Change, part 3,024,541

When faced with great possibilities this week, I freaked out. Not because I didn't think I was worthy. I think I've worked hard to put myself in a good career position. More because I have such finely tuned processes that maintain my steady emotional state.

I think of those engineering boasts from car advertisements about self-correcting circuitry that checks the integrity of a process thousands of time each second. Of course, any minor deviation prompts a rapid correction.

That's me. Not so much that I'm a finely calibrated machine or pshaw, person. It's that I've built an apparatus (Rube Goldberg, anyone?) that resists change. It's been programmed to respond but not learn. Well. I'm trying to find a way to adjust my settings and get the controls reset.

I don't mind having a mechanism in place. I just need adjust it so that automatic corrections and their emotional snapback don't always preceed the manual, less-precise ones.

Self Assessment, Letters A through B

On a scale of 1 to 5:

Self-Absorbtion: 4
Self-Abuse: 5
Self-Actualizing: 2
Self-Addressed: na
Self-Adhesive: na
Self-Appointed: 5
Self-Assertion: 3
Self-Assured: 3
Self-Awareness: 3
Self-Basting: 4

What I've Learned

Here's what I learned this evening waiting for sleep to come.

Mah Jongg points out a tricky habit of my mind. If you don't know the game, you match tiles. What I found out is that in my sleepy brain state, my tactics were suspect. I'd focus on freeing up a tile and find out I had a better choice that I had already made. But my brain would get stuck on a tile for no reason and then I'd act on it. Is this like anything else in my life?

Cats eat food. Now, I know this based on their end product alone. But, the cats seem to do the bulk of their eating at night. I know why. They don't want us to see them eating. They want us to think that they don't like their food. That the stupid human simply forgot to fill their bowl. That they are dying because of their new crapulous food. Is this like anything else in my life?

I learned two things in my groggy state. Maybe that's what it takes. Maybe I've learned three things tonight.

Sorting

Or unsorting. That's my secret to life. I spend so much time making distinctions that separate and divide, sweep and join. That seemed to be the way to survive. There's safety or at least comfort in knowing which categories I belong to and which I don't. Unsorting is of the principles implicit in compassion. When I unsort, observe each a-tom, I put my mind to what is in front of me. That's the theory. Then I can see the thing true.

That's what I'm doing. I'm on an unsorting and untangling jag. Find the misidentified and atrophied idea, notion, history, or feeling. Remove the name tag and let it be itself. Sometimes things are badly named, badly woven together. More radical action is necessary. Unraveling isn't bad if I find something that needs to unravel. But first, I start with the sort. Move to the untangle. Then I pull at the loose thread at some risk.

No wonder we fault toward keeping thing sorted along our ideosyncratic lines.

Flower

The Barfer

What I'd like is for my cat to shut up.

This poor guy is an experiment in sinew-only living. So thin and unable to digest most anything. He's surviving on some barley concoction which he can keep down. Can't give him any of the things that he loves because he just barfs it up.

God help me I cooked dinner with some meat tonight. What an idiot! He has been meowing for about two hours now. Enough, I think, to make himself sick and throw up on the rug. Now that is some mental power. He's spent enough time imagining the food in his gullet that he barfed anyway.

His meowing has made the other cat go mental. He's making that fritzy meow sound and racing around like he's methed out. Now he's picking a fight with the bony cat. Let me tell you, they do not listen to reason. They do not live in the universe of behave.

My wish is that the barfer could eat what he wants. He'd still meow as much as a talk show host. But at least he'd have a little something to keep him warm on those days when the sun doesn't shine.

He's stopped his campaign of terror. He's now on my lap, sniffing my fingers, quiet. Just what was the fuss all about anyway? He's all purry as I scratch his face, his ears and his soft skeleton.

Compliment

Do you find it difficult to accept a compliment? I always have and more or less know why. You armchair therapists just leave me be! I've adapted acceptance technology and now say "Thank you" and smile and move on.

That's not really accepting a compliment, just using the form that passes for acceptance. I've seen myself as a bit of an intruder into the well-ordered lives of others. I've evaluated any compliment at best an encouragement. At worst, the compliment would be my dark mirror.

Last night at dinner, one of the wait staff came to our table and said to me: "We've been talking about you." HOLY CRAP, was my natural response. He went on remarkably about how they all agreed that my face was bright and happy and brightened everyone around. Now that is a compliment. (I can't even believe I putting this out in public.) My response was "Thank you! That's so nice of you to say," and I was thinking "You talkin' to ME?"

Funny, that compliment was outlandish but I couldn't reject it. It seemed okay to me. Wish I could say why. Maybe because one of my great psychotic wishes is to make everyone happy. Who doesn't want to be the guy who makes everything seem warmer and friendlier? I've known a handful of these folks who light up a room when they enter. This feelgood compliment however was more than I was ready for. I had to have my friend confirm that it was indeed me that they were talking about.

She said yes and said additional nice things about me, not that I was reaching for more compliments that I couldn't accept.

Now reader, please don't think that I'm stretching for further good words. I very much like the idea that I walked into a strange place and made that impression to the extent that they told me that I had made it. Really, I can't think of doing anything better in life that brightening someone's day. Maybe a compliment in the sense of "complement" is a notion that I can accept.

Wildlife

I've always been enchanted by the grace and beauty of the natural world. Today, I witnessed something new.

A robin was hopping in front of me on my morning slog to the local coffee joint. He needed to get out of my way but didn't want to leave (tasty grub? lady robin? territoriality?) so he decided to duck into the dense shrubbery.

He failed.

He missed the opening and hit a limb and was bounced back. He wasn't stunned but he was surprised. Not because his beak made a little "O!" shape or anything. He righted himself, looked a me full on with a funny bird expression (is that even possible?) and took off. I doubt that there's any biological reason for birds to have facial expressions so I'll cop to the projection.

Earlier last month, my favorite sighting was of a large pasty man, climbing a flight of stairs, chanting, "I HATE COCOA BEANS." Unlike the robin, he seemed self-contained and without embarrasment. His identification remains elusive.

Abundance

I have my diary, this blog, a fair number of emails and a limping story or two. Are my words increased by having multiple airstrips? Can I find more or truer thoughts this way? What if I run out of fuel?

Abundance has always been a myth for me. Another fairy story brought on by the misplaced enthusiasm of an accident of birth. Or an accident of positive thinking. My thinking was more along the line of "everyone has a limited number of breaths or heartbeats." Everyone has a limited number of words. Hoard those precious words, your precious breath, you don't have many boy-o. Abundant words, a delusion. Wring some life out of the little you've got.

My belief about abundance has been changing. Perhaps I'm captive to a childish wish of my own power. I don't think so. I think that with careful preparation, there will be abundant words, plenty of flights. How I found this conclusion is complex. But simply put, I decided to trust that I would do what I needed to without applying force. That's part of the reason why I'm sitting here writing tonight: a patience about what is possible. That, and a little faith that there will be enough words to keep me aloft.

Outback Easter

Shining day in the watery outlands of Seattle today with Nina and the kidlet (Faithful reader, you know them...).

A brunch with apple sausage, two types of baked egg thingie, toothy ham, homemade scones. Plastic eggs, Jello Miasma and good-hearted volleys won the day. I felt at home with these strangers and the sun watched our play the entire afternoon. Can anyone expect anything more on this special day?

Thanks to all of them for sharing their lives with me.

Cats

The cats have arrived! While I've not missed them, I am excited to have their sensibilities meet mine again.

Such discriminating connoiseurs of light, the dropped food particle, and heat sources. Already they've found some free-range butter and the sun decided to shine upon them.

I've installed one guy on the radiator, the other guy seems to prefer the kitchen table. I'm stupidly at the computer when I could be petting them. Make a choice: the keyboard or fur.

Bye.

Abundance

When I was a tiny little thing, my grandma had a cocker spaniel, Judy, which I adored. ADORED. Jittery little kids are sometimes lucky to have receptive animals to pour love into. By the time I was aware of Judy, she was already afflicted with breeding deficits that cockers have, in particular, she was going blind. Didn't matter. She was in tune with me and I was attuned to her.

One day I'll ask my sister or Mom, but I don't remember what happened to Judy. I suspect that she was euthanized and that I was told some discomforting tale, although easily digestible and forgettable. Predictably, Judy the stuffed dog took her place for many years. I would like to know what specific histories and wishes that soft friend held for me. She wasn't simply a remembrance of the dog I loved. Security is one of those inclusive terms that requires an geologist of emotions to understand its composition.

For whatever reason, the day came when my parents decided that Judy was no longer a worthy companion. Probably made sense because of hygiene alone. But I always felt that the decision to remove Judy was motivated by some animus, some misplaced sense of helping me grow up. The cruel shove into the deep end of life. I was devastated when she went away. There was no story in place. Just the hard slap that things go away.

Recently, my nephew's dog, a happy, wild brute, was killed by a car. There's not any good way to introduce the death of someone so beloved to a six year old. My sister and her husband decided to say that he ran away. I'm not making any judgment on their choice. I might have done the exact same thing.

What Eli then created warmed all of our hearts. His beautiful imagination created a story where his dog decided to take the long trip to play with Eli's beloved cousins in Michigan, over 200 miles away. He was wise enough to find a world for his friend to run in. I am calling on some faith that I might see Judy running there too.

Nostalgia

My brother has been assembling old film, articles and stories about our home town high school football team. His aim is to produce a DVD for fundraising purposes. What he's turned up so far has been illuminating though scant. I'm eager because I get to work with and spend some time with him on this.

How bittersweet resurrecting a slice of local life that so clearly shows what we remember, and most often, have forgotten or lost. Over a century of fevered gridiron activity is now translated into inches of film, or inches of columns, or inches of memories. Little is revealed, every image or memory is more like a Galloping Ghost than is comfortable.

Our father was intensely involved in local sports, which is like saying that a cat is involved in grooming himself. He would have been so proud of him for trying to keep this little tremble of sports history alive. For Dad, sports were the best proving ground for a person. The one place where clear definitions and expectations were bundled into the fair play and glory that he so wanted in his life.

I'm can't wait to get more material from Norm. There's something to build from here that's elusive, not easy to understand. But that's okay. Dreams are not in the business of making sense. Helping your brother makes all the sense in the world to me now. That, in all my gratitude, is more than enough glory for me.

i and i

I prayed that the slender worth of being a shadow would sustain me.
I surrendered my emotions for comfort, to suspend danger.
I did not want to weigh a thing.
I was greedy, not to have, but to avoid.
I was self-centered without self-interests.

I am becoming different.

Sun, Cats Come In

Just in time, the sun has found its way into my apartment. My cats will be visiting for a couple weeks. The skinny guy on the left is a very funny, annoying little man. His magnificent nose, "the pinkometer," changes from almost white to full pink, depending on the circumstances. Although there's no documentation about what it measures or means, it seems significant.

He's loud; he's restless and hungry like a bony shark. Not unusual for him to climb on and sniff your face on first meeting you. Then, once he gets to know you, well, he ignores you. He is a cat.

His brother is a bit more timid. If you were meeting them, the picture on the left is the accurate one. One investigating, one protecting the gene pool, with a strategic underbed retreat.

They'll be glad for the sun. I'll be glad for them.

Triage, Part II

After yesterday's anguish about my alarm clock and kitchen timer, I have to sound a fair and balanced note in favor of my sugar bowl. My relationship with the things around me is usually a genial one, if you were wondering.

It's a simple affair, the bowl. A stainless steel Bodem with a shiny lid and a dedicated spoon that could double as a sleek medical device. I filled it yesterday with turbinado sugar, licorice-y and crunchy.

This morning, I looked at my modest dining table, glowing in the Seattle sun. Looked inside the sugar bowl, and was delighted beyond reason. Goofy; but does that delight differ in kind from any other joy? I always think of Eeyore putting his popped birthday ballon into his empty birthday jar of honey. Easily the happiest I remember seeing him.

Why does such a miniscule, irrational part of any life have such weight? I have a vague sense that my reaction was mechanically similar to that of a well-constructed joke. How did I set up this emotional punchline to work so well? Can I learn the form? No answers, but I think that I'm onto something, something other than sweeter coffee for my friends.

Triage

Some cynics out there might decry today's overriding concern. After all, I'm unemployed, out on a limb, divorced but, I did shave today.

My source of frustration is my alarm clock. Since I'm exposing these wounds to the air, I'll mention my kitchen timer as well. My Ikea alarm brick (You've seen them. Small brick with hard rubber casing.) jumped into a new time modality when Daylight Saving kicked in. I have reasoned with it but it will not return to 12/12.

Now, don't get me wrong, I support our troops. Military time on my alarm clock is the wrong set of marching orders for me. Perhaps I could rebrand my time as European, but it's not a natural way of thinking for me. I'm not an insomniac but I might become one as I see the day drone on into 19:52, 21:34. What will happen is my free-thinking clock decides to adopt a weekly, rather than a daily, timeframe? 137:40? Can't abide that.

Sorry, but I didn't mean to tease you about my kitchen timer. It's doing a good job and is willing to perform non-kitchen tasks. It's just that it's overly insistent about getting my attention. After all, isn't that what we want? To be pulled back into what we want to accomplish?

Even if I were swamped with love and mad in work, I'd still be concerned about my friends who help me keep time. Why are they trying to change me? Does the machine world know something that I don't?

Church of Me

Today I possessed the smallest possible amount of enery that one can and remain classified as a member of the animal kingdom. Rather than succumb to weariness and an oncoming cold, I went to the gym to tangle with any ill-wishes that my body might harbor toward me.

I'm not big on the mind-body duality, let alone the mind-body throw-down. But I wanted to see what happened when I climbed that extra flight of stairs. Would my trunk snap with the extra set of crunches on the fitness orb?

Apparently not. Now that those questions are answered, its time for some double-blind (or is it bind?) alcohol trials. Science marches on.

Wetland Clashes

I found myself deep in one of the biggest wetlands in the area today. Since I'm neither fish nor waterfowl, that's a bit unusual.

In its deep, slow center, spring growth was slicing up from the reeds, the trees and even the algae was glowing. The water was a hard, oily green- like it was in the process of trying to create an alternate to fossil fuels. The new vegetation was a hot, vibrant green and everything else was a very cold, slate green. What a surreal color moment: the sun shot through and I almost couldn't focus because the designer had messed up the colors. They did not match and it was as painful as any couch past its fashion expiration date.

I can't recall ever seeing that in a natural setting. I had to stare at the mountains for a half hour to regain my white balance. I'm better now, thanks.

Who abandons whom?

Dear Diary. My recent ex-wife, have I mentioned that I love her?

Takes a long time to remove someone who occupies the central place in a withdrawn life. We've been separated for a year. Separation was on the horizon years before that. Divorce is now final. No need for whys, you don't need to know. Just another paper or plastic tragedy. Here's the part that I meant to write about today.

I don't normally dream much. For months now, I've had a ferocious string of almost daily dreams about her. Romantic, sexual; painful joy in every waking recollection.
I did not know if I could take many more of them.
I did not know if I could survive them.
I did so by thinking that the doubting part of her found a way to me. She couldn't walk backwards to me, her focus is rightfully forward. But did she find a way to reach me? Or was this my final enjoyment of her, passing before my eyes?

What's the function of these dreams? To break my heart? To heal it? To move me into foolish, cruel action? Did my dream laziness parallel what I assumed about our marriage, that she'd always be around?

Last night, I had an emotionally pale dream where she helped make my bed in the morning. We paid a lot of attention to the geometry of it, as always. No words, just something quiet and mysterious. Anticipatory.

I cannot tell you whether these dreams have had a purpose, or a meaning. What can I hope here? There's not an option of interpretation that doesn't make me sick. Today, I feel sick with possibilities. None of them include her.