Touch of Evil

Nothing to do with Orson Wells, I just wanted to take a moment and blog while I was being repressed by the man.

There, I've rebelled.

ambraindexterous

There's one piece of confusion that's been constant and giddy in my life. I probably share this with everyone but maybe not. The confusion is applying one the function of one thing to a thing that has a like function. 

Two examples today. Been going to the gym in the a.m. I go with just the basics. I'm wearing my clothes, sweats and my locker lock for my keys, wallet and sweats. Otherwise, I'll leave something behind if I'm hauling it around in the gym. When I got out of the car this morning, I took the masterlock out of my pocket and began to use it to lock the car door. Wait, it don't work. Ha, is funny! 

Then on the drive home, I was still listening to my ipod. (It's a very short drive; I don't do this as a matter of habit; The volume is low so I can hear real-life sounds. You be quiet.) As mentioned parenthetically, the volume was low so I tried to use the car radio's volume nob to increase my ipod's volume. Once again, mistaken object, similar functionality.

I'd like to chalk this up to some superb flowy brain state but I think it's just bad thinking made physically manifest. It might be for the best that this quirk doesn't happen with all of my thinking that's fundamentally flawed. I would like to see what that day would look like, the day when the real world gave me instant feedback. The day that I'd be able to tally my cognitive accuracy and weep probably.

      

mty Lfe

I can't say that I enjoy writing but that no longer matters. My name is Frank and I am an alcoholic. My name is Phil and I'm a writer. My name.

'm not comparing my plight with those folks whose lives blow apart when they pick up a drink. For some afflictions, it's what you can't do, what might destroy you that defines you. Others, it's what you have to do that defines you. I guess that I'm saying that I am ill-defined, lacking sharp black outlines. Color inside of the lines if you can find them.

I might be locked out of heaven. It's not as dramatic as being in Hell. Nothing that desperate or scratchy. Think flattened affect, think of a streaky window, think of that thought that just eluded you.

Fruitless. Barren. Dim. Those are my non-writing conditions. See, nothing too severe. I want to touch that heat, just like Peter says. A thousand fruitless searches. Why not risk everything? I have nothing now and I expect less in the future. Am I a person who can't have anything he wants? Might be the best way. I mock those who find themselves in a monestary, winter wheat. That's what I'm contemplating: a drastic limitation, a row to hoe.

I haven't told you about the book that I imagine. It's a character, not a book so much, who is a version of me. It takes little skill to steal your own life. I don't have the temerity to steal someone else's life yet. The other character is me too. A younger version of myself. The little boy that was lost. Waaaah! No, it's nothing tragic about me, just a reflection on the common stream that misdirects us from our lives.

Those are the only characters that I care about. Except for the one my character loves and can't be with. There's nothing autobiographical here. It's a matter of what the character can't face down, can't ask of anyone. See, about me. Not her. There is something that makes the relationship impossible. I'd like to say that it's about the unique circumstances of the book/character. I'd like to say that. I'd like to say that it's not about my lifelong inability to stay hitched to one person, one place, one thing. I'd like to say that.

That's one of the many tripwire's I've set for myself. Everyword's about someone else. Every word is about me. Every word is about you. Every word. Empty is thinking like this. Empty

      

writing

I'm writing. 

Nothing special and that's the key. It doesn't require as much perfection as building a house. It's as if you could toss a bunch of stones down, shove some 2 x 4s in there, slap on some drywall and a roof. Then step back and say, whoa, that ain't right. Use your giant hands and arms to move, remove and adjust where needed.

Maybe one of the rooms is exquisite. You might be able to saw that jewel out, let it hang in the air, then stitch it back in.

My point here really is for me. Let's face it. By production alone, I am no writer. By temperament, probably. Enough have agreed where it's not completely insane to think so. My problem has been that I've tried to fabricate an architectural masterwork each time as if there were 10,000 pieces that fit together in this linear, 1 to 10,000 numbering system.

But I didn't have any kit, no numbering system and no idea of what I wanted. That's okay but I didn't adjust my expectations. The honest evaluation process is where I've fallen apart. I don't have the kind of orientation to see outcome and how to get there. 

I am a hive. Each member contributes. The colony forms over time, correctly, mistakes discarded or shaved away. How do I trust that the flurry of activity will lead to structure and meaning.

Not my call. Just do my many small jobs. Something will form.

     

Triage

Triage, that's the game. Blog has been last on the triage pile. Work, health, folks have come first. Work has occupied two spots. Unsavory but I am pulling a paycheck so I don't mind so much.

At this point, assume that I'm writing a diary, insecure as any school girl's with a shiny locking clasp, unable to defeat a paperclip. (you can provide your own skoolgirl joke here.) I'm saying, read if you want to but I don't expect that I'll be writing to create round, well-formed entries. That might happen sometimes, but expect more crap to wade through. Self-indulgent and I'm proud of that. You can be equally self-indulgent and walk away if you get bored. Deal?

Here's what I'm thinking about. How do I wipe out my emotional habits and affectations? My heart has true affections, that's not the problem. The problem is that I have a routine that has provided a constant structure to house my emotional life. There's a kind of comfort in creating a situation like this. Even the problems are known, familiar and acceptably threatening. Why Phil do you mitigate your funny little emotional life this way? Why are you like the rest of humanity?

Well, fuck me, I'm making little sense. I'm really talking about giving up some specific stuff here. I'm at the point where I want to kill dead any idea and routine of relationships that I've had before. The relationship has been one of the two key definers of who I am since I've been a teen. Work, of course, is the other. Well, fuck them both. I don't want to be a slave to this anymore. 

I am sick being jerked around by the scrum of being in, out or between a relationship. That's it. I don't want a relationship ever again. I don't want one to end. I don't want one to begin. I don't want to be between an old one and a new one. I do not want it, sam-i-am.

I do want people, mens and womens. I want love, I want all that stuff. I do not want to be a puppet that needs love seasons imposed on its life. Christ, under this self-perpetuating scheme, I'm basically: blooming, pollinating, dormant, then waiting for the blooming again. I am not a plant, I am a human man! (Ha ha ha ha. Hollywood movies are funny. See The Peacemaker.)

To sum: I am not a plant. I like people, men and women. U2 is an awesome group. Cat drool makes my eyes itch. I want a new camera. Why doe consultants make so much? Perrier is refreshing. I miss the sun. Can I vacation in Cancun soon. Rhyme anytime?

See, not much of a closing. That's it. Next time, no that's it.

     

Dishwasher

We probably spend way too much time thinking about our dishwashers. I think that I can say this with some confidence after years of hearing bickering about how to choose the best one, how to load it properly, which soap to use.

In the full spirit of journalistic integrity, I'm one of the worst when it comes to thinking that I have a better system than you do. I do. Yours sucks compared to mine. I guarantee it.

Okay, I no longer guarantee it. Here's why.

Friends en route from CA to WA stayed over at my place on Saturday. Being nice peoples, they helped clear the plates and -cue the horror music- loaded the dishwasher! This nice act is a kind of agony for those of us too insane to accept the kindness of normal non-neurotic peoples. My response was a nimble one that steered any concern away from how vital it was to stack the dishes correctly. Part of me felt that was a true response. The other part expected a micro-epic of disaster. Like Frank Gehry had stacked my dishwasher.

Wrong! I was wrong! Wrong in a special surprising way. Turns out that in addition to a pleasing organizational competence, a center rack that I had never used was revealed unto me. I had never even seen it! I kid you not. I opened the steaming dish laundry and I was transfixed by bowls floating above the bottom tray. How in the hell was that possible? Was there a Virgin Mary etched in steam on the dwasher walls too?

So did I not use this the first time I used the DW and thereafter it because invisible to me? Are there other dillweed miracles like this in my life? I know that my car has five forward gears (and reverse), the alphabet has 26 letters, doors open in and out. If you happen to spot any other gaps that I might have missed, please feel free to point them out to me.

You'll Never Guess

Costco serves as a gathering place for us displaced folks in Medford. Today while waiting for my prescription, I had the chance to talk with two nice old Sicilian coots, Art and Emile. "Coots" I hope you hear as an endearment, these were two nice guys. Brooklyn. No Good Pizza Here. No Good Bread. Bagels? Forgetaboutit.

After I passed muster, Art began a routine that he'd been doing with Emile for at least a decade: guess what Emile used to do for a living. "You'll never guess in a hundred tries. Go head. You never guess. You don't want to take that bet."

The big cliche popped right into my head and I figured that they'd have a laugh and I'd make guess #2. Emile, despite his French-sounding name, seemed more laborer than something high-falutin. "New York City Ballet. He was a dancer."

I thought they went into another routine: "Jesus Christ I can't believe you guessed. No one's ever guessed before! That's incredible." I let them ramble on with this sarcasm for thirty seconds and then I said Okay. Let me guess again. "No no no. You guessed it. You got it right. Emile made ballet slippers for Capezio all of his life! Jesus Christ, nobody ever guessed before and you got it right the first time!"

Turned out Emile had worked with three generations of Capezios; taught the later generations how to make a good slipper.

They really couldn't stop sputtering. "This one got it right off. That has never happened before. No one's ever guessed right before." Minutes later we laughed our goodbyes and they disappeared into the large, value-sized afternoon.