night for dinner, The Swiss Hotel, ignoring what should have been the unposted warning sign of a Sunday night in Sonoma. It was touristy. Nothing offends the sensibilities of a local more than unrecognized visitors. My visitor is a lovely addition to the region. All others are hell.

That is the way of things.

Well, I am still working while she visits. We arranged it this way only so that we could be near one another, no matter the cost in time or all else. Love will not be reasoned with, it offers no coupons and will not match the competitors price. I had to make some sacrifices to allow myself the time away from work to go to Burning Man. 

Our ceremonial nuptials will be held at high noon on the deep playa by a religious sort of fellow that goes by the name of Rex Reptilia, from the Kingdom of Animalia. He has promised to keep the ritual free from too much religiosity, which we have thanked him in advance for. Our vows are sensibly arranged around our zodiacal signs and where they intersect. Uranus rising, etc.

She and I share the same name so we're not sure what we'll call ourselves. Given enough time I am confident that we will think of something that will annoy everyone who hears it, or sees it. I have been considering an unpronounceable symbol like that of Prince, maybe just a finger going in and out of a hand maintaining an oval shape. Symbols are useful. 

Or, maybe keep it simple, we could just call ourselves The Cialis, a one-headed monster of inamorato.

.

 

  

The Sonoma County Fair

So, to the showcase we went, the pride of Sonoma County. I won't bore you with my observations about such places. I believe that is territory that I have already covered once before. Though, repetition has been the basis of this site as much as its impediment. 

Ok, what the hell, a few thoughts wouldn't hurt that much.

County Fairs give insight into a type of people that can be gained in almost no other way. Those same observations can be had, though they require more effort on the part of the observer otherwise, and requires an invitation to come and gawk at the dailyness of the subjects. The fair allows you to stare without suspicion. If farmers are what fascinate you, then the fair is the right place for you.

The same people seemingly exist everywhere in the country, though under normal circumstances they are kept locked up on the farms where they can conduct their business in wide open privacy. Few things are as secret to a normal person as are the things that are regularly conducted on a farm.

Have I mentioned that Sonoma is an agricultural community? I must have, and it is. Anybody should know that. Grapes and cows are among its mainstays. So any fair that is going to take place here is going to highlight the aspects that do not benefit from the celebrity fanfare of the more highly esteemed agricultural efforts of grape production. Those "farmers" are often treated as the spoiled rich kids of the region, and perhaps they are. The cow farmers are just good wholesome common folk, filled with common folk sense. 

At one point we were walking by a cow show-off, where the beasts were led around a circle. There was a table of judges making notes concerning their various qualities; their coats, the size and condition of their udders, etc. A real pageant for these bovine beauties. The announcer was berating the audience, reminding them that some people "fail to forget" that the region's farms are driven by this type of farming rather than the other. I had not failed to forget. It is, was, and has been very high on my list of priorities.

So, yesterday the phrase stuck in my mind, and I promised to not fail to forget ever again. I did my best to get a look in the cows' eyes, to see if I could detect there a willingness towards greatness in the world of cattle procession. I stared down the Herefords, the Holsteins and even looked right into an Angus. No luck.

I was wowing my buddy, I think, with my amateur knowledge of genetics, though my memory failed me and I now recognize my error. I had claimed that a horse is more closely genetically linked to a whale than it is to a cow, but I had it wrong, backwards. It is the cow that is more closely linked to the whale than the horse. I suspected then that I might be wrong, but I can speak rather confidently even when harboring private suspicions of intellectual blunder, so that's what I did. It is one of my most striking qualities, to speak confidently through the overcast mind of terrible factual error.

Facebook has honed this talent of mine like nothing else, and for that I thank it.

So, we sat and watched a family of traveling retards conduct some semblance of "country theater" for a few minutes, with both of us dads agreeing in hushed tones that the mom on stage was quite fuckable, and that she needed to lose the husband and the daughter. or at least the husband. I pictured her running off with the carnival for a season of sexual excitement, then returning to the fair once she had worn herself out getting group harlequined. 

The fair must be the Abel to the carnivals' Cain. 

I think it had something to do with her changing costumes and adopting different vocal personas. It made me want to see her titties, and other stuff. Men are just terrible, and feminism won't ever stop that. Masculinism simply has too much scholarship behind it, and now that it has Donald Trump on its side I tremble for its opponents.

Well, I would draw the comparison between the freakishness of the fair and the current field of Republicans but I've run out of time. 

A thing did occur to me the other day, when talking with the boy's mother, everything out of her mouth somehow seemed wrong. I was standing there looking at her as if she was an entirely unfamiliar person to me. This woman with whom I had chosen to have a child. Suddenly a new image emerged, seemingly out of nowhere. It was as if I was talking to a Republican. The words were recognizable but somehow the same old horribleness that had ruined so many things in the past was still flowing out. A narrative filled again with the false dogma that I was somehow, no matter the circumstance, doing something wrong.

I suppose we'll all just have to wait and see how she does in the primaries.

.

My Beloved Tatiania

(Hotel Ukraina)

My new bride arrives tomorrow. All the way from the outskirts of Reutov, not far from Moscow, just outside what used to be referred to as the outer Stalin defense ring. The paperwork to get her here was substantial, but she is coming from one of the more reputable services who handle much of it. I have an Arab friend that swears by them, and has bought four wives of his own already. He claims he wouldn't shop anywhere else online, though he does wear white socks with dark suits, so who knows. I haven't heard her voice yet, but I'm told she speaks adequate English, knows all the phrases that will make the relationship work. Enough to get it started, anyway. Doesn't need an automatic dishwasher was among the sales bullet points, though not first on the list, that was Happy she make you Happy. An odd omission of syntax. Perhaps an incomplete translation.

I once stood on a hill on the outskirts, where one could see almost the entirety of Moscow, several of the Vysotki (Seven Sisters) peppered across the landscape. None of them quite the same yet all of them of a shared architectural purpose, to suggest unity through similarity in shape. It is a thing that springs from the hopeful mind with an insistent force, more assertive than persuasive. Stalin was a real waking dreamer. 

I stood there on this hill for a few minutes, nearly bored. It had taken almost an hour to drive to the spot. Its selling point was as I have already described, you can detect the circle of Moscow from atop the parkway. There were others there, also standing and looking, bottles of vodka in one hand, the other raised with fingers pointing to different distances. 

On the drive back towards the hotel - not far from Red Square, though I was encouraged not to try to safely walk it - my attention was directed to "the only building that survived the fires started by Napoleon." A fact that I knew to be quite untrue, knowing that Napoleon did nothing to burn Moscow to the ground and was simply incapable of stopping it, not having the manpower. The fires were partially an act of Russian sabotage, wanting to reduce the victory to meaninglessness by a willful act of self-destruction. The Russian troops ignited their own city as they retreated, as well as some residents fleeing so quickly that oil lamps were irresponsibly left burning in homes, the belief being that the Russian soldiers would all die before letting French troops take the mother city.

Men of that age did not conquer cities to destroy them but to possess them, to preserve them for a different use by a slightly different people. All of that has changed, of course, and one need only vaguely remember what became of Baghdad upon America's arrival there to stiffen this point. The cradle of a civilization, set aflame in some spots so that it could be looted in others. Napoleon was ruthless and shrewd, but his purposes in conquering were not as destructive as what mechanized war allows and encourages. This result occupied far less of the warring mind then, being an unpleasant product rather than the primary intention. There was still plenty of rape to go around then, though. The troops must have some amusement in triumph. What is the point in defeating a people otherwise if you can not shame and violate their women. Nothing produces semen as do tears in wartime.

There is a sculpture on the drive in from the Moscow airport that marks the point where the German troops almost made it into the city, getting what was left of their asses handed to them all the way back to Berlin. Nobody treated the Germans more poorly in defeat than did the Russians, nor did any other nation have the same motivation. There is much speculation as to what happened to the German prisoners of war and captives, but nobody would envy what remained of their lives as they marched from Berlin back towards Russia. About a million were killed, another two million worked under very harsh conditions rebuilding Russia under Stalin, most of them being returned to Germany after about five to ten years of very hard labor. Men are not as much fun to rape, I guess, though certainly there must have been an occasional bit of horseplay when no one was looking. Or, when they were. 

My new bride and I won't be discussing this much. Russians have their own version of history, which has a very strained and tenuous relationship with the facts, being infused more with national pride than with actual historical consensus. There is - and I do not exaggerate here - not a single point of twentieth century history that it is possible to agree on with a Russian. They will look you right in the eyes and tell you that Russia was the first to land on the moon, and on this point they are actually quite correct. When you clarify and say "manned space mission" they will wave their hand in dismissal, having already won the argument. 

They invented the computer, cell phones, the entire science of rocketry, all of it. New York was probably their idea also. Just ask, you'll see. People never believe me when I tell them this, but New York is an older city than St. Petersburg by almost a hundred years. 

The French word "bistro" is actually Russian, oddly. It entered the language during Tsar Alexander's coalition occupation of Paris, the first foreign occupation of the city in over 400 years. It took two years to kick Napoleon and his troops all the way back to Paris but many felt that it was well worth it, with him going into exile in Elba as a result after the loss at Leipzig, abdicating rule back to the Bourbons. 

I've given over power to bourbon and vodka any number of times since, cleansing the memory in the fluids of forgetfulness, then expelling it in the blood red rivers of Waterloo. 

The meanest women in the world are Russian. The ad claimed that these women have been trained by some of the best, though they did not say the best at what. One can only hope that it is not history.

.

What my ears like to hear

(this kid…what a pure delight)

It has always been a problem, sleeplessness. I recall being a restless child, sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night to roam my neighborhood. There was an office complex between where we lived and "The Mall" that I used to pretend I was infiltrating as a spy, a covert operative. I would walk the cement wall of a recently built condominium complex, attempting to complete the perimeter without having to jump down and then climb back up. It couldn't be done. I had started too late in years. The trees had overgrown in some areas and they were left that way for reasons that were beyond me. This was at a place that used to only be a mostly empty field that any child my age and of my temperament was lucky to have survived. I remember helping build an underground "fort" with only a four-by-four as a center post and a sheet of plywood that was then covered with sand. Death must have laughed at all of us. How any boy survives puberty is a mystery. None of it seems possible. Every foolish action seems designed to invite eternity. 

Then, there were the ravages of young adulthood. The artificial wakefulness that I touted as a passion, rambunctiousness as an intended virtue.  Living like a poet, or so I believed, though one without much poetry. An extended adolescence that has not come to completion. Something inside of me still stirs at the thought of returning to Burning Man. It is not the intoxication, though it would be a lie to deny its entry there. It is the invitation of that unique leisure, the forced recapturing of some lost sense of self. 

And now this, a dark room awaiting the sun. What next?

I watched Jon Stewart's last show tonight. I could watch it twice and no one would notice, not even me. It is easy enough to believe that I was thirty when he began, though still odd in its placement in the chronology of my life. You get so accustomed to something being there. I grew to dislike parts of his character though to deny his individual talent would be untruthful. I can see why he would quit, but part of me wishes that he wouldn't, or didn't. It feels as if a part of my middle years is also ending. My next serious relationship will likely see me to my fiftieth birthday. I have looked at that previous sentence three times now and nothing makes it any easier to believe, easier to look at. 

Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band performed two songs for the finale of the show. The lyrics hadn't jumped out to me in a while, but they are good ones, though perhaps heard too many times in youth: Together Wendy we can live with the sadness, I'll love you with all the madness in my soul.

I feel that way, also. 

It reminded me of another song off the same album.

With her hands on her hips 

and that smile on her lips 

because she knows that it kills me.

Well, I could go on about how memories of my youth are forever bound up with the music of Bruce Springsteen, but no… I've said that a hundred times before, and it is only a partial truth at best.

There is this also, though:

That thunder in your heart, 

at night when you're kneeling in the dark, 

that says you're never gonna leave her

But there's this angel in her eyes 

that tells such desperate lies

and all you wanna do is believe her.

That Bruce. The Boss.

For a time I was reaching out to far fewer people. There were a small handful that I had on rotating speed dial, but scarcely any outside of that. Few were ever free enough to answer, to chat aimlessly. I would push past their numbers in my phone, not having a real reason to call, not knowing what to say if I did, in need of a prop to start the conversation. Maybe I'll write them an email, I would think, back when people still wrote emails. Now a text exchange covers much territory, somehow without covering much at all, a dash of cleverness hoped for. A smile across darkness. The human voice is the most beautiful musical instrument made.

I have been writing emails though, and talking on the phone, hiding under the covers with a flashlight. It is as if there is suddenly so much to say again, an intense desire to hear and be heard, a willing correspondent at the other end. An open secret announcing itself. A human voice taking the unexplainable shape of laughter, and waking up any minute now.

.

Milk of Amnesia

Well, I did get some sleep, but not enough. It rarely feels as if it is enough. I don't care for chemically induced sleep as much as natural sleep. Though if that is all that life offers... "More milk" as Michael Jackson used to say. Just another drop, Doc, to get me through the night. Who can begrudge a little chemically induced coma to a person in acute pain of consciousness. 

The hours tick away, the days slip by. 

I had some Diprivan recently. As I was going under I could see my medical bracelet. It said "Morphine" on it. I had been told many years before that this was one of my allergies. I mentioned this to the anesthesiologist and he didn't seem to understand the reference. I explained that Morpheus was the god of dreams, though I don't recall if I ever finished the sentence or not. The loss of consciousness is so fast that one can not be adequately conscious of it, though I tried. 

If only sleep could arrive that easily every night. I would have my own doctor also, if I could. On this point I stand with Michael Jackson. Well, now I guess I would have to lie with Michael Jackson, but that sounds too ominously biblical or metaphorically dark. I'm far too old for his tastes anyways.

But, in my day… I was a cute kid, but probably not dying enough to arouse his interests. 

Neverland could always be read as two words. 

Jesus, I should stop this. I don't know what's happened to me. I'm resorting to crass shock alone to propel my interest in writing on to the next paragraph. It's a filthy habit and hard to kick, like explaining Greek mythology to doctors. 

He was probably thinking, Oh, you won't be dreaming at all on this stuff, buddy, but try if you'd like.

When I came out of the dark lands I asked for my phone. I wanted to text a girl, to let her know that I had survived. I had requested that she say a little prayer for me, though I do not suspect her to be the Christian type, but one need not be a believer to offer words to the cosmos. I do it all of the time when I find myself near the foot of a temple. 

I close my eyes and listen to the silence until I hear a familiar voice asking me what I would like done with my body once I am gone.

My answer is always the same, Surprise me.

.

Insomnia

(it's easy; run, eat, sleep)

If it's not one malady then it's another, as if my afflictions are all having a nightly game show with my body. I have never been a big believer in self-medication, though this does not mean that I'm an infidel either. I just can't believe that my nervous system has become the war zone that it now is. I blame lying in bed watching things off of the computer, though when I think back to not that long ago when I didn't have a laptop and didn't watch tv I acknowledge that I still had problems. I'm like my own grandfather, wanting to blame my problems on anything new, knowing in my heart that things were once better, though not really believing it myself. Slowly becoming disenchanted and even disappointed with time.

My doctor gives me whatever I ask for, which isn't very helpful when it comes to taunting the temptations. I go in and sit down, he looks at me and shakes his head, just trying to keep me alive with sympathy. He knows that depriving me of things that will reduce pain and anxiety is no good. The man took an oath to help people like me. Well, maybe not people like me, but he took an oath of some sort. 

There's no easy answer. I avoid taking anything regularly, but that hasn't helped much. I just bounce back and forth between dangers. Soon I will be able to return to exercising regularly, at least. That is the only thing that seems to work that doesn't come with a litany of health warnings, and scheduled classifications. Though at least one of my recent injuries was exercise related. Lateral epicondylitis. Jesus, it frightens me that I was able to spell that correctly on the first try. You're getting old when you're a walking PDR.

Don't worry kids. If you don't know what a PDR is then don't bother looking it up.

I'm even starting to like the taste of Metamucil.

.

Königin Luise

I made it through the night with the help of pain killers, muscle relaxers, some benzodiazepines, my favorite anti-anxiety tablets, a handful of hypnotics, sedatives, half a bottle of cherry NyQuil and a few cautious sips of orange Gatorade. 

I feel sound as ten hundred pounds this morning. I even considered downing a few doses of lithium-bicarbonate, for old time's sake.

In all seriousness... rest is what is needed. The best thing to do is induce a coma-like state for as many hours of possible short of eternity. If you can lower your breathing and heart-rate to under four cycles per minute then you become as a well trained Buddhist, wicked in the ways of meditation, prepared to conquer any illness with the pure stillness of body, mind and spirit.

Okay, I'm a dad now... I shouldn't make these jokes. I was nowhere near becoming a Buddhist, though yesterday I was almost on Christ's front doorstep begging to be let in, a crackhead stinking up the pearled gates of the kingdom, digging through the dumpsters of paradise, pooping in the alleys. 

It is an odd thing, that the gates of heaven are often described as "pearly." A pearl is a mollusk's defense mechanism against a potential threat. It is, by pure definition, a form of protective excrement. Though, as for our purposes here today we will consider them only as a useful component of the immune system, as that and its failings are our central themes here. 

When "the ex" came over to drop off the Gatorade and other benign medicinals she said that my apartment smelled "malarial." It probably didn't help that I was sleeping in a mosquito net, sweating like filthy Bogart pulling the The African Queen downriver, shivering with ungodly chills.

But, all of that has passed now. I shooed away the hellhounds that were scratching at the doors this morning. I applied a nice, cool, fresh layer of Lotrimin on my cock and balls, making sure not to get it in my penis hole, just to verify that it wasn't actually jock itch that I was suffering from. I think that I have the leg-and-ball disease. I found a site online that suggests using a very fine sandpaper to get rid of it.

Who knows… perhaps the many African missionaries. We know that they can always be counted on for some solid testicular science, and skin remedies, and of course I've always had such a soft spot in my cock for them.

.