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.