A Life Worth Living
Posted on | March 6, 2010
Has it really been since December 13, 2009 since I’ve contributed to this child? I feel like a neglectful parent. You know, the kind that Children’s Aid has to come in because I’ve gone out clubbing1 and left them alone with a bag of Oreo’s in the play pen.
Writing hasn’t been coming easy to me. There are a plethora of thoughts running around in this ever aging brain but getting the energy to put keyboard to hard-drive has been waning. Though I have written and there are thoughts banging about like lottery balls in my “publish” queue, it’s finding the right words to send out to the troposphere of internet writing that’s left me dangling.
The days of public bowel movement scrutiny has become far more conservative. Not like my politics, mind you.
Work is still taking up 37.5 hours of my week2 and school takes up 8 hours of physical time. But it’s the homework that bogs me down. Like I said last time, the reading is so dry that I tend to start and then fall asleep.
I have to commend my teachers though. Very passionate about the subject at hand but more importantly doing their best to pass on that desire to us students. I have one teacher whom I admire very much. Strong, tough and a great sense of humour. You can feel the passion ooze out of her like curry from your pores after a great Indian meal.
Doesn’t make it any easier though when you get back a test that you thought you nailed only to discover that you’re not as smart as you thought you were.
(I choke as I type this) Being middle aged3 the memory recall for these tests doesn’t come as easily as when I was in my 20’s. I’m in a class room with children young enough to be my, well, children. I forget that question 4 doesn’t equal answer D because I think that situation Q could equate situation Z but add in the perceptions of situation B, and I’m lost. And, then, I get my test back and there’s a tiny stuttering of the heart beat. My lateral grin fades south and small lines form around the corner of my mouth.
Though my essays, while they can drag on, are putting me in the A+ category. I spoke to the teacher about that. She said that some people get their grades from the essay’s and some from the tests. I told her I didn’t care about them.
“Sorry to be selfish darling, but it’s ME ME ME!”
(Edwina Monsoon, “Absolutely Fabulous”)
And it’s made me damned competitive. I got back a report with a 45 out of 504 and my peer got 43. There was a slight smugness that took over my personality for a while and I tried to explain my higher mark. Then in another class I got 22 out of 255 and she got 23. I actually sat there moping. Wondering where she got that extra point and I didn’t.
Life after Rufus6 is far more empty than I thought it would be. Though the walking him through wind, sleet and snow does have its charm, it’s the loss of that wagging tail, tongue hanging out with dollops of drool, that really hits me. A friend of mine bought me a new couch as Rufus had destroyed the other one with his salted paws and dog hair but somehow that same hair has made its way to the new sofa. He was so unlike me: Hair STILL after death. Mine left me in the 80’s.
I think it’s Madonna’s fault. The more popular she became, the more my follicles sprang from hair line. Damn Madonna. It’s all her fault. “Lucky Star” my ass!
Speaking of celebs and our continuing fascination with them…John Mayer finally, after all this begging and pleading, stopped. Thank you, John. Now just, please, stop recording and live in obscurity. Hell, after his Rolling Stone, or Playboy,7 interview where he compared his penis8 to a KKK member (only liking white women) and saying that Jessica Simpson was like crack-cocaine in the bedroom9 he vowed that he would stay silent.
Then he tweeted that he would be silent.
That’s not silence, John.
I’m grateful that the tweeting craze seems to be at an end. And I think it’s because all of the legitimate companies and news organizations started on the bandwagon. It’s kind of like when your Mom says about the music your playing, “Oh I love that song.” Makes you hate the song REAL quick.
The one thing I’m truly grateful for, forgetting about John Mayer’s sudden silence, is the coming home party of the sun. It’s been in the southern hemisphere for far too long and it’s on it’s way back to the place it belongs. With all due respect to our South of the Meridian citizens, fuck you. I need the sun. This winter, while - for Toronto, has been the mildest I can remember, the lack of its presence has made me grumbly and out-of-sorts.
The days are becoming longer. It’s 17:00 hours here and it’s still up with no signs of going down. I love these days. I’m the type that, even though I’ll go to bed at 04:00, I sill keep the blind open so that the sun can land on my face. Vitamin D rocks!
I think it’ll be the summer when it’s hardest not to have Rufus. I’d spend hours walking with him in the park. Playing fetch and scratching his belly whilst my ass is sitting on the greenest patch of grass. I’ve thought about getting another dog but right now it feels as if it would just be to replace him. Not to have a companion for the right reasons but for the selfish ones. I’m not prepared to do that.
I will confess though: I see a puppy and I actually lactate. Not kidding you. You’d think I had a uterus, milk actually seeps from my nipples.
Too much information? Sorry.
I’ll try to keep the public masturbation down to a minimum.
- not seal, mind you [↩]
- more like 45 though [↩]
- cough, cough, hack, hack [↩]
- not bad, if I do say so myself [↩]
- again, not bad [↩]
- A.R. as I like to call it [↩]
- far too many choices if you ask me [↩]
- yes you read that right [↩]
- I’m trying to gouge the image out my eyes at the thought [↩]
Waiting For My Rocket To Come
Posted on | December 13, 2009
I was chatting, as I am wont to do, on another chat home.
It was a nice chat and that person on the other end of the internet spectrum suggested that I should continue to write on my blog. That’s it’s been far too long. And while I can’t disagree with them there’s far too many distractions that come with life to keep me occupied. And also, what the hell do I say?
But, alas, I’m here. Now. I’ll do my best.
There is a condition prevalent to us Northerners when winter comes. There’s a depression that communally sets in like patrons at a Starbucks all wanting the same grande mocha latte with a dusting of chocolate at the same time.
Winter.
I watched, with sad dispatch, the leaves committing mass suicide, leaping from branches as if it were the Great Depression and they were a banker who jumped from the 13th floor leaving behind a family of six kids.
I’ll be blunt.
Winter depresses the fuck out of me.
It’s not the white, fluffy, snow. That’s beautiful. It’s not the crisp nights when you can see your breath dancing in front of you, fogging up your glasses. That’s refreshing. It’s the fact that the sun has abandoned us.
“Good day sunlight
I’d like to say how truly bright you are
You don’t know me
But I know you, see you’re my favourite star.”
Jason Mraz “Who Needs Shelter”
There has been so much going on and so little inspiration of how to write about it that I’ve been lacking, once again, in my blog updates.
There are a multitude of reasons.
I still can’t get into my blog the way I used to. It’s my damned computer. It’s not recognizing the program which made drunken blogs so damned easy. Hmmmm, maybe that’s a good thing? I can think of ONE who’s glad the nights of spirited induced paragraphs are a thing of the past.
Or are they? Stay tuned!
It’s also been because the feedback has been waning. Not putting it to you, the readers, that it’s somehow your responsibility but the days of just writing for myself have long past. I was starting to feel like my voice was in a vacuum. That I was just blurbing for myself. And I’m FAR too needy a man for that.
So I’ve gone back to school.
It’s been humbling, tough, and invigorating at the same time. Walking into the institution for the first time I was struck how much like high school it was. There were lockers and really hot guys. And that they are of age makes it all the better. I don’t feel so much like a predator because, hell, they’re over 18 and fair bait. But there I am, clutching my binder like a grade 9 girl, feeling lost and insecure.
The goal is to be in the top ten of my class. It’s not working out like I wanted but maybe I’m in the top 20 so I can live with that. 90’s in one class but 70’s in the other. Like I said - humbling.
Doing work full time and going to school one day a week isn’t tough. It’s the bloody homework. Reading articles that if they just put in a car chase or unrequited love story, would make it far more interesting. It’s so dry I’m begging for a protagonist I don’t want to fall asleep too.
It’s good that I don’t have Rufus1 anymore because spare time is a luxury. Sunday’s2 are my day for fluffing, folding, and myself.
But I keep re-chanting, over and over like a Buddhist with his mantra, “It’s for my future…it’s for my future…it’s for…” You get the idea.
I was accused, however, at a certain place - which I can’t mention because of legalities - of abuse and racism. That killed me. I’m dealing with people now who are out to get me. It’s tough and hard not to feel paranoid about the situation.
Of course, and I’m loathe to say this, it’s someone who’s Black. It was almost a situation of having to parade my non-white friends to show this jury that, no, I’m not, indeed, racist. But isn’t that racism in and of itself? “Hey! Non-white friend, could you say you like me. Oh it’s because you’re NOT white that I need you.” That’s so racist.
And the abuse part? Well I was exonerated, completely, but it’s a moot point when people have a perception of you that doesn’t actually exist other than in their minds. So it’s become a wee bit of a Witch hunt of late. Misdemeanors that should be over looked are now being scrupulously examined like a coroner on a Jane Doe.
It’s a tough environment to be in. Watching what you say constantly is a harsh reality. But if you want to float in the pool you have to make nice. Smile, nod and don’t get involved.
That’s been a hit of a huge magnitude. But I now just keep my tongue wrapped up in the roof of my mouth and say nothing. Even when those who are accusing are breaking rules and being lazy.
Bitter?
Sorry.
I’m trying to keep this light and lightly informative. But it’s hard when you feel like you’re spinning your wheels, doing your best and there are digs that puncture the surface.
What’s that song? “Counting Your Blessings”? Yeah, that Bing Crosby song, from “White Christmas”. I’m trying to remember that.
When life hands you lemons you make lemonade. Only I like add Vodka. Makes it go down smoother and after 10 glasses you forget why you’re pissed off.
I also had to let go another friend who I thought it could work but it’s not going to. He’s an ex3 that just shut down and right now I don’t have the time or the patience. But I also recognize that it’s me. I have amazing friends who love me and keep me in the loop. He never will. So why bother? It’s been years. I’m sure he would say I didn’t try but again perception. I just got tired of promises made that were never fulfilled.
He told me the shoe wouldn’t drop and he dropped it.
Fear, I guess.
So I cut the umbilical. Let him breathe on his own.
“What about taking this empty cup and filling it up
with a little bit more of innocence.
I haven’t had enough
It’s probably because when you’re young
It’s okay to be easily ignored.
I’d like to believe it was all about love for a child.”
Jason Mraz “Love For The Child”
Okay back to the light, Scoundrel.
Life isn’t bad. I have someone who makes me feel special, loved in that way that makes you gooey. I have a job that, for the most part, I enjoy. I have friends who make me a king.
So what’s the bitching about?
I don’t know. I guess I find that easier to write about. Maybe that’s why I write. To purge the demons and help remind me that my life is pretty, damned, sweet.
So why do I want to run away? Why do I want to abandon what I have here and just start over? A freshly washed blackboard with no echos of chalk graffiti? No innuendo or rumour or even history that defines me?
Grass is greener, Scoundrel. Grass is greener.
More wine. Yup, that’s what the doctor ordered.
White, thank you.
Oh, shit. Was that racist?
Stressball Millionaire
Posted on | November 3, 2009
You know those emails you get? You know, the ones that tell you - “You may worry about money but he can’t afford a roof over his head,” and then you see some poor man with no shoes and you think two things.
1- “Wow, I’m so lucky”
2- “Lucky bastard. He doesn’t have to pay taxes.”
In the same breath that I’m not complaining, I have a list that’s four paper towel sheets long - plotted against perforated holes that tear when needed.
Point of view is something that I’ve been writing ?about ?since this whole birth began.
It’s what makes us justify our moves, our motives and our path in life.
I think this…therefore, I say that.
I do this…therefore I think you shouldn’t.
It’s all very confusing.
So I’m going back to school and working my full time job. Now granted, school is only one day a week but it’s like living expenses. It’s not the rent that kills me it’s the buying of toilet paper, laundry detergent and the like that wheedles away at the funds.
I’m at that point that where you don’t feel you have enough time. Time to fulfill all of your goals. Assignment here, test there, it picks at you like bird on the Ganges and you’re left exhausted.
But you plug through. Isn’t that life? I’ve often said life is crap with intermittent bouts of joy.
I hold on to that next bout of joy that comes barrelling down the path.
So I hold on to that possiblity. That joy that you just can’t recognize.
Did I mention that I have a man who loves me? Hell, he wrote a song for me. Friends who love me? Family who loves me?
No. I didn’t. And that’s what I have to hang on. And hanging on, I am.
Wordsmith
Posted on | October 14, 2009
It’s been a while since I’ve committed to writing. Far too long, in my opinion.
Perhaps it’s been because pain or despair has been a catalyst to putting keyboard to screen.1
The dog’s passing, my Mother’s death and heartbreak of an unimaginable pain gives me the breadth and width to speak my mind. When things are going smoothly it’s like I have nothing to say.
So what to write?
I just don’t know, really.
I feel an obligation to shout out to my “peeps” but to be honest it’s more about my personal need to expose my self (loathing) loving that, I guess, truly drives me.
Not wanting to be one of “those” types that only has bad things to say, I try to keep this personal but not victimized.
There’s been a plethora of events going on in my life and it’s about time I said something. But like an accessory to murder, I’m living my live but not really being in the moment. You know, watching the crime unfold infront of you but not actually commiting the crime. It’s like, of late, I’m driving the getaway car.
I’m treading.
That’s not so bad but at the same time it feels almost like dancing in oblivion. Which, again, aint so bad. At least there’s music. Well, in my head anyway.
So I’m going back to school, which at 42 is easy and hard all at once. Hard in the sense that going to school (one day a week) and still commiting to my full time job does take energy out of me. Drains me and I get stressed during the week with homework and essays.2
But now I find that it’s easier because I have the focus that I never had in highschool. I’m actually enjoying the ?reading process. And relishing, for the most part, the suggested literature. I’m even reading things I don’t need to in order to get a better understanding of the whole picture.
The teachers are nice. Well thought out, good sense of humour and well versed in the topic.
In short, they make me think.
So the blogging has taken a back seat and while I’m always thinking of things to write, sitting down and actually getting to it is hard.
I’ll try to be better but I can’t make any promises.
Mother Was Right!
Posted on | August 23, 2009
This weekend has been a trial, to say the least.
It’s been five weeks1 that I had to put Rufus down and today, August 23, is the fourth anniversary of my Mother’s death.
A kick in the pants to say the least.
So this weekend I was reminded of both and that’s because I was in the city of my birth AND I was dog sitting.
Now the two dogs I was care-taking were awfully cute. One of them reminded me of a smaller, hairier Rufus. He wouldn’t leave me alone. Wanting to sleep with me, sniff me, lick me and all round love me. It was tough. How did he know it’s what I needed?
But being in the place where you grew up? On the anniversary of your Mother’s death? Pretty wild.
Of course there was no choice2 of driving by the house where I lived 22 years. It was the only home I’d ever known.
But what REALLY reminded me of my Mother was driving to the suburbs. She usedto commute by bus to the city. In the mornings it would take her 2 1/2 hours and in the evening 3 hours or more.
It was all because she didn’t want to pull us out of school and as she would say, “I keep the house to leave to you kids.”
So I saw the bus she used to take and her words of wisdom came flooding back to me.
“Follow the bus. They know where they’re going and they get their faster.”
For the first little while I did. Then, thinking I was smarter, tried to get past it. ?BIG MISTAKE. That big ol’ bus passed me and got to it’s destination faster than I did.
I just had to smile.
She was right. She always was.
Anniversaries have become a different monster in my life. I’m remembering the letting go of people and the date rather than allowing the newness to shine through.
Is that the curse of living a long life? The rememberances of those from the past?
Either way I didn’t feel sad. Mostly I felt a calm surrender. Like an acceptance of what is to come.
Life ends. For all of us. Life is terminal.
It’s not to be feared or mourned but an inevitablity. I don’t fear death, now dying on the other hand SCARES ME TO DEATH! Is that redundant?
Mother? I miss you. Still, to this day. Four years later and I still am tempted to dial your phone number; even though I’m sure it belongs to someone else.
Rufus? My companion. My friend. I miss you too.
I’m a lucky man to have you both in my life, even though our time together expired.
HELLO? Is Anybody There?
Posted on | August 17, 2009
The nature of being alone is never easy for one who finds comfort in background noises and distractions.
There are times we ache for our “alone time” and when it’s upon us we can either revel in it or seek to find alternatives.
The television playing loudly in the background, music that puts us in a memory of time and smell. Talking on the phone till the wee hours of the morning that gives us comfort in the knowledge that silence may not be so golden.
But you’re still alone.
There may be white noise, that dehumidifier that hums. The computer fan that whirs when you open a new window on your desktop…you’re alone but you don’t feel SO alone.
I grew up as the youngest of seven children who were loud. LORD we were loud. My Mother used to lock herself in the bathroom, reading a book while we pounded on the door screaming, “She hit me!” Alec took my book!” “I need to pee!” But it was HER time. She had such a gift to drown out the essence of family for the space she needed.
And she needed it.
We were always pawing at her.
But when there’s no one around and you are, indeed, left with your own thoughts; well, it can be quite unnerving.
My thoughts can run rampant. It’s a Tom Cruise film. Not one of the meaningful, placid ones but the car crash, exploding building ones. I’m thinking the Mission Impossible series and not “Eyes Wide Shut”1
I work in a loud place and, sure, when I first get home that peace is quite nice but after a while it becomes fractured and shallow of breath.
Not one for self starting projects and now living life without “Dog” I’ve come to understand what loneliness truly is.
He was the catalyst for so many things. Being social, exercising, doing what I grumbled under my breath about having to do for so, very, long.
I’m far too extroverted to be the uni-bomber type. Coiled up in my cabin in the woods, ordering ?gun powder from ebay.
So I’m trying to find that joy in the quiet. That peace in the knowledge that noise will eventually find me, curled up in the fetal position in the corner, begging it to leave.
It does gives me comfort.
And when it’s not here I feel empty and yet when it arrives I resent it.
It’s that contradiction that defines me.
I’m strong, I’m weak.
I’m solid, I’m hollow.
I’m old and yet I’m young.
Coming to a conclusion here, I think.
I need others.
It might make me shallow and vacuous but it’s my family and friends that define me. And when they’re not around because they’re committing the holiest of sins - LIVING THEIR LIVES WITHOUT ME! I’m reminded that I’m less.
It’s been over four weeks and the loss of Rufus still taunts me like a carrot on a stick.
I’m chasing something that I will never reach.
Loneliness can be exhilarating. It can also be like clutching the pole, white knuckled and gasping for air.
I have to find the balance in the contradiction.
- which was a dirge, ohhhhhhhhhh what a dirge. [↩]
Oh I Said That Already, Didn’t I?
Posted on | August 14, 2009
You’re right, Mom. I shouldn’t let this bother me. I’m in
television now. It’s my job to be repetitive. My job. My job.
Repetitiveness is my job. (Bart Simpson)
Uh-oh. It’s happened. I’ve become one of those old timers who tell the same story OVER AND OVER.
In scanning the pool of past blogs I came across a number of them that are, well, pretty much the same.
Two of them about “Twitter” (1) (2)- the latest craze to skateboard across the internet.
These two are almost identical and I even mention the SAME John Mayer song. And speaking of J.M I even put his name into the last blog. I mean...COME ON!
Oh and there’s a double mentioning of Miley Cyrus (1) (2) and how I wish she would just stop.
My comparisons about getting older seem to be recycled phrazes. Talking about the creaks in the joints, flatculence and memory loss.
Oh yeah, and repeating myself.
My comparisons about getting older seem to be recycled ph…wait...DAMN IT!
What were we talking about?
Riiiiiiiiiight. Miley Cyrus.
OH DAMN IT!
No I was speaking about my redundancy on this site.
“End of the Road” was originally called “Eebbe Dee Eebbe Dee, That’s All Folks!” and I even posted but when I went back to make some changes a thought crept in the back of my brain and I rifled through my card catalogue when a pang of, “I’ve already used that, haven’t I?” hit me.
Could it possibly be that I’m writing way too much? That I’ve run out of things to say?
Could it be that I’m BORING??????
Oh God.
Pretty soon I’ll be raising my belt line….DAMN IT! I did it again. Read here.
This actually could be good. I could just consider this blog a “Greatest Hits” Collection. You know the kind Cher puts out. The same freaking songs OVER AND OVER.1 How many versions of “Gypsy’s, Tramps and Theives” can you possibly own? NOT ENOUGH I SAY!
No, it’s just repetition.
So it might be asked2, “Why write so much?”
I wish I could answer that with something other than what it is. A self centred act of public masturbation.
This is my life - welcome to it.
Where does this need for public displays of internal vomitting come from?
I have no clue.
Maybe this is my rendition of “Girls Gone Wild! Parts 1 through 9″. I might be JUST like those wild girls, who in their senior years go, “What the HELL was I thinking?”
It’s a good thing them OR I won’t be running for any kind of elected office.
Could be that I’m not Britney Spears and get to show my “cooch” splashed on the tabloids. Though, showing my “cooch” might be fun.3
I shall endevour to write about “new” things. Let go of altered and regurgerated lines.
And maybe I’ll cut Miley and Mayer some slack and stop writing about them.
Nah.
I’m too big a prick for THAT!
- You’ll notice I’ve also said, “Over and over” a multitude of times [↩]
- by myself and possibly others [↩]
- I’ll wait till I get a Brazilian wax though. Can’t really see the Tree past the Bushes - If you know what I mean… [↩]
Could *GASP!* John Mayer Be Right? Please Say It ‘Aint So!
Posted on | August 12, 2009
So, am I here, just waiting on the world to change? As much1 as John Mayer pretty much makes me vomit, it’s a valid question.
What is it about life where you’re just waiting for it to change without making a turn of the wheel?
You see, when that change is surreptitiously dumped on me I seem to flourish. It’s like my brain, as feeble as it is at times, can only handle the great big events and not the paper cut, on the index finger that diminishes my ability to type or hold a cup of coffee.
I’ve often written on the subject of change; both great and small - and I still live in question as to its place in my life.
“God only gives you what you can handle.”
It’s been reassuring thoughts like that that have kept me going to this day.
I’m going back to school. Yes a classroom filled with bright, young EAGER students looking to show off in front of the old man. Proving, once and for all that old age question, “Youth triumphs over the elderly.”
Not to be self-defeating but there’s this voice in the back of my head that remembers a time when I as a young man2 thought the older generation knew nothing. They were, in fact, quite stupid and it was I with my “Flock Of Seagulls” haircut that had all the answers.
And maybe it’s not that we village elders don’t know anything but that maybe that we’ve lived long enough to have more questions?
Life hasn’t gotten more black and white as in the days of my Halcyon mornings: It’s gotten much, much, more gray.
Oh yes, without question the foundations of my beliefs are still there. Racism is WRONG. Cruelty is WRONG. Lack of love is WRONG.
Those are principles in which I don’t believe I could ever let go of and nor would I want to. But…well…the smaller things in life…?
Does this make sense?
I’m in a place that I never thought I’d be.
There’s an old saying3
“Man plans, God laughs.”
Not that I believe in fate or anything like that but you know we have all these plans when you’re young. About the kind of person you THINK you’re going to be and, well, it just doesn’t work out that way sometimes.
Is it because I didn’t work hard enough?
Is it because a major catastrophe changed my path?
Is it that I’m just pissed off that I’m bald?
I just don’t know.
meandering time…
Now I seem to be looking at the current crop of “up ‘n’ comin’ celebs” and I’m stumped and shake my head and think, who the hell are they?
People like Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers. I mean, REALLY, who gives a shit? Yet when I was at that tender age of idolization it was “The Bay City Rollers” who really coaled my steam engine.
And for those of you NOT in the know…The Bay City Rollers were considered to be the pre-packaged fodder for unintelligible youths. Frozen dinners, created for the “Mom-On-The-Go-television-tray-ready”, propped up during, “The Price Is Right.”
But I want this new coalition of “tweenies” to just stop. Not just for the reasons that I think they are HUGELY untalented and MASSIVELY unwarrented but because they make me feel old. I’ll admit when a Miley Cyrus song comes on the radio I start to seizure and try to turn it off.
I REALLY need an editor don’t I?
Back to the original thought at hand, shall I?
So the question begets itself, like families in the Old Testament. Is age the be-all-and-end-all of the universe? Wisdom, which is a fabulous by-product4 of age, is very much a gift but you’re still left with a TON of unanswered questions.
Part of me condemns myself for not doing enough, a mea-culpa if you will of self flagellation. I just didn’t work hard enough.
“Scoundrel, you little ‘punim’, you; you gave up, way too early. (Pinch cheek here.)
Maybe I DID let go of me dreams far too early.
But in my defense5 I was reaching an age where the dreams of my ageless youth were coming to a dead end street. And honey ‘chile they was no U-turn available.
It was getting to a point that if I live past the current retirement age of 65 years of age, I’M FUCKED.
My future was at steak and I needed to do something6 RESPONSIBLE.
So here I am, typing this moment in time just waiting for the world to change.
No actually I’m waiting to win the lottery.
And until that time, “Mazel Tov!”
- AS MUCH!!! [↩]
- vibrant and WITH HAIR!! [↩]
- read it in a book by Harlan Coben - THANKS MR. COBEN!! [↩]
- like hot dogs, NOW WITH HOG’S ANUS AND COW LIPS!!! [↩]
- Uh-oh here it comes [↩]
- choking on the words as I type them [↩]
End Of The Road
Posted on | August 10, 2009
There is no question that when a relationship ends, there’s a death of sorts.
Whether it’s an actual case of a stopping of breath, a mutual agreement that a couple has finished, or a storming out of the door; it’s a death.
It isn’t a bad thing always but regardless of the reasons of loss, there is a need to pick up the pieces and move on.
Of course if it’s mutual there’s a certain rationalization of letting go.
Death or unresolved conflict can leave you reeling, staring into your cereal bowl wondering for answers; seeking out readers of tea leaves - calling psychic phone lines.
I call those kind of relationships, “Al dente” because they’re never REALLY done.
Circumstances forced a change but is that a bad thing?
I know someone who, when a cliche is echoed would say, “You’re such an asshole.”
But is change such a bad thing?
We all have baggage and baggage is a natural accessory to one’s self. You can’t escape it. Baggage is history and I’d be far lesser a man without it. I am who I am because of events that were either a choice or it was thrown up in my lap.
I’ve lost many relationships to the flow of life for those reasons. Loss because of death, loss because of choice and, finally, loss because of life being thrust at me like some baseball headed straight for my head.1
Which is better? I can’t say. What I CAN say is that it’s how you look at it. It can be a learning experience or it can be a bitter vitamin to chew on.
What you want to learn from life is not necessarily what God/Fate hands you.
There are those in my life who say things happen for a reason. Is there? Or is it our incessant need to rationalize and explain events that we just don’t want in our life?
It could be both.
It could just be random acts that are thrown in front of us and it’s our choice in how to interpret those moments.
My Mother died. Sad but you know what? Explainable. My Dog died2 because that’s life. He was sick and I was given a choice of keeping him alive or giving him a, calm, relaxed passing. Relationships ended for a plethora of reasons that we may never be able to explain.
So WHAT is the answer?
Do people come into your life for a reason? Is there some karmic/past life reason or do they just fall at your feet shouting, “I’m here!”
The answer is, honestly, I don’t know. Life could just be a series of horrible acts of violence or there could indeed be a reason.
It’s the glass half full/empty argument.
Life is HOW you see it. You can be curled up in a fetal position or face the tsunami head on and just hope you don’t get washed away with the tide and IF you do? Well? That?s life.
See, life will go on with or without you. People will die, people will leave but you hang on to remember that maybe, in some small way, you made a difference.
So maybe my glass is half full.
No, wait! Half empty.
No! Half full.
- Incidentally, I’ve actually been hit on the head by a rogue baseball [↩]
- at my own hand, I might add [↩]
Sharing The Couch
Posted on | August 3, 2009
He was there: Lying in complete obliviousness while I stumbled in the darkness. But he’s not there, is he?
Nope.
I have the couch to myself but it’s not what I want. He would park his fat-assed carcass there and I’d have to work my legs around him.
Not that it’s a bad thing. Not that it’s a good thing.
It is what it is.
I’ve been told I’ll get over this in my own time. I should stop whining and complaining. People - animals; leave you. It’s life.
I lost my Mother.
Why is this so much harder?
My Mom: Now I could rationalize that. I could compartmentalize. I could put it in this place of acceptance in which I was comfortable.
But losing my pet. My kid…
I’m not comfortable now. My skin itches and no back-scratcher will help.
And yes, he was my kid cause I’ll never have my own. Nieces and nephews; friends, kids and the like: He was my own.
I shouldn’t react this way.
I’m becoming foolish; silly, aren’t I?
The old lady with 47 cats that we mock.
But he was so much in my life and letting him go is so fucking hard.
I wish it wasn’t.
I WISH it were easy but it’s not. It’s fucking hard and you know to be honest I can’t see past it, right now.
I know, believe me, I know it’s ONLY been two weeks and two days, I’ve counted them; every painful minute. I should be past this but I just can’t. There are just too many reminders.
There are those who would say, “Two weeks? It’s a fucking dog! Get over it!”
There are small moments when I think of him.
Seeing white/fine dog hair on the bus seat beside me. A combination of his mix, lettered by a homeless man. A posted note that teases me to believe - though I saw his breath leave his body - he’s alive.
Why can’t I get past this?
It’s been too long now. It’s been two weeks1 and two days but it’s been a lifetime and I STILL look for him lying on the couch.
Pissing me off.
Frustrating me.
I miss him. I miss the sheer aggrivation walking him in the rain.
I tell other dog owners of my loss and I can sample their sympathy; like Rhianna using a Michael Jackson chorus for a song but to be honest - NO ONE UNDERSTANDS.
They can’t.
They can have the same experiences as me and they do, I KNOW that. I don’t have the same experiences as they do. The feeling of being needed when the front door is unlocked. They get the whole world of letting their “chile” go. But do they REALLY know?
Do they?
I’m a single guy. I come home alone; not to a paramour or child - to a Grand-fathered house hold.
And too the cat owners, PLEASE take this with the grain of salt that is hidden in the salve. A cat is SO independant. I had someone who needed me. And yes, YES, of course your cat needed you but Rufus…
I said earlier…I just don’t feel like anyone understands. And that sounds arrogant, selfish and insulting and it’s not meant too.
There is the old saying. You own a dog. A CAT owns you.
And it’s true. Being a former cat owner. My cat didn’t need me. Cordellia was her name. After the ‘faithful’ daugther from King Lear. But Rufus, he NEEDED me. And now I don’t feel so needed. It’s really the emptiness that echoes…
It’s not self-pity. It’s an absolving, really.
It isn’t a shedding of old skin that persueds me to speak frankly.
I just feel so alone.
This is nothing new or sacred to those who’ve lost a pet/child.
I just feel so alone.
Remembering every time I dimssed him. Every time I ran away from responsibilty - I’m sorry.
Was I good pet owner?
I had my moments.
But why is it I remember every failing?
Just remembering every failure is hard.
This isn’t so much self pity as it’s an exorsism.
A cleansing of the palate; like divorced wine chased with a bread stick and a spit bucket.
I just miss you Rufus. Two weeks and two days later, I still miss you.
You defined me so much.
Made me feel like I was important - needed.
Thank you for giving me that. I’m sorry if I failed you.
I have to let you go.
I wish I could…
Damn…
Let me go…PLEASE.
- ONLY and THAT’S ENOUGH [↩]