The Pains Of Puberty At The Age Of Thirty-Eight

“Better late than never,” my Bubi always used to say but I think “better never than late,” sometimes. Going through puberty at the age of thirty-eight is not easy on a grown man- it takes a toll on his body. The chest hairs growing through my flesh are painful and sore. The chronic pulsation in my muscles are driving me mad. When I was young I always wondered where my puberty was. My friends were growing hair on their chest and legs (and other regions) and their voices were changing like string sections in an orchestra. I instead maintained my childish ways and never had the satisfaction of knowing that I was growing into a man. Girls were attracted to me because I reminded them of a little boy. When most of my friends started to shave and get laid I was looking in the mirror at a bare, virginal face wondering what went wrong. Even though the discovery of a few miniscule hairs on my back helped me to feel more apart of the “growing trend”  little did I know then that I would have to wait until I was thirty-eight to become a full-grown man.

It started a few months ago with a scratch in my voice that I thought was a symptom of a coming cold. While in the middle of a conversation my voice crescendoed into a high-pitched squeak that made me sound like a car with bad brakes. This was embarrassing because I am man and most of my conversations are serious. When my voice squeaks I know I appear less confident about the things I say. People question me, think I am insecure and wonder if I know what I am talking about. I have to squeakely assure them that I do. The squeaks of puberty are manageable because realistically I am the first to admit that I know very little about anything. What is most difficult about puberty is the intensity of feeling that seems to be flowing around just beneath my soul.

To deal with this intensity of feeling I have been doing a host of unreasonable things. I run my bike into piles of leaves jeopardizing my life. I knock on strangers doors and then run away at high speeds. I play in the mud trying to get as dirty as I can and I climb trees so that I can feel on top of the world. The longing, the expectation and fear of disappointment that comes along with puberty is so intense that at times I feel like I am going to lose it completely. I cry, scream at walls and beg for attention from my wife by wearing cologne (something I never did before) and by acting sad and wounded. I wear tighter pants than I ever have in my life and I notice that the music I am listening to seems to embody a teenage angst. One of the advantages of going through puberty as an adult rather than as a young man is that now I have some control over my impulses, since I have learned to respond rather than to react.

In the adult onset of my puberty, I have been inspired to find out “who I am” behind the thick prison walls that have been erected all around me. I always believed the Descartian lie that says “I think, therefore I am.” I have spent my life thinking but have little clue about who I really am. Now that I am finally starting to grow the chest hairs, the feeling muscles and the self-approval that has eluded me until this date- I am having faith that I can break free from the prison walls that have impeded my emotional growth for so long. I now can see that becoming a man means that I need to reclaim the lost self that wandered off somewhere in childhood, so that I can live a life that is healthy and free from the repressed dysfunctional emotional stains that have been stuck on me for so long.

The squeaky voice, the chest hairs, the intensity of feeling and the persistent erection (that I need not go into) are all aspects of puberty that every young man must face. I imagine it is easier to go through this when one is young enough to not really understand what is going on. When young, a person has the reckless abandon, the naive idealism and the health to helplessly become a victim of biological impulses. They can follow these impulses and desires wherever they may lead, without worry for repercussions. But after three decades of feeling the harsh side effects of painful repercussions, my puberty has to be navigated with the skill of a master. So I am being judicious, wise and allowing myself to feel every hair that bursts onto my chest and every emotion that inflames my mind and soul- without losing myself in the pain. I could be mad that I am finally experiencing puberty at the unfair age of thirty-eight. Instead, I am riding my bike more and turning my attention to the fact that something deep in me is finally being expressed that was not ready to come out before. Even though this is hard and I envy those who go through puberty when young, finally I can cut the hairless umbilical cord of my youth, come out from behind the prison walls and inhabit the space of a fully realized man with a chest filled with hair.

In A Pile Of Leaves

I have a rather embarrassing confession to make, one that I hope you will not hold against me. I enjoy riding my bike into piles of leaves. I often ride my bike around town so that I can digest some fresh air into my lungs. On my twenty year old ten speed- I ride to the store, the park, the post office, the library, wherever I need to go. It’s a kind of two-wheeled meditation for me. When I am on my bike I return to a child like state of awe and wonder. I become a man on a magic carpet escaping from the quagmires of my marriage, the heavy expectations of my aging parents and the constant negative jabs of my self-destructive mind.

In the town where I live it is common practice to leave piles of leaves in the street. Every Monday there is a free city service that comes and picks up these leaves but all week they sit there, loitering in the streets. I often see children playing in the piles or squirrels picking through them searching for a few delectable treats. At times the dried leaves will blow back into the streets or back onto peoples lawns, which is a source of frustration for many who live in my town.

 

My life is not going as according to planned. I am almost forty years of age and unemployed. My marriage is in total disarray, my cat and I are no longer getting along and I have enough money in my bank account to keep food in my stomach and a roof over my head until the end of the month. It would be fair to assume that the head space I occupy has a tendency to get dark and distressed. While I was riding my bike around town last week after yet another fight with my wife- I had the sudden impulse to drive my bike directly into one of these piles of leaves. I don’t know why I did it, but I don’t think it was a botched suicide attempt. I managed not to crash and my bike sliced through the pile of leaves like a large cutting knife. From that day on I became fascinated with what could happen if I rode my bike into piles of leaves.

I started running my bike into piles of leaves every day. There is no better feeling than riding a bike fast through a pile of leaves especially when you are dealing with the weight of stress. Some of the piles were higher than two feet and they were hard, molded together by water and dirt. When I rode my bike into these it was like going over a small hill. Suddenly I found myself in the air, a man with a ten speed bike for wings, and I would land hard on the unforgiving ground. I often found myself with a scratch or two or a patch of blood someplace on my flesh- but the feeling of flying high gave me a rush that reminded me of how lucky I was to be alive.

If the pile of leaves looked really large (four feet or higher) I would pedal with as much speed as I could and go directly into it- hoping that I would be able to glide right through rather than go over it. It is the element of uncertainty or risk that I enjoy. It’s a healthy way for me to express my rage and it helps me to forgive the people that I am angry at- even though it is taking a physical toll on my bike, nerves, hands and knees.

Yesterday I had a terrible fight with my wife. Out fifth fight this week. Even though I was expressing myself openly and honestly, in the politest way I could- she still felt like I was not supporting her and once again got mad. I left the house feeling unfairly treated and got on my ten speed that was rusted from the previous nights hard rain. The brakes squeaked but all the piles of leaves where still out there on the street. I decided to find the largest pile in town and ride my bike directly into it.

It all happened so fast. It was as if some self destruct lever was pulled inside of me that suddenly set me off. I no longer cared. There was a family hard at work shoveling all the fallen fall leaves from their front yard. When I saw the pile I could not believe my eyes. It must have been over seven feet high- towering on the side of the street like a monolith pointing towards heaven. I peddled as hard as I could and felt the wind telling me to stop. Upon impact I must have been going twenty miles an hour but I had no idea what the outcome would be. For once in my life I had completely let go.

The pile of leaves was so condensed, so tightly packed that I heard a loud “shzippppp” sound as if I had just entered inside a zip locked bag. Less than half a second after impact my bike and I came to a complete unintended halt. As far as I could tell I was still seated on my bike but now I was shrouded in a separate reality constructed out of a foreign material. It took me a few seconds to realize that not only was I still alive, but like a skier trapped in snow- I was stuck in a pile of leaves.

Leaves marched into my nostrils and mouth like a million tiny soldiers running for shelter. I was having difficulty breathing and seeing. I was disoriented- unable to decipher which way was up or down, left or right. I thought to myself that I was not ready to die. I wanted a chance to fix things with my wife, to start a family and show the world that I could get a job and work my way out of my financial mess. I saw the headlines in the morning paper “Middle Aged Man Suffocates After Running His Bike Into A Pile Of Leaves.” This is not how I wanted to go- not the kind of legacy I wanted to leave behind. I would become a tragic clown/martyr to family and friends. a man who was never quite able to escape his demons and figure out how to successfully live his life. No, this was not the way. I wanted to change, to grow, to love, to forgive and to figure things out and find my way into that promised land that I often heard referred to as “living a happy life.” I was not going to die. Not yet at least.

I started to frantically move my arms around like a man trying to swim. I did my best to scream out for help but this caused me to ingest a pile of leaves. I coughed, which reminded me that I still had air. Then I heard it. Distant sounds of frantic digging and muffled shouts. I got more and more excited as the sounds got closer, and closer. I did all I could to let the rescue team know exactly where I was. “Here!! Here!! Here!!” I yelled which probably sounded more like, “Hrr!! Hrr!! Hrr!!.” Then, suddenly my fate shifted. I was met with the bright blue eyes of a ten-year old angel (eyes I will never forget) who was yelling “dad, dad!! he is over!! here I found him!!!” And then, once I realized that I had survived, that I was going to have another chance to rebuild my life on planet earth I was reminded that first I was going to have to explain to many people why I drove my bike into a large pile of leaves.

 

The Girl Of My Dreams.

Lately I have been horny. More so than is normal. Out of the corner of my wondering eye I watch women when they pass. Even though I do not suffer from a guilt complex- I notice my glances can contain elements of perversion. I wonder what these women would look like naked, I store that image in my mind and wish that I could see.

When one is unemployed there is a lot of spare time for wishful thinking and perverted explorations. If I had the money I may spend my time in strip clubs or massage parlors hanging out with the real thing. In fact, recently, more of my time is spent covered in trace elements of lust rather than absorbed in active job searching efforts. Nothing pacifies the mind away from a dwindling economic and professional reality like the pursuit of sex. I am only a completely happy man when this pursuit finds me in my dreams.

Last night, after a rough take-off I flew away into a deep, alcohol induced sleep. Through the retina of my dream lense, I saw a beautiful blond girl approaching me. Her perfect body made the hair on my sleeping arms stand up. She took me by the hand and with a careless whisper said “follow me.” I allowed her to escort me off into my fantastic dream.

I followed her around in her school, through a field and a high school football game. I made myself at home on her couch. We laughed together. When she walked into the kitchen I admired her rear end with the reverie of a man who has found exactly what he has been looking for. How lucky I was- an older man no longer in his prime, being sexually pursued by this young girl who was half my age. She performed all kinds of kinky magic tricks on me, the details of which have disappeared- but my erection, that has been with me since the morning, testifies to the fact that whatever happened between us- was fun.

When I woke up this morning I hung around in bed for an hour or so. I did not want to let the blankets go. I turned away from the light so that I could keep the dream projecting on my movie screen. I tried to hold my dream down. But despite my efforts it floated further and further away until it was nothing but an outline. All morning I slumbered around nostalgic for that dream I had left behind in sleep. Where could I find it? I wondered. In the afternoon, when I went on-line, you can only imagine how startled/surprised I was to find a girl who looked very familiar, requesting to add me as a friend on Facebook.

Immediately when I saw her Facebook picture I thought that it could be the girl in my dream. They both had long blond hair, they both had a similar wan complexion, they both were around the same age and they both had that look in their eye that triggered my lust. Not knowing for certain if this was the girl in my dream- I added her as a friend simply so I could search through her profile.

Her profile page was as vague as the memories that I have from last nights dream. An empty closet with nothing but a single picture, a birth date and a name- Brittney Amber, born 1989 (the year I graduated high school). I did find one other piece of intriguing information about her. Listed alongside her interests were two words in bold print- men and dreams.

I have always suspected that our dreams occur in another dimension, another time and space, which is just as real as the waking reality that we exist in. I have often heard it said that when we fall asleep our soul ascends out from our bodies and resumes its soul life in another realm. The dream I had last night left traces in my mind and on my skin- of a reality just as corporeal and tactile as the one I am writing in now. I am almost certain that I was there. If this is the case, then that allows me to conclude one thing………Britney is the girl in my dream.

I have sent Britney a message in which I asked her how she knows me, and why she added me as a friend. I told her about my dream and asked her if she remembers being in it. I am yet to hear from her and maybe I never will if she exists in that world where souls meet (but how do they have access to Facebook there?). For hours today I have stared at Britney’s Facebook photo studying here blue eyes, arched nose and mouth, longing to once again be with her. I have imagined her naked so many times that I can feel her breasts in my hands. All day today I have had a child like quality of excitement that comes with seeing someone whom you thought was long gone. “Could this really be her?” I have been asking myself hoping that the answer is “yes.” Could it be true, that the girl of my dreams has found me on Facebook?

Dear Readers

I just wanted to write you a note to explain why I pulled the entry “Tree Hugger” off of my blog. Lately I have been noticing that some of my blog entries are being copied and pasted to other sites- upon which “the copier” claims the entries as his/her own. I do not mind this so much and even find it a bit flattering- but I would like to keep “Tree Hugger” as my own.

One of my dear readers suggested that I turn the entry into a child’s book and I think that is good idea. Why not? Just need to find someone who can draw and then I will be up and running with the idea. So I hope you understand that I need to protect “Tree Hugger” as if it was a heirloom that I could never get back….just in case I choose to move forward with the child book idea.

I am grateful for all the wonderful comments that I received. Even though they now exist in that mysterious void into which we all return- I benefited from what you had to say greatly and the comments still linger in my slumbering mind. Thank you for your continual support of the stories I need to tell…. and stay tuned in for my next blog entry which is about how I have lost my English.

P.S. If you are a reader that I know, I would be more than happy to send you a copy of “Tree Hugger.” If you are interested feel free to drop me an email at mindmirror7@gmail.com with your address.

Free Bird?

I decided to open the bird-cage and let my two yellow parakeets fly freely around the room. After spending so much time confined in their cage I thought this would be a delectable treat. I did not want to help them out- but rather gave them the autonomy to come out by their own volition. As the long time, faithful and concerned owner of these two birds- I felt as if I fulfilled my duty by opening the cage door. The rest was up to them.

After opening the door to the bird-cage, I sat back down in my comfortable chair and continued to climb the steep hill of the book I was reading. I had just read the lines, “When I see I am nothing that is wisdom. When I see I am everything that is love. My life is a movement between these two-” when one of my birds began making a clanging sound in the cage. He was yanking the lever used to open and lock the cage, in an up and down motion with his beak (he normally did this when the cage door was locked in what I assumed was an attempt to open the door and fly free). I yelled out,”the cage is already open Dali (the bird’s name) and there is no need for such obnoxious behavior. Can’t you see that you can fly free!!”

I continued to read and occasionally looked up from my book to see if the birds were making their way out of the cage. They were not. Instead, they sat on one of the synthetic branches and in a dumbfounded state they stared out into the big wide open space as if they were looking into a black hole. “There is nothing to be afraid of!!” I yelled out a little frustrated at their resistance. Neither of my birds quite new what to do with this option to fly free- so they sat there, made some chirping sounds, poked at one another and refused to spread their wings.

I could see that the birds were curious about flying free but overwhelmed by the fact that they were going to have to do it on their own. No human finger to shuttle them out of the door. After a few hours of giving them the potential to be free- frustrated, I got up from my chair and shut the bird-cage door. I must admit that I said “stupid birds,” as I locked the cage. It was then that I wondered how often I had refused to fly out of my cage when the door was left wide open? The thought pestered me. “How many times had I been presented with an opportunity to love, to dance, to travel, to sing, to work, to let go, to grow- but was too afraid to flap my wings and fly?” I said out loud. How often am I more comfortable sitting in a chair with a book than I am stepping out my front door and trying to grab a hold of the sun?

Determined to finish the book I was reading by the end of the night I sat back down and buried my thoughts beneath someone else’s words. I had the house all to myself- minus the two birds and a whining black cat. My interest in breaking for dinner was minimal, so I ignored the biological alarm clock that was sounding off in the depths of my stomach. As I climbed my way towards the book’s ending- I kept glancing out the corner of my eyes at the birds who seemed happy in their cage. They were cleaning one another, eating and playing what looked like a game of bird tag. “Two dumb birds as happy as can be, locked away in their safe cage,” I thought to myself and then I continued to climb.

The Hangover

I am suffering from a bad hangover. A very bad hangover. Not even a shower seemed to help. It feels as if I have been stuffed with bags of sand and implanted with a metallic heart. My chest hurts. I am having difficulty breathing because of a pain in my back. Walking a straight line takes effort and my gut feels like it contains the remnants of a battlefield. All last night I wrestled with sleep trying to pin it down. Instead, I kept awakening with irregular heartbeats, pulsating ears and a parched mouth. I was nauseous and had images in my head of funerals and jumping over a cliff. A pin or nail seemed to be sticking out the side of my left temple- causing me an unbearable ache . My wife, snoring away by my side, was at peace in the womb of a deep inebriated sleep. I on the other hand was struggling….paying for my night of fun.

Even though I did not drink that much last night (three margaritas and two beers) I should understand by now that if I have more than one drink- all the ills of human kind are going to shower down upon me. One would think that after years of drinking and then spending nights and days in a kind of physical hell (that over the years has decreased the strength of my body and mind)- that I would sensibly abstain from having more than one glass of booze at a time. I have tried to invoke the powers of a healthy life style. I went on long meditation retreats and once did not speak for six weeks. I entertained a yoga practice everyday and ate raw food only- but still I needed a drink. This is no ordinary relationship.

I love drinking…and booze has been in my life for as long as I can remember. When I drink I am no longer stuck in human bondage. I am set free on a terrain that looks and feels like joy. My spirit is elevated beyond the constricting weight of my body and the unbearable lightness of my being puts a smile on my face. Even though I meditate for an hour a day nothing can come close to the power of now, the absence of mind that I feel after having a glass of wine or a beer. I never get so drunk as to lose control but I drink just enough to grow a pair of wings and fly away.

Since the day I was born I have grappled with a fear and trembling that has become more chronic as I age. This anxiety risks keeping me trapped in the safety zone of my home. Heavy thoughts that swim around in my head without traffic control are the substance of my disease. I work hard to disempower my thoughts and keep them from spilling over into the life I live- but at times it feels like a daunting task. Consuming alcohol is not only medicine for my spirit but it quiets down the negative temper of my feelings of impeding doom. For a brief period, while intoxicated I can be liberated from the insurrection that my thoughts wage against my heart, daily. The price I pay for indulging in booze is nothing compared with those few hours I spend in my bliss….or so I thought.

All morning I have been filling up on supplements. In the middle of the night I drank chlorophyl and ate sprouts for nutrients that I hoped would quiet my heart. I have read about how alcohol consumption depletes the body of vital minerals and vitamins causing sleep disturbances, irregular heart beats and a slew of other frightening symptoms. I was supposed to show up for my third “Meet The Author” day but instead I have chosen to stay in. When I am done writing this entry I will return to bed where I hope to find a few hours of sleep beneath my sheets. I can not help but to pity myself a bit and wish that this was not the fate that was upon me. I wish I could drink alcohol like so many others I know who consume it every day and have deep, beautiful sleep filled with dreams and a regular heartbeat. For years I was one of these lucky few consuming alcohol, coffee, cigarettes with no tormenting health effects. Then one day everything changed. Now that I have reached a certain age the only one of those vices that I have left is my booze- but I am afraid that soon this will have to go as well……and I will be left having to deal with myself.

Last night my wife and I bought an expensive bottle of tequila to keep around the house. For guests and fun. My plan was to put some of it in a flask and keep it upon my body at all times. I would douse the anxiety or negative thoughts whenever they arose like a man putting out a fire in his own head. I also planned on drinking the tequilla liberally in small amounts every day of the week….a night cap if you will. But now I am having to come to terms with one of the most difficult truths a man can face.

My body seems to no longer be as strong as my desire. My head is still foggy and my fingers hurt. I could swear I saw blood in my stools as I spent hours sitting on the toilet last night. The taste of alcohol is still in my throat. It all seems too extreme of a price to pay for a few hours of happiness. I want to say that I am going to hop on the wagon and never drink again. That I am done with that stage of my life. I want to say that I have learned my lesson and might be getting a bit too close to the edge. But I know that this is not true. I want to be able to drink, enjoy myself and then sleep like a baby… and I am determined to find a way. Even though I am going to get on the wagon and stay on board for a few days- I know that as soon as this hangover is gone and I have had a few day of rest- I will ask the driver to let me off so that I can enjoy a bottle of wine with my wife at dinner. For now I am going back to bed.

“Meet The Author”

I have decided to take my writing career to its next logical level. After much pondering and consideration- I feel this to be an important and decisive move in the right direction. Over the years I have noticed that most successful authors have “Meet The Author” events where fans turn out to meet the author in person and possibly have the good fortune to shake a hand and/or get a book signed. Since I lack a published book, an agent and a large fan base- I have decided to launch a grass roots effort to get my name and writings out into the world. I live close to a university, so there are a lot of undergraduate and graduate students who walk past my home everyday. I often sit at my window envying their youth and purpose. I figured I have nothing to lose by setting up my coffee table in my driveway, putting out some copies of various short stories I have written, some information about my literary blog and a sign that reads “Meet The Author.” I have always believed in self-reliance. If you build it- they will come.

Yesterday was my first day sitting in the driveway- behind a “Meet The Author” sign. I wore my black suit with a black t-shirt and black converse shoes. I don’t have glasses but I realize that this prop may allow me to look more literary (so I may go to Target and buy some cheap reading glasses later today). There was little wind yesterday and the clouds abstained from covering the sun that hung diligently in the sky. I sat behind my coffee table in a fold up chair that had been rusting away in my garage. I made sure that I was outside by 8 a.m so as to catch the morning rush. Hundreds of students passed me by, many curious about what I was doing, but none stopping to meet me in person. At around eleven a.m I came in for lunch.

I spent the rest of the afternoon outside. I did not read because I wanted to look welcoming and available to whomever wanted to meet me. Instead, I watched the birds hop from tree to tree and the squirrels hobble across the sprouting grass. I watched feral cats walk around in the suburban park that sits across the street from my house. All these perplexed creatures seemed to look at me with the same curiosity of the students. “What the hell is he doing?” they wondered as they tried to make sense of a man dressed in a black suit spending his day sitting in a driveway. I noticed the way the animals looked at me was different from the glances of humans. There was something considerate and compassionate in the animal stares. It was as if they were not only confused but also taking pity on an author that no one seemed to want to meet.

When my wife returned home from work at around three I had to move the coffee table so that she could get her car into the garage. After I explained to her what I was doing all she could do was laugh, turn around and walk inside. I heard her shout “what time do you want to eat dinner!” but I did not respond since I was in the middle of an important event. I placed the coffee table back in its original spot and continued to sit and wait. The light of day was slowly fading so that I could no longer see clearly the various animals in the park. The trees started to become vague outlines of themselves. Hundreds of students again passed me on their way back to where they had come from. Back to a life of studying, possibilities, ambitions, opportunities and microwaved dinners. Several students looked at me but again, no one stopped to meet the author. I was feeling a bit disillusioned and could swear I heard a female voice yell from a distance what sounded like the word “fool.”

Then, as night was almost finished coloring everything in with black and gray crayons- a medium-sized Asian man made his way up to my coffee table. He looked like he might be a graduate student since he was wearing glasses and had a few books under his arm. I was getting ready to pack everything up when he said to me in a kind of broken English “You are the author?” I turned towards him and for the first time that day I said, “Yes, I am.” “I love America Writers….you guys so funny and sad, kinda tragic,” he said. I thought of Fitzgerald, Hemingway and Faulkner. “My name is Randall Sokoloff and these are some things I have written,” I said pointing to the copies of my short stories on the table. He looked at them like he was investigating cellular activity through a microscope. Then he looked up at me and repeating one of the titles of my short stories, “The Man Who Swallowed His Wedding Ring, that is so silly,” and then he laughed and I laughed with him. “I take this one,” he said and I told him that he was welcome to take more than one. “Give some stories to your friends and tell them that they can come meet me in person this week!” Then he asked me the question that I had been waiting for all day, “would you mine signing story for me?” which I did with a hint of pride that I had not felt in a long time. We shook hands and he walked away with my short stories under hims arm. I immediately turned my head to see if my wife was looking out the window and had witnessed my victory. She was not there but my cat, who sat on the window ledge, had seen it all.

I will continue to sit out on my driveway at least until Saturday. Even if I only meet one person a day that is good enough for me. A journey of a thousand miles starts with one step. My hope is that next year or by the time I turn forty-two I will actually have a novel published that I will be able to present to passers-by. For now the copied versions of my short stories and information about my blog will have to do. If you care to come and meet the author in person, I am on the corner of Oak and 14th. I will be sitting in my driveway from 8 a.m. until dark at least until Saturday. Just look for the park across the street, the animals perched in the trees, the man in an rusting folding chair wearing an all black suit and/or the sign that in large black ink says “Meet The Author.”

Even Black Cats Get Depresssed

My cat buries himself beneath the blankets on my bed. He stays there all day- dormant as a doormat. He is an older cat whose biological clock is ticking past fifteen years. As a result of lingering old age he his prone to spasms of senility and immobility but normally he is erect and jumping over fences.

I wonder if it is because of the wind today? Or maybe it is the changing seasons that are bringing him down? My cat is a black cat- could it be that he is feeling the negative stereotypes of evil and superstition that are attributed to black cats at this time of year? Whatever the reasons may be, my cat is depressed. As a concerned animal owner I have decided to leave him alone until Halloween, the wind or the changing seasons end. If at that time he is no better and still withdrawing beneath the blankets of my bed- I will call a Therapist.

Hiding From The Wind

The wind is blowing outside my window. It is maniacal and insistent. If I did not know better I would think that the wind was trying to break into my house. On windy days- I do not go outside. I hide in the catacombs of my imagination or between the pages of a book. Ever since I was young I have suffered from strange, unsettling phobias. My first phobia was of my father’s toes, my second phobia was of nipples and my newest phobia is of the wind.

I am afraid that I will be swept away by the wind, deposited in the sea, and then eaten by a giant whale or that the wind is going to get inside me and blow me up. I know these are irrational fears, and even more irrational in the mind of an adult. Rationality is supposed to set in by middle age but for me it seems to of turned away. My phobias remind me that a child is alive and well in my chest, a child who is just as afraid of the outside world as I was when young.

I have always felt hallow and thin. Often times when I walk I have the feeling that my feet are not quite touching the ground. I have fallen to the ground because of a sneeze. Walking in the rain often makes me feel as if I am carrying around a heavy weight on my head. As I let go of more and more of my pride and ego and allow myself to be humbled out- the more I feel at risk of simply blowing away.

On windy days, I shut windows and cover my head so that not even a slight breeze can enter my ears. There is something homunculus about the sound of wind that frightens me. Reminds me of a cresting wave, or a falling sky that I am to small to defend myself against. I am better off sitting in silent meditation- visualizing my self as a metal weight or a twenty ton stone- impossible to budge.

How Facebook Saved My Life

I used to be a very solitary man. I envied authors like J.D. Salinger and Thomas Pynchon for their anonymity. “The Invisible Man,” by Ralph Ellison was my favorite novel because no one else was able to see the main protagonist. The French Philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre’s dictum, “hell is other people,” rationalized my isolation and made me feel good about not having any friends. I spent my time on my own. I went to movies alone, dinner alone and spent the majority of my nights either walking the dark, windy and lonely streets of San Francisco or sitting in my small apartment, alone, drawing pictures with my mind while floating through the pages of a book.

For as long as I can remember I was alone. I disliked school because it forced me to be around other people. I played tennis and jogged because it allowed me to not have to be a member of a team. After school I rode my bike around and around the lonely cul-de-sac until the sunset. I talked to myself in mirrors like I was having an in depth conversation with someone else. When my mother would ask me how my day was I would always reply the same laconic way, “fine.” I went to my room, did my homework, listened to music and only came out when tempted by the smell of food. When my father took me on a rafting trip and we passed an older man sitting outside a log cabin in the middle of the woods, I asked my father “what is that?” My father responded in an uninterested tone, “That is a hermit son.” Much to my fathers consternation- I replied, “that is what I want to be when I grow up.”

Solitude does not suit an older man. As I was getting closer to the age of forty I had been feeling the weight of my solitude like a potential crucifixion or a head cold that would never go away. In the back of my mind lingered the awareness that I was living in a bubble without any community and something felt oddly wrong about this. For years and years I had existed in a spiritually satisfying solitude that never caused me to feel defective or psychologically unstable, but know as my biological clock was nearing the midway point of my life- being alone just felt wrong.

My wife (who does not read my writings, so I do not have to worry about her reading about me telling you that even though I had been married for a few years I still felt alone. My wife is very independent and engaged in her work, which was one of the qualities that initially attracted me to her, because I knew I would get a lot of alone time. I just never realized how much) suggested that I join Facebook. My first reaction was similar to the reaction I had when as a child my mother offered me an avocado or when my dad took me to visit his dying friend and the dying friend reached out his jaundiced arm to offer me a date. I was repulsed and wanted to have nothing to do with such dehumanizing social platforms. But my dreaded feeling of isolation continued to persist and I became desperate enough to try just about anything.

I joined Facebook with the caution of a cat taking food from a stranger. I did not jump right in but rather smelled things out and licked the edges. I took my time going on-line and submitting friend request and investigating profiles. I still spent my days and nights alone and considered a social gathering to consist of me wondering the streets of San Francisco alone at night and maybe stopping in at a few seedy bars. Facebook was a new level of social engagement for me. I wanted to make sure I did not expose myself too quick.

My wife continuously sent me suggestions for new friends. Everyday when I would go on-line there would be one or two new friends that my wife thought I should have. I was fascinated by the concept of adding a friend. All my life I had never really trusted friends.  Newton’s third law that states- that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction summarized the story of my friendships. Every friend I had ever had seemed to require a great amount of challenge and heartache. Making friends was a tumultuous effort and keeping them was even harder. Now, with Facebook all I had to do was request to add a friend and wait to see if my request was granted. I did not have to see them or talk to them. There was something liberating about this new form of friendship that drew me in. It seemed so easy to make and keep friends. Possibly Facebook could offer me the same appeal that I found in my wife- the ability to have a good relationship but still remain alone.

Looking back on the period of my life right before I joined Facebook, I realize that I was in a dark space. I have matured enough as a human being to be able to look at my past self and be truthful about what I see, even if I do not like it. I was on the verge of death. The word suicide was circulating through my mind at an illegal speed and the only thing that kept me from drinking Draino or climbing up a tall redwood tree and then jumping was that I lacked the courage to take my own life. My depression was affecting my health and I was drinking enough booze to keep reality far far away. I was a sinking ship inside and the notion that my solitude was the cause of all this was as distant from me as a falling star.

Facebook took a desperate man and made him a member of a community. It has allowed me to have more than one hundred friends (which, is more friends than I have had in my entire life) without suffering the tormenting symptoms of social anxiety that I normally suffer around people. My friendships are as easy to maintain as leaving a few status updates a day and commenting on a few of the status updates of my friends. Where once I dreaded getting out of bed in the morning now I look forward to joining my Facebook community. I get my yoghurt with nuts in it and pour myself a glass of apple juice. I then sit down at my computer and review Facebook in the same way that my father would read the newspaper in the mornings many years ago. I leave a status update first thing in the morning that I make sure makes me feel moderately good about myself  (even if it is untrue) and I then look forward to the comments I will receive later on in the day. Finally I feel apart of something greater than myself. Finally I feel alive.

I have connected with old friends that I have never thought I would talk to again. I have improved my communication with my wife by reading her status updates and leaving a comment while she does the same for me. The sense of dread that followed me around like a feeling of impending doom is gone. I laugh more and am more aware of what goes on in what used to be a narrow world. My friends are not a burden to me since it takes little effort to keep them in my life. It is safe to say that I have outgrown the dictum that “hell is other people” and replaced it with the knowledge that,” happiness is only real if it is shared.” I can safely say that I have grown into a happier man now that I know Facebook saved my life.

The Last Reader On Earth

“I know of no other advice than this: Go within and scale the depths of your being from which your very life springs forth.” -Rilke

For Richard Brautigan

1. Discovering A Lost Artifact

It’s a beautiful thing that he still reads. It is not often that I meet a person who is doing something no one else does. Sometimes, I think we have all become like ants marching in a rigid line. The word hope rambles into my mind when I meet someone radically different. I was less surprised to meet the old lady who grows flowers by candlelight in her hotel room than I was to meet Randall. I thought that readers were extinct until I had the pleasure of stumbling upon him in a park. I remember my legs being heavy like lead when I walked towards him with the hesitancy of a cat.

“Excuse me sir, but what are you doing,” I asked not sure if I was seeing something that was not there.

Randall looked up from his book and with a smile that indicated he was not disturbed by my question replied, “Sir? You are a curious young man…… I am doing something no man dares do before. I am reading………………………………….”

Sun got in the way of the final words coming from his mouth so I can’t write all of what it was he said. “Unbelievable,” is how I impulsively respond in a complete state of disbelief. I had never seen anyone reading before and I was shocked when Randall invited me to sit next to him.

“Have a seat next to me and stop staring like you just discovered a lost artifact,” Randall said.

2. Out Of Work

“My name is Randall, Randall Sokoloff,” he said to me with an out stretched hand that was looking to pull me in.

He was not wearing a shirt and the mid afternoon sun was showering down upon us. The grass was brown, tough and felt like a hairbrush under my legs. Ducks waddled around begging for spare crumbs. Geese floated gracefully through the lake alongside discarded beer cans. I introduced myself as Gio and shook Randall’s hand with a faintness that comes with not believing something you are seeing.

“I like coming to this park and reading,” Randall said just as casually as if he was talking about the blue sky.

Every man I knew was at work at this hour and the only reason I was free to be walking around, mid afternoon, in the park was because I had three hours off for sick leave.

“Wow,’ was the only interjection I could come up with to give meaning to the mystery my mind was trying to solve.

“You from around here?” Randall asked while rolling onto his side and arching his head with the help of his elbow and hand.

I told him that I did not live to far away.

“What are you doing off in the afternoon?” he asked.

I told him about the spell of vertigo that I had been suffering from for years and how it had gotten real bad at work because of the computer screens that swallow our eyes alive.

“Work now-a-days will keep you until you are on your death bed. You’re fortunate that you have an employer that gave you a break,” Randall said.

I could not help but wonder how it was that he had the afternoon off. When I was about to ask, Randall said, “I like to read to the ducks and anyone who will listen. Most people are terrified when I ask if they want to listen to me read but would you like me to read to you?”

3. The Story That Changed My Life

I felt like there was belt being tied tight around my throat and had trouble getting saliva down my drain- but I was curious.  A few deep breaths were what I needed to calm down. Something deep inside of me refused to let this opportunity go. I wanted to see something that I had never witnessed before in my life, a grown man reading from a book.

“Get comfortable. You ready to begin?” Randall asked.

I shook my head with trepidation just like I did the first time I agreed to board an airplane that would shoot me up into the heavens. Lying back down on his back and holding the book up towards the mid afternoon sky, Randall began to read:

It was after seven o’clock when he left the office, preceded by Lorenzo Daza. There was a full moon. The patio, idealized by anisette, floated at the bottom of an aquarium, and the cages covered with cloths looked like ghosts sleeping under the hot scent of new orange blossoms… … ….. ……… …….. ………… ……… .. …….. .. ………….. …. ………………….. …. ….. ………….. ……. …. …….. …. ………… …….. …………. ………… …….. ……… ….. …. ……….. ……. ……… ….. ………. ……. ……. …………. ….. … …. …. …… ……. ….. .. .. ……… …. ……… .. … …. …. …. …… ……….. ….. …. ………………. .. … …. ….. …… ………

He read on and on and on and on into the afternoon. I listened to this new language like a child who licks his first lollipop. I remember my tongue hanging out of place, arched against the roof of my mouth as I felt each word rub up and down my spine.  When Randall finished he told me that the story was made up by someone who’s name I can not remember but the title I will never forget, Love In A Time Of Cholera. The sensuality of the story, the degree to which the words inspired my eyes to open up wide was like seeing a rainbow for the first time. Even though I still do not understand what literature means, I held my breath and do not remember breathing again until Randall said, “this book is one of the greatest works of literature, ever.”

4. Twist My Arm

The sun was beginning to play hide and seek when Randall asked me if I wanted to come back to his place and rest my head in his book collection. Book collection!!! I shouted silently within myself. I felt like someone suddenly dropped a heavy object inside my mind. My stomach was standing at the edge of a cliff and nerves were trying to push it over. I could not believe that a person still had a book collection. For a moment I contemplated the trouble that I could get into if I said yes. I still had an hour or so until I needed to present my body back at work. I never before had seen books standing together in one place- let alone rest my head in one.

“Don’t worry, nothing will happen to you, I will just show you my books. I promise they will not bite.” I could tell that I would be safe with Randall- no matter how strange he seemed to me. He wanted me to see something he intuitively knew I had never seen before in my 31 years of life. My arm was twisted by fate- I decided to go.

5. Falling In Love With Words

Randall lived only a half a mile from the lake.  He was much taller than I thought and it seemed like he got taller with every step. He walked with a casual gentlemanly grace that I had only seen before in magazines. As we walked Randall made no effort to hide his book from any public person that may pass bye. He could tell that this rattled my nerves.

“Carrying a book is not a crime,” Randall said in response to the way I chewed on my fingernails.

“I know it is not a crime, but no one does it. It is really unusual behavior,” I said.

“So because no one does something, this is good enough reason not to do it?” Randall responded .

I have always believed that silence is the best ingredient when you are not sure what to say. The wind wrapped itself around us like cellophane and I did not quite feel as if I was walking on solid ground when I asked Randall the one question that I could not lift off my mind.

“Why do you still read?” I asked.

Randall laughed a bit as if he himself did not know. We turned a corner that had a sign that read Law Punishable by Public Drunkenness. Randall seemed to be using up too many brain cells before he responded to my question.

” I never had the intention to be a reader. No one in my family for generations had ever read. Then one day I found a page with some strange literary words on it.” He stopped and my ears swelled, eager to hear.

Then he continued, “I re-read and re-read and re-read that page until I became a man in love with words on a page. These words built a paradise in the depths of my being. I started finding words in the strangest of places, collecting them like love affairs, striving to get them all together in one place.”

6. The Book Collection

Randall’s apartment rests upon a sloping lot that runs all the way along a deserted block. The street is covered with overgrown grass and bushes and flowers and wine bottles and discarded boxes. We walked up some old cement stairs to the second floor where his apartment sat in a darkened corner of a snake like complex. When he unlocked his front door I felt a wave of hesitation rub up against my arm.

“After you,” Randall said.

The apartment was dark. The shades were all drawn, keeping the light of day away from the books. Randall was afraid the light could cause the words to fade away, I later learned. As Randall slightly opened a few plastic blinds, what was revealed to me through a shard of light sneaking its way into the darkness, would forever change my life.

At first I thought I would loose control of my arms and feet. When Randall asked me if I wanted coffee or wine his words brought me back to earth. I was standing dead center in a temple of books and was convinced that I had fallen through a Rabbit hole. Every wall was covered with living books- as living as my palpitating heart. It looked as if the walls were made out of books.

“Feel free to walk around,” Randall said as he went to pour us both a glass of wine.

I had never had a sip of alcohol during the day but I was held hostage by a shock that I needed alcohol to defuse. I was running low on free time and I knew that whatever I was to see, touch and/or hear- it had to happen quickly. I began rubbing my sweaty palms up and down the book spines just like I was petting a dog. Names and titles that I never heard of before jumped out at me and lit up my brain like a cigarette. I will never forget certain phrases like: Grapes Of Wrath, Sun Also Rises, The Magic Mountain and Trout Fishing In America.

I have never seen words like this gathered together,” I said in disbelief as Randall handed me a glass of red wine, sat down on the floor and handed me a book.

7. Resting My Head In The Pages Of A Book

“I don’t mind if you just open to any page and plop your head right down,” Randall said as he took a gulp of his wine.  “Go ahead, do it if you want.”

I read what was on the cover of the book. It said Tropic Of Cancer, by Henry Miller. I took a big sip of wine and a deep breath both at the same time and like I was squeezing between a woman’s legs I slowly made my way in.

“When I hold the words up closely to my head a feeling of awe and freedom is released in my soul. The smell is akin to enlightenment or drunkenness. This is why it is so tragic that no one reads any more,” Randall said as I inhaled the scent of language.

“Why?” I asked without taking my head out from the book.

“No one knows anymore what it is like to be truly free. To be alone with words on a page and smell them as they linger up into your brain. This gives definition to the life of mankind…that I am afraid has become an empty space,” he said with a passion that might of belonged to the red wine.

I did not really understand what he was talking about and maybe this is why I asked Randall, what I realize now, might of sounded fairly dumb.

“Why is it that anyone would want to be free?” I asked.

Randall giggled a little took a cup sized gulp of his wine and said, “You have to get back to work.”

8. Pulling Out

It took effort to pull my head out from the book. The pages smelled like ink and sex and I could swear I heard people screaming in French inside. Before I left, Randall pulled a particular book off of the shelf and handed it to me.

“Here take this,” Randall said as he reached out towards me.

I was hesitant. What if I lost the book or it ran away?

“Don’t worry I have so many books in storage that one less book will not even make a dent. I would rather you have it than it spend its days in darkness. When you are done come back and I will give you another,” he said pouring himself another glass of wine.

My hands felt like jelly. It was like touching God or breasts- something I had always thought I would never see. I did not know how to read literature and when I told Randall this he said “no worries, I did not either my first time. Just keep your head in between the pages. The book will teach you how.”

I read the hard cover. On The Road, by someone by the name of Jack Kerouac.

“It is a book that forever changed my life,” Randall said.

The book felt like it had blood running through it. I stuck it deep down into my bag, just to make certain that it would not leave a trail. I promised Randall that I would read it. Try at least. He showed me to the door and I remember not wanting to leave.

“The park where you met me today is good place to read,” Randall said. “No one would suspect that somebody would be reading a book there.”

I promised that I would return when I was done with the book. When I thanked him for the wine and book, my nervous words barely made it past my teeth. Randall smiled and opened the door for me. With a smile he said, “the pleasure is all mine Gio…it gets lonely being the last reader on earth.”

Midnight Shower Man

I like to take showers around midnight. The feeling of being naked and free before sleep calms my mind.  There is a sense of tranquility that is communicated to me through the act of taking a hot shower. I have often thought of showering around midnight as a kind relaxing prayer- a ritual that encourages the transmigration of my soul. It is a time to reflect upon all that has gone on during the course of the day and all I can do differently tomorrow. Every person must have a sanctuary that makes him or her feel like an actor on a stage- the shower happens to be mine.

However wonderful and enlightened all of this may sound to you- I can not claim that it is the real reason why I like to take showers around midnight. Instead, I like to shower at this hour simply because of one simple and routine object, a window. The window is a small square domestic window that sits about head level with me when I take a shower. However, this window is not any ordinary window to me. Instead, the window is my curtain and the shower is my stage. During the day I have to shower with the window closed because it looks out onto a busy street filled with pedestrians and noise. It is only at around midnight when the audience quiets down that I can open my curtain and be exposed to the world.

The street outside my bathroom window is a typical suburban street. Clean sidewalks, a maintained bus stop, freshly mowed lawns and a few signs that read “Please Do Not Let Your Dog Poop On This Lawn.” After midnight the street is somnolent and calm- not a sign in the air that a single person is out of bed. I like to rest my head on the window ledge and watch the tranquil world outside while the warm water rushes over me. “To be or not to be: that is the question. Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or take arms against a sea of troubles,” I recite out loud as I observe the stars in the sky, the colors of the various porch lights, the wind gently pushing along fallen leaves and the occasional passing car.

Yesterday, I got my big break. I was working in my front yard pulling weeds and planting when I suddenly felt a tap on my back (being unemployed has freed up a lot of time for me to do trivial domestic chores. I cannot afford to go out into the world so I entertain myself by planting flowers, sweeping the driveway, cleaning the house and watering the lawn). Standing before me was a girl in her early twenties. She wore running shorts that revealed her long legs and a tight tank top that exposed a good chunk of her breasts. She was sweating like she was in the middle of a run. On her tanned face sat a smile that made me feel slightly at ease when she asked me for my real name. For a brief moment I felt that magical feeling like I was living in a scene from a movie where an older man is out working in the fields, shirtless and lifts his sweaty and sun-baked head only to notice a beautiful young lady standing before him (on tip toes), eager to throw herself upon him. Unlike the movies- she did not throw herself upon me and I was a bit hesitant in my insecure response. I took a deep breath and said, “Why do you want to know?” She looked deep into my eyes and replied, “I am doing you a favor mister. If you do not tell me your real name everyone is going to keep on calling you the midnight shower man.”

I was shocked. No, humiliated would be more like it. I was exposed. Deep down I knew that I had gotten exactly what I wanted (a cute woman watching me while I performed), but I was surprised by how embarrassed I felt. I made up a fake name because I was worried that this information could get back to my wife. I tried to play the you got the wrong guy routine for a while but my bluff was already called. She told me that she knew my face like the cover of her favorite book because night after night her friends and her watched me standing there in the shower staring up into the stars while talking to myself. She tried to reassure me that her and her friends all thought I was very romantic and cute……… and that she was my biggest fan.

I have no plans to stop taking my midnight showers. Nor am I going to close my window now that I know that there are eyes out there in the darkness watching me. Instead, I will give them exactly what they want- a naked man, a naked romantic man taking a shower and reciting lines from Hamlet. This may seem like no big thing to you- but being unemployed and living in a small town where I do not know a single soul, has made me yearn for an ounce of fame. Even though I know the academy will never acknowledge this role- I am determined to play it out the best I can. Now when I shower I am sure to look good. I comb my hair and sometimes do pushups before, in order to make my muscles look more defined. I am aware of the angle that I use when resting my head on the window ledge so that I will look just right under the moonlight. Now, somewhere out there in the darkness I have an audience to whom I must perform. It is not the biggest role that a man can play, this is for sure- but I am a man who is broke and out of work and “Midnight Shower Man” at least has a few adoring fans. This is good enough for me.

Island Fever

1.

There is a small lake not too far from where I used to live. I often went to this lake, sat upon a bench beside the waterline and watched the afternoons float by. I would read from the collected works of Thoreau or observe the landscape, which was filled with birds, dogs, joggers, cyclists, strollers and lovers. My sitting became a kind of meditation, where I was able to distance myself from the bothersome thoughts that chronically invaded my mind through out the day. Over time, I became an ornament upon that bench. I spent every afternoon there. My present life was stuck in a quagmire, my future life uncertain and the only thing that made any sense to me was sitting on that bench and watching the world unfold.

One afternoon, for some unknown reason, I began to pay more attention to an island that sat in the middle of the lake. It was almost as if, on that particular day, the island had suddenly decided to float right before my eyes. I had never noticed the island before and still swear that it was not there before that afternoon. However, I have always been a man who is open to the miraculous possibilities in life, so I immediately started to observe the trees and tall grasses that grew all along the island shore. I watched the ducks and geese happily congregate on the summit of a small dirt hill. The island was the size of a tennis court or a lap pool and it was covered in blooming lilies and flowering wisteria trees that I assumed someone had planted there. Why I suddenly became preoccupied with this island I will never know and where the idea came from that it was upon that island that I needed to be- I do not pretend to  understand.

After much examination I concluded that it would not be difficult to make it over to the island shore. The only life swimming around in the small lake was a family of brown ducks and a dozen or so geese that stuck together like a tightly knit team. From what I could see, there were no large fish or predatorial creatures living deep within. The water appeared to be knee deep and maintained a continuous dynamic spirality in the way that is flowed. The only risk was communicated to me through rusting signs (that I had never noticed before) that read “SWIMMING IN THE LAKE IS FORBIDDEN TO THE GENERAL PUBLIC AND PUNISHABLE BY FINE.” For the past few months I had been spending so much time alone and isolated from the world that I no longer felt like the title “GENERAL PUBLIC” applied to me. I was different and estranged. I existed in some sort of foggy limbo in between “GENERAL” and “PUBLIC” that was hard to define. With an unquenchable desire to make it to those solitary island shores, one sunny September afternoon I put on my bathing suit, ignored the warnings and decided to wade my way across the lake.

The ducks did not mind my presence in the water. Neither did the wind, the sky, the muddy lake floor, the algae or the afternoon sun. I felt like a long lost member of the natural world who was gracefully being allowed to pass on through. At a certain point the water became so deep that I had to breaststroke my way across. Once I made it to land I suddenly felt like a man who had just been set free. There was an impulse in me to shout out loud- but I controlled my celebratory whim. I had finally left behind the mechanical, political, business, Disney world that I felt so detached from. I was now on another shore, where steel and concrete did not exist and the industrial revolution was yet to hit. The few geese that were perched up on the dirt hill quickly flew away as soon as they saw a human being. I smiled into the afternoon sky and thought about how I was now free to indulge in the primordial grandeur of the universe that was all around me.

I found a soft spot on top of the dirt hill upon which to sit. Nestled in between tall grasses, weeds and blooming lilies- I sat stoically composed in the lotus position. In that same spot I passed magical afternoon, upon magical afternoon in nothing but a bathing suit. I left the island only after the sun had set and the water had begun to grow cold. My wife was curious about what I was doing all day. My skin had become tanned and my hair bleached by the sun, but I kept my adventures all to myself and told her I was out looking for a job. Upon my boat made out of earth that was drifting through time- I watched the birds fly, the ducks quack, the flowers unfurl, the trees shimmer, the turbulent structure of clouds, and the sun slowly set. I felt the joy of a man who was living in the moment- navigating his way through distant seas far away from the declining human world. Day upon day I experienced feelings that gave my life a meaning and purpose that previously was not there. I was no longer looking at nature. Now I was finally living with her. The song of crickets, the fissures around the tree bark, the fossilized rocks, the inherent patterns in the plants all became apart of me.

2.

Summer came to an end and it was time for me to expend more energy in my search for a job. My savings was not immune to the ravages of time and I had worldly responsibilities that needed to be attended to- but I still found the time to sneak away to the lake. When no one was looking I would strip down into my bathing suit and breaststroke my way through the frigid water. Once on the island I would perch my shivering body upon the small hill of dirt that seemed to me to be frozen in time. I watched the last wrinkles of summer unfurl, break apart and get ironed out into the slumber of fall. I watched as the fall turned into ice-cold raindrops that left imprints in the sand. Everything on the island was influenced by the wind, rain and cold and as I sat there, still and silent upon my hump- I studied the ducks wading in the water and the many formations and patterns that were composed as the seasons changed. It was as if each event in the natural world was a poem, a painting, a drama and a celebration that was helping me to see something that was buried very deep down in my soul.

3.

In the depths of winter my island of sanity grew a bit confused. I was no longer experiencing the same peace and purpose that I had felt for so many months before. I noticed that as I interacted with the natural world I was growing impatient with what I saw. My frustration turned into accusations and before I knew it I was yelling at the ducks, messing up the natural patterns that I observed in the dirt and making fun of the annoying geese that seemed to me to be suffering from indecision. When I would be sitting in my office searching for a job I felt resistance when it was time to return to the island. Like a man who is putting off going for a run- I would often skip days. When I pushed myself to make it to the island I would be perched upon the dirt hill as restless as someone who had been contained for too long. I felt like a castaway miles from the shore. My attention would not remain focused on the things I saw or the sounds and smells that at one time were such a delight for me. Instead, I was upset by this nagging feeling that there was some place else that I was supposed to be, that there was this big world out there that I was not getting to see. Little did I know then that I was suffering from what psychologists often refer to as island fever. As the seasonal cycle ran its full course and summer returned, I realized that I was no longer comfortable hiding out, far away, on another shore.

It is ironic to me that on the day I decided would be my final day on the island- I was discovered by a park ranger. He was walking by as I was taking one final walk around the island shore. I was saying goodbye and trying to inscribe various patterns and plants that I had come to love into my memory bank. Upon hearing his yell I bent over and tried to hide behind a bush- but it was too late. “Hey you! What the hell are you doing over there?” I looked up and said “who me?” as if he was talking to someone else that could have been hanging out on that uninhabited island. Since I had already planned upon leaving for good that day I felt no need to put up a fight when he demanded “you are in violation of the law and need to get over here now!” I knew that it was my time, time to return for good to the human world of rules, recessions, battles, mechanization, injustice, toxicity and regulations- for good. However, now I was returning to the world with the knowledge that it was time for me to take responsibility for not only my life but also the life of everything else around me- even the park ranger.  I knew that somehow I was a part of the whole and not just an isolated part. I knew then that I would end up radically changing my life as a result of the impressions and realizations that island life had given me- but at that moment in time how I was going to do so was a mystery. With this deep insight in the front of my mind- I smiled, waved at the park ranger, put my foot into the lukewarm water and began swimming back to shore.

Ants In My Pants

1.

Outside my home, life is passing by. There are students on bikes with heavy backpacks filled with books. There are buses filled with pedestrians and cars filed with five-day-work-week commuters. Trucks, vans, government vehicles are all making their way through the intersection of life, that sits just outside my door. Inside my home, there are ants. Billions of ants that cannot be defeated no matter how hard I try. There are ants in the cupboard board, ants in the stove, ants in the bathtub, ants in the couch, ants in the bed and ants in my pants.

I have always been adamantly averse to killing any living thing. I preached to others the virtues of sparing a life- even if it was only a moth, mosquito, fly or spider. I have often heard myself compared to the Jains, who are members of an ancient Indian religion that prescribes a path of non-violence for all forms of living beings in this world. Whether you want to call it your karma or your luck I believed that if you took another living creatures life it would eventually reflect back upon your life in a negative way. Besides, I felt better when I let a fly, spider, mosquito or moth go free. I had the power to take its life but instead I made a more noble choice to let it be. Somehow this made me feel like I would be rewarded by the Gods who would appreciate me for all the lives that I had saved. Instead, what I have received for my virtuous acts is a home infested with little black ants.

I have been killing ants with the fervor of a Nazi. I have become convinced that all ants must die because they are polluting the sanctity of my home.  Not only is it unhygienic to live in a home with billions of black ants but it is also one of the most frustrating annoyances to constantly find then running across your arms and legs, through your hair and sometimes into your eyes and mouth. I find ants in my food and between my toes. They have made their way into my books, into my pillows and onto my toothbrushes- they are polluting my entire life, so I had no choice but to induce a full-blown fight.

I spend hours a day waging war against these annoying creatures. The ones that I can see with my naked eye are only a half of the entire gang that is infesting my home. They lodge in the ceiling and underneath the house- but it is my hope that by killing all the ants that I can see I will send a loud message to the other ants that are below ground and in the roof of my house that I am not fucking around.  I have spent over a hundred dollars on non-toxic ant spray, which I use excessively. I spray it like a hose, all through out the day, wherever I see ants congregating together. I whack them with brooms, flood them out with water, wipe them up with wet rags and have even thrown burning paper on a few. I like to watch them suffer, and when I am done with what can only be compared to waging genocide- I like to walk around and look at the piles and piles of dead ants. I know that this is a war that cannot be won- but at least I can do my part to get some sweet revenge.

2.

This morning I had a job interview. I put on one of my favorite suits and made sure that I looked just right. I shaved, put gel in my hair (something I never do) and I must say that when I looked in the mirror I did not look like a man that was living with billions of ants. I looked affluent, in an educated kind of way. I looked like I had a bank account filled with money and expensive food in my tummy. Instead I was going to a low level interview as a copy editor for a company that I had never heard of. I probably did not need to get as dressed up as I was, but since my bank account is empty- I was desperate to make a good impression. I met with a group of corporate looking people who call themselves “the board.” They put me in a single chair in front of their elongated table, behind which they all sat staring at me. They asked me a series of ridiculous questions like “why do I feel like I am the best candidate for the job?” and “what about my editing abilities makes me an effective copy editor?” I certainly did not reveal to them that I am dyslexic and have a terrible time spelling correctly but I did talk at length about my love for reading and my years of experience working as a writer and a high school English teacher.

Everything was going well until what felt like small, brief pinching sensations in my crouch began making me feel very uncomfortable. I had been noticing all morning that I was itching myself more than normal but I just assumed that was because of the starched suit I was wearing. I crossed and uncrossed my legs trying to nullify the slight pain that was starting to make its way down my legs. While I tried to maintain my composure and talk about why I thought I was the best candidate for the job- the pinching sensation intensified. It felt like I was being bitten in the strangest way. The sensation proceeded to very slowly move all the way down to the bottom of my legs and when I looked down at my shoes I could not believe what I saw, ants! My heart raced, I twitched, scratched and began to sweat. I cannot imagine what “the board” must of thought of me- but I tried to appear as confident as I could. I am hoping that they assumed that it was nervousness that caused me to twist and turn in such strange ways.

When the interview had ended, I shook all their hands and walked as quickly as I could to the bathroom, where I proceeded to take off my pants, shirt, socks, tie and shoes. I stripped down into my underwear in a bathroom stall and with tissues I wiped off the dozens of ants that were on my pants, legs, and socks and inside my shoes. I cursed the little creatures to hell before I squashed them and I even shed a few tears out of frustration rather than sorrow. “Why me?” I muttered to myself, but abstained from saying it out loud. When the bathroom was vacant I went out to use the sink and ran soapy water all over my legs, feet and chest. After what felt like hours of sanitation- I got dressed and returned home. In my car I still felt itchy all over my legs, which I prayed not to be more ants. I looked down on the floor of my car and found dozens of ants there to.

It was at this point that I decided I had lost. I threw my hands up in the air and declared “surrender” out loud. The war could not be won. The more ants that I killed the more that they multiplied. Karma had fucked me and there was nothing that could be done. I had to drive home resigned to the fact that there were ants crawling all over my legs and there was nothing I could do about it. The sensation drove me mad but all I could do was drive and breathe. For months I have been trying to avoid calling an extermination company into my home but I have decided that it is the only thing that can be done to bring my wife and I some relief. When I arrived home I took off my suit and stripped down into the nude. I noticed dozens of ants crawling around on my legs and between my toes, on the bedroom floor and when I got into the shower there were more. Under the hot water I washed away whatever sins and ants were left upon my burning body. I rinsed myself down with patchouli soap and watched the ants helplessly get funneled down the drain. The phone rang and I did not care. I heard the message on my answering machine, which was turned up much to loud. “Hello, this is Wendy from the board whom you just interviewed with. Someone found socks and a tie in our bathroom and I am almost certain that they belong to you. If these are indeed yours could you please contact me as soon as possible, I will hold them for you just in case. Thank you.”

Experienced Nanny For Hire

I have been running out of money. The way I spend it does not allow much time for money to stick around. I have been trying to be frugal- eating meals at home, quit drinking booze to save money, going to a library to get my books rather than a bookstore and riding my bike or walking so as not to spend money on gas. But still my money dissipates. I have no incoming source of money and this is what makes me nervous. Every time I write a check or swipe my debit card I know that I am chipping away from a rare marble that cannot be replaced. One day soon, there will be nothing left. The anxiety of this situation hospitalized me with ulceration in my intestine a week ago. The pain was almost as immense as having very little money. When I was released the Doctor told me that I had many issues that needed to be worked out, one of them being that I had to find a job.

The stress of being unemployed can drive a man like me to do crazy things. The stress can paralyze me and cause me to spend an entire day lounging around in a hammock or walking the suburban streets in a daze. The stress can also do the opposite and cause me to apply for a job as a Nanny. I have figured that I have one more month, give or take, until I run flat out of cash. How I am going to come across more money is a mystery to me. I have been known to run to the end of a rainbow just to make sure that there is not a pot of gold sitting there. I have also been known to apply for strange and demeaning jobs that most people think someone like me is much to educated and accomplished to get. Desperation is a motivating force that can drive a person to do things that they never saw themselves fit to do. When I saw the add in the paper for the “Experienced Nanny For Hire”- how could I resist?

In the town where I live there is not much paying work and most people have to commute for an hour plus a day to get to work. Since this commute is not something I am willing to do I jumped when I saw that this job was only a few miles down the street from where I live.  Immediately I wrote the lady an email telling her that not only did I live close by but also I had many years of Mannying experience. I received an email back later that day telling me that she was looking for a Nanny. When I told her that indeed I was the equivalent to a Nanny, our email exchange became quite strange.  I explained to her that the male version of a Nanny was a Manny but she claimed to never have heard of this before. She became suspicious of my intentions and wanted to know of my experience working as a “Manny.” Since I was making the entire thing up and was merely just trying to earn a couple of bucks, I used my creative abilities and made up an entire list of families that I had “Mannied” for in the past. She wanted references as well- so I made a few letters of recommendation and after I sent them to her she invited me over for an interview.

The job paid $1,600 a month for thirty hours a week of work. Even though a year ago today I was making $4, 800 a month- I figured that this was a good enough place to start. Any amount of change would help in a time of personal economic recession. I tried to remain positive and think about spending my days free from a boss, alone with the kids watching television and reading my books. I put on my best clothes and rode my bike to her house but because it is so hot where I live by the time I arrived I was dripping with sweat. The sweat marks under my arms and on the front of my shirt were not the best way to make a first impression. When she opened her front door she looked at me up and down a few times, passed judgment and then invited me in. Her first words to me were “it’s hot out, how about lemonade?” and then showed me into the kitchen. The home was a normal suburban style one story flat with sunflowers in the garden, van Gogh prints on the wall and IKEA furniture in every room. The children she told me were asleep but we could talk in the den. I told her about my experiences working as a public high school teacher and why I was currently unemployed. She asked me if I was willing to clean up shit, and all I could say was “no problem lady.” “Nannying, or Mannying is not easy work, even though you might think it would be. My children are animals when I am not at home,” she told me and I just smiled and said that was fine.

By the time the interview was done I was in a pool of sweat. I do not know if it was my nerves, the heat, my desperation for cash or all of the above. I put on the best act that I could and when she asked me for phone numbers of families that I had worked for before I gave them to her with a smile on my face. Of course all of the numbers are phone numbers that lead to myself my wife or my sister (all of them are in on helping me find a job and are willing to lie for me when she called). She told me that she had a few more people to interview and as I was riding my bike home I was certain that I would never get the Mannying job. The irony of our existence is that things never work out as we had planned, which makes life nothing but one big surprise. If you would of told me when I was in graduate school that ten years down the road I would be applying for a job as a Manny, I would of told you that was impossible. A week went by and she did not call my wife, my sister or myself. I began to think that my opportunity to work as a Manny was over. My self-esteem diminished but this morning I received a call. She asked me when I would be willing to start and I said that I would be over bright and early in the morning.

My Topless Angel

I was sitting at my desk when I first saw her. For a brief second I did not think it was true, but the closer I stared the more I wanted to believe that this could not be a figment of my imagination. She was riding on a pink cruiser, wearing an American flag bikini, a pink skateboard helmet and talking on a cell phone. I stood up from my desk and followed her with my eyes as much as I could through the window that sits just above my desk. I ran outside to see if I could not see more of her, but the moment that I made it to the street she was gone as quickly as she had appeared. My afternoon of typing up banal resumes and looking for jobs on the internet was suddenly stimulated to life by a brief sighting of a beautiful blond- what more could I have asked for? She could not of been a day over thirty, her hair caressed the air like paper floating through the wind and her body was sculpted like a fine work of art. I had difficulty returning to my desk that afternoon because I wanted to see more. My heart rate was speeded up and suddenly I felt a sexual feeling that I had gone so long without. When I finally returned to my desk to resume my dreary task of looking for work- I was almost depressed by the thought that my little bikini beauty queen was forever gone. Little did I know then that I would see her many times again.

The second sighting happened at my desk a few days later. I had almost forgotten about her because my brain had become so preoccupied by a need to earn cash. I had been without a job for over a month and my bank account was thinning out. The days filled with tormenting fights with my parents, wife and sister triggered by their questions and concerns about what I was going to do with my life, had left me tired and worn out. Sex was the furthest thing from my mind. It was a hot July afternoon and as I resentfully worked at my desk I just happened to lift my head and look through the window at the right time. She turned the corner on her pink cruiser, dressed in the same American flag bikini, wearing the same skateboard helmet, talking on the same cell phone with her blond her floating behind her like ripples in the sea. I suddenly felt myself become sexually stimulated as I noticed the definition in her tanned legs and the grace with which she peddled her bike. She appeared to be a young woman in perfect physical condition and the sight of her presence made me come alive. I again jumped up from my desk and ran outside with the hope that I would be able to see her one more time, but the moment that I got to my front doorstep she was already gone.

I could not believe that I was witnessing a phenomena that an older man like me could never even imagine in his craziest dreams. A young woman riding her bike around town in an American flag bikini? I had all but given up on extraordinary things such as this ever happening to me. My life had become a series of predictable events and the wonder and awe that fills a person  in their youth was all but gone from me. Now, I was constantly coming alive- looking forward to sitting down at my desk and looking for jobs. The only problem was that I spent little time on my computer looking for work and more time staring out my window. Days would pass and I would watch the world go by. My wife would become frustrated that I was not taking caring of myself. She wanted me to get up and go outside but I was more content sitting at my desk, waiting for what I had come to believe was my angel riding by.

After a few days of waiting without any luck, I had begun to lose hope. I had told no one about the girl and was beginning to think that possibly she was just a figment of my imagination. I am known for being a person who often confuses his dreams for reality and I was beginning to think that maybe this was true. My life had not been very fulfilling at that time and maybe I was manifesting the sexual stimulation that I was repressing deep within.  Then I saw her again, but this time something was different. It was late one night while I was working at my computer. Everything around was quiet since most people in my community were sound asleep. I heard the sound of shifting bike gears and I looked up and could not believe what I saw. Shimmering under the full moon light, my angel rode her pink cruiser- topless as the day she was born. Everything else was the same- the bike helmet, the long blond hair, the American flag bikini bottom and talking on a cell phone. Her breasts were like finely rounded water balloons sitting upon her chest. They jiggled lightly, slightly drooping as she rode. I could not see her nipples because of the darkness of night but the silhouette of her near perfect breasts were all I needed to see. She rode freely and without shame as if riding bare breasted late at night was not an unusual thing. My heart began to flutter in my chest as I realized that I suddenly felt just like I did the first time I fell in love.

The next day my mind was filled with an abundance of questions. “What is she thinking riding topless at night?” “Am I the only one that sees her on her bike?” “Is she real or just a figment of my imagination?” “Am I acting like an obsessive pervert?” “Would she ever return again?” Questions like these and more went on an on in my head all through out the day. I looked forward to the coming night where I hoped I would see her again. I just could not get over the fact that I had witnessed something so unbelievable that not even I could make up. I desperately wanted to see her again not only so that I could enjoy the sexual stimulation that comes with seeing a topless woman on a bike but also so that I could prove to myself that she was real. That afternoon I waited at my desk so as not to miss the possibility that she might ride by. I sent out a few emails, listened to classical music- but did nothing else but stare out my widow. Cars passed by making their way to their inevitable end. People of all ages rode past on their bikes enjoying the brief feeling of being free. Garbage men, lumber trucks, police cars and mini vans all came and went as I watched the monotonous cycle of daily life drive by my window. Not once, however, did I get to see my angel on a bike.

That evening I stayed up late. I sat on my front porch and waited. I was determined to see her topless once again, but by three in the morning I was to tired to stay awake. I repeated this cycle for many more days. Sat at my desk and watched the futile human world go by and spent my evenings up until three or four in the morning waiting for my topless angel to appear. She never came, and I noticed that I became a bit more depressed in her absence. I was questioning my sanity and wondering if any of what I had seen was real.

Then I began to dream about her during the night. It was always the same dream in which she would round the corner, topless and on her pink cruiser. She would catch me staring at her from my desk. Immediately she would stop her bike, take off her pink skateboard helmet and tuck the cell phone that she was talking on into the side of her American flag bikini bottom. She would stand there for a moment with her hair blowing in the wind and the moon shinning down upon her bare breasts. It was as if she was giving me permission to stare, which I did. She would move her body in various postures as if she was modeling just for me and in a state of bliss I watched for what felt like hours. She then put back on her helmet, blew me a kiss (which I could feel land on my face) and then got back on her bike and slowly rode away. I would panic because I did not want her to go. I would run out my front door desperate to see her some more. Sweat would be dripping from my face and it was at this point that I would always awake.

It has been over a week since I have seen or dreamed about my topless angel riding on her bike. I look for her day and night but she never comes. My dreams have returned to their boring state in which I am always projecting a fear and turning it into a ridiculous story. I have started to work again at my desk without bothering to look out my window. I have a job to find and despite the sexual fantasies that might await me outside, I need to get to work. Even though my life has started to get back to normal there has been one significant change that I have noticed. I have been filled with the youthful wonder and awe that I thought I had lost. When I go for walks or take a bike ride I am overwhelmed by all the beauty around me. I can perceive all the mysteries of life as they unfold and I rejoice in the fact that at any moment something completely unpredictable can occur. No longer am I stuck thinking that reality is always the same drudgery, day upon day- but now I seem to be watching the world continuously change. I feel freer than I once did, no longer bound in by the shackles of routine. Every moment is fresh- a new opportunity to be present in my life. Even if my topless angel was only a figment of my imagination- I cannot deny that something has shifted in me. I am no longer the same man that I was before I saw her. Every night before I fall asleep, I visualize my topless angel in my head. I try to see her clearly, in all her beauty. My hope is that after I am long asleep and all my troubles have faded away- I will get one more chance to watch her ride by.

The Magnetic Mattress

For months now various appendages of my body have been acting out. My nipple will twitch, my hands shake, my feet ache, my ears go cold and my legs will often tighten up in knots. All of my life I have lived with various physical ailments from respiratory difficulties to panic disorder. Various physicians and psychologists have categorized me as hypochondriacal. “It is all in your head,” they continually tell me but I have always known something that they don’t. It’s in my body. These symptoms that I manifest are no doubt the result of ways that I think, but growing up in a family where tension, anger and animosity were daily emotional experiences is the without a doubt the root cause of my disease. Up until recently my symptoms have been mostly psychosomatic, but now these strange twitches, spasms and shakes have constituted a new level of physical dis-ease for me.

I visit an acupuncturist (when I can afford to do so) who recommended that I get a magnetic mattress. She told me that the magnets would be beneficial in balancing out my body’s messed up energy, regenerating healthy cell growth and improving my circulation. Since I have nothing to loose at this point- I decided to give the mattress a try. My nipple has gotten to the point where it will twitch twenty-four hours a day. Recently while at a job interview it would not stop twitching and it caused me to break out in a cold sweat (and not get the job). I am told that if I sleep on the magnetic mattress my symptoms will not only improve but also possibly diminish altogether. The only problem is that I have to sleep on the floor.

After four years of sleeping together, my wife and I have become accustomed to the marital bed. Even though on many nights we fight and go to sleep on opposite corners of the bed- normally we like to snuggle ourselves to sleep. I curl my long lanky arms around her waist and cup one of her breasts in the palm of my hand. Normally I have difficulties sleeping but when I have my body pressed up close to hers, feeling like I am holding on to something tangible and concrete allows me to completely let go. In the mornings my arms are often still draped around her waist and I feel as if I have received a good nights sleep. Now that I have been using the mattress pad there has been little snuggling for us. My wife is mad that we are sleeping apart. She feels as if I have chosen the magnetic mattress over her, but as my symptoms subside she is realizing that maybe this is not the case.

It has been difficult for my wife to be married to a man that suffers from so many odd maladies. She often does not understand what is going on with me (a luxury of the healthy). I put the magnetic mattress down on the floor on my side of the bed, which keeps us far apart at night. Before trying to get to sleep I say goodnight only to be met with what sounds like a “good night” filled with frustration and pain. I trust that as my twitching nipple, spasming legs, shaking hands and cold ears return to some semblance of normalcy, my wife will understand more why I sleep on the floor.

I do not expect that magnetic mattress to save my life. Nor do I expect it to save my marriage, find me a job and help me to get a novel written and published. What I would like is for the magnetic mattress to give me a small amount of inner peace. I spend more hours of my waking day worrying about my various symptoms than I do thinking about anything else. I have had to increase the amount of alcohol that I drink just to deal with the turmoil created by negative thoughts. Not only am I at a point in my life where I need to be vigorous and strong but also my symptoms are putting into jeopardy everything that I find satisfying about being me. After a few weeks of sleeping on the magnetic mattress I have noticed certain symptoms start to abate- but a new problem has developed. I have developed a magnetic charge.

My acupuncturist warned me that a magnetic charge could occur. It is nothing to be to worried about but there is some cause for concern. If I am around any metallic object I will feel a certain magnetic pull. The pull is slight but a enough to cause me some discomfort. Whenever I am around loose change, cars, cell phones, computers or any other metallic object I feel what only can be compared to as a loss of gravity. My body absorbs a hot pressure that causes me to break out into a minor sweat and my feet feel as if they are being lifted off the floor. The hair on my arms and head stands up and lately I have noticed that my skin will turn bright red. It is difficult for me to do simple things like drive a car, use a computer, cook and open the refrigerator because not only will my fingers stick but the magnetic pull can cause me to drool (even as I write this it feels as if I am typing with weights on my fingers and I am drooling all over my shirt and desk). This is embarrassing and has not done much for my sexual appeal, but I have contacted my acupuncturist who tells me that as soon as my body habituates itself to the magnetic charge of the mattress- these new symptoms will abate. “Remain patient,” she says “and everything will get better in the end.” I believe her and continue to go about my life just as I normally would, despite my magnetic charge.

My plan is to purchase a queen sized magnetic mattress for the entire bed. They cost over a thousand dollars and at the moment I do not have the money to spend.  My hope is that in a few months, after I have benefited from the magnetic mattress, my wife will be willing to invest a good hunk of change. Since she makes more money than I it is not unusual that I have to ask her for financial help. Even though it is a source of contention between us- I assure her that one-day my economic situation may get better. For now I have been filling her mind with research on the magnetic mattress and assuring her that not only will it improve her quality of sleep but it will improve the cellular integrity of my sperm thus leading to a better chance of making babies. When I tell her that not only will our snuggles improve but so will our financial, social and sex life…she just looks at me with apprehension and says, “how the hell can a magnetic mattress do all of this?” “Look at me, I’m living proof!”I say trying to convince her, but she just shakes her head and walks away.

Fantasies Door

“Now, I’m very vulnerable to female beauty, as you know. Everybody’s defenseless against something, and that’s it for me. I see it and it blinds me to everything else.”
-Philip Roth from “The Dying Animal”

Last night I crossed the border. For weeks I have been living in a kind of small town celibacy. Since I moved here a month ago my normal sexual practices have been interrupted. Not that my sexual practices are anything unusual, but placed besides that of any ordinary man I would say that they may be surprising at best. You see, most men’s sexuality is a carnivorous kingdom of repressed fantasies and perversions. My sexuality is no different than any male friend I may have- the difference between me and other men is that I no longer harbor shame about my sexual indulgences. They are with me for life so I have learned to embrace them. To my surprise, since I moved out into the country my “normal” sexuality has become tempered by heat, marital difficulties, bugs in the bed, unemployment and boredom. Sex has not been much on my mind but it has been lurking slightly below the surface like a cold that is manifesting as a small scratch between my legs.

Because I live in a college town I cannot help but notice the scantily dressed young women everywhere. Even though I try not to stare at the abundance of legs (which have become a recent pre-occupation of mine), breasts and butts- these appendages of female anatomy are like a sweet potion that offers me the possibility of banishing everything that is plaguing me. What were a few weeks of abstinence from sexual feeling has slowly evolved into a slight sexual itch. I have caught myself staring at the behinds of women, searching for their underwear underneath. I have even found that I spend more time focusing on the breast flesh born from a tight tank top than maybe I should. All this hide and seek that I seem to be playing with my eyes has inflamed in me what can only be described as a lustful desire for female flesh. Even though I try to keep this repressed, to keep my attention focused on the books that I read, or the more important responsibilities in my life- it seems as if the female figure is stronger than my urge to resist.

I live not far from Nevada. One hundred and sixty miles at most. For the past week I have been visualizing the legalized sexual carnivals that are housed on the other side of the border. Last night I had a few drinks and a fury filled fight with my wife, so I decided to go. I had to drive my car through the mountainous regions of the Sierra Nevada’s and weather the torrential winds that threatened to tilt my car. A man who is consumed with sexual desire can make it across the most tempestuous of seas and skies and I was not about to let any heavy winds ruin my flight. I knew the promise that Nevada was filled with and I would not stop until I made it to the front door of my sexual fantasies. I was determined to see and touch a stranger’s naked flesh and the moment I crossed the Nevada border- I felt goose bumps colonizing my arms and neck.

I have been to brothels many times in the past (many years ago I was commissioned to write an essay on the brothels of Nevada for The New Yorker Magazine). I knew exactly where I was headed, Fantasies Door in Carson City, and along the way I decided to stop off and play the slot machine. It was early yet, and I still needed more to drink.  I stopped at the Coral Casino and found myself a comfortable corner to play in. I sat at a particular slot machine that I felt looked lucky and might be willing to pay me a moderate amount of change. I took advantage of the free drinks that were being offered me and began what would become an expensive rendezvous with a single slot machine.

Even though men are dominated by their sexual desires, they are even more dominated by money. I do not know what is more powerful- a naked woman or the opportunity to make a lot of cash. Some how a long my way I got lost. What was initially an impulsive journey into the arms of a naked whore had become an obsessive and inseparable night spent with a slot machine. In a heated frenzy stirred up by the desire to get back the money I had lost I had completely forgotten about my lustful desire for female flesh. I was drinking too much and I was overly committed to not leaving the casino with less money than I had come in with. Life has been difficult since I have been unemployed and the idea of earning a little extra cash made me naive enough to think that the more I put into the machine the better chances I had of getting money back. Cocktail waitresses kept me entertained (one even allowed me to rub my hand up and down her nylon covered leg) as I managed to loose all the cash that I had come in there with. Fortunately I was wise enough to leave my ATM in the car- but giving the slot machine $500 of my hard earned cash was not easy to walk away from.

It was after midnight when I decided to leave. The feeling of deep regret and indignation had wiped away my buzz and all I could feel was the acrimonious distillation of vodka and beer in my gut. For a moment I considered continuing on to Fantasies Door- but the idea of spending more money made me sick. I vomited a few times and wanted to hang myself on the closest telephone line but my desire to live and flourish was stronger than my compulsion to throw my life away. I got back in my car and decided to make the long journey back across the border to a home that was filled with troubles and disdain. My wife and I have a difficult time getting a long and when I go out and play and come home broke and in a depressive funk it only spreads our troubles out into another day.

Today, I cannot help but think that my actions last night were a mistake. I acted on a whim and threw myself into the winds of chance. I went where my desires lead me and ended up on the wrong side of chance. It was as if my penis was tied in a rope that was pulling me towards Nevada. Not only did I loose a few weeks worth of food, book and beer money but I also lost my feeling of integrity (what is a man without his integrity?). I was feeling good the past month keeping my sexual impulses under control. I felt more in charge of my will power and not as subjected to the fantasies fueled by females that have had so much power over me for so much of my life. I was slowly entering into a small town lifestyle of calm resignation that was beginning to signal for me the possibilities of suburban bliss. Girls could no longer nag at me, or so I liked to think, despite my wondering eye (and passion for bare legs). But my fight last night blew the roof off my self-control and left me spiraling out of control towards the object of my lust. Today I have spent a lot of time sitting in my hammock and staring at the sky. Even though I know that what is done is done and lamenting over the past will not undue what went wrong, I still can not help but think about what could of happened if I only made it to Fantasies Door.

The Wrong Way Brain

5.

I am always going the wrong way. Whether it is on a road, while walking in the city or within certain choices that I make for my own life- I seem to be moving in the wrong direction. I do not know if this is because of an inherent biological disorder, overprotective parents and/or the result of years of lust, drinking and smoking weed. Whatever the case may be- I cannot seem to find the right way. Yesterday while driving in my car, my father said to me, “Son, you are going the wrong way!” “Story of my life,” I sardonically replied. My response pissed my father off. He has been in denial of my wrong turns since the day he set me free.  “Well,” he responded with a palpable frustration, “If you know that you are going the wrong way only an idiot would not try and change directions.” “If only it was that easy,” I replied. “Well then son, maybe you just have a wrong way brain,” he replied. I let him have the last word and we were silent the rest of the way home.

4.
I have been trying to change directions for as long as I can remember. Still I seem to make wrong turns. I often find myself lost in big cities and I end up in places that I should not be. I have spent more time in strip clubs, whore houses and run down bars as a result of making wrong turns than I care to remember. I have found myself in near fatal head on collisions because of my continued inability to realize that I am traveling the wrong way down a one-way street. Recently, I have been getting lost around the neighborhood in which I live. In my attempt to find my way home I often end up further away than where I began. Last week when I found myself completely lost after having gone on an after dinner walk- I ended up in an area where there was a bat and owl nesting ground. The darkness and ominous sounds gave me an anxiety attack and because I did not have my cell phone with me I had to ask a police officer for a ride home. “What are you doing way out here?” he asked me in attempt to find out what was wrong (I was sweating and shaking). All I could say was, “I took a wrong turn somewhere along the way.”

3.
There are no classes offered to learn how to go the right way. Being able to go in the right direction is a skill that one acquires either in birth or over many years of the wrong experience. I would of thought that after thirty-eight years of going the wrong way I would have finally learned how to go the correct way. But the older I get the more complacent I seem to become- and going the wrong way is as simple as being dumb. It takes no thought, but instead it seems to be something that just happens to me. If I ride my bike, drive my car or go for a walk I am most certain to go the wrong way (this is why my wife bought me a GPS system, that I never use, for my birthday) but what bothers me most is that the choices that I make in my own personal life- always take me in the wrong directions.

2.
I have always felt most comfortable, doing the moonwalk. Even though I am sliding backwards when doing the moonwalk- somehow I feel like I am going the right way. There is something comforting about moving backwards. Recently (and not because of Michael Jackson’s death) I have been spending a lot of time around my home doing the moonwalk. In this particular time, where I have found myself unemployed, living in a new town with less than two grand to my name and debt coming out of my ears- I find the moonwalk to be comforting. It is like a meditation for me in which I feel like everything is going to work itself out. Lately, I have been known to do the moonwalk for hours at a time. I slip and slide all around my hard wood floors and take great pleasure in knowing that I am going the wrong way. I especially like to do this after I have had a few drinks. It annoys my wife when I do the moonwalk while drunk (because I knock things off the wall and sometimes I slip and fall and startle her) but I try to help her to understand that when I drink and do the moonwalk- I feel whimsical and free. I feel like everything that has gone wrong is suddenly going right.

1.
It’s not so easy to go in the right direction. After years of collisions, poor choices, mistakes and miserable situations I find it hard to believe that I will ever start taking the right way. As a child my movements where so strictly directed that once I was turned loose on my own as a young man- I had no idea which way to go. Unfortunately, I ended up in situations that did not help me find the right way- but from the times that I have spent in jail or working in a morgue, bagel shop, shoe store, restaurant, adult book store- I have learned one fundamental thing: Taking wrong turns will put an individual in a situation that they could never imagine with their logical mind. It is as if the moment you go the wrong way- you are faced with a series of events that you could of never imagined before. It makes life a bit more interesting and spontaneous to go the wrong way now and then- I just wish I could find a way to stop doing it all the damn time.

Legs

There are legs all around me. Legs on bikes, legs on feet, legs in chairs and legs in the grass. Everywhere I look- young legs, middle-aged legs and a few old aged legs. An abundance of legs. Legs in skirts, legs under dresses, legs in shorts and legs in tight pants. I have always been a legs man, a lover of legs, but this is too much. Since I moved to the country, where heat predominates most hours of the day and night, there is a twenty-four hour leg show going on and all I seem to think or dream about anymore is legs.

It is really only female legs that appeal to me, which is strange considering that I come from a long lineage of repressed homosexuals. Men’s legs fail to stimulate my sexual longings…..or any sexual feelings for that matter. Male legs are not only deeply hairy but the texture of their skin often times reminds me of sandpaper or snakeskin. Female legs, on the other hand, ignite my sexual cravings like water coming to a boil or a rocket ascending into outer space. Female legs have enough power over me to send me flying over my bicycle handle bars or tripping over my own two feet in public and at times to even rear end a few automobiles. My better judgment is arrested when I get a glimpse of these female appendages- and I am no more in control of myself than an undomesticated dog off a leash.

Tattooed legs, shaved legs, tanned legs, sculpted legs and freckled legs seem to follow me every time I step out my front door. They are on display by their owners like paintings hanging in a gallery. There is not a corner that I turn down, a park that I walk in or an establishment that I visit- that a pair of legs does not catch my attention. Even though most, if not all of these legs are hard to get legs, legs only for viewing, legs that I will never get to touch- I still receive a feeling of gratification upon beholding a pair of legs within my mind’s eyes. I stare hard enough to store the legs in my photographic memory catalogue and once home I can spend hours preoccupied in leg ruminations. In my mind I am able to visualize a veritable orgy composed of all the legs that I stored in my mental catalogue for that day. I swim with these legs, massage them, and rub them up and down my body until my incessant pleasure is interrupted by my need to eat, sleep or go to the bathroom.

I have been staying indoors more, so as not to be so preoccupied with legs. Often times my obsessive desire for the flesh can suspend the accomplishment of other goals that I may want to accomplish in my lifetime. God only knows that I have spent many years of my life preoccupied by sexual longings, when I could of spent that time productively- reading, studying to be a doctor, making money or working on my spiritual practice. Even more discouraging is the belief that I relied upon as a young man- the belief that as I grew older my sexual longings would diminish and have less control over me. Instead, I am an almost forty-year-old man just as preoccupied by legs as I was at the age of 16. The only difference is that at my age it is no longer cute to stare at legs- it is simply perverted.

Thick legs, skinny legs, short legs, long legs, round legs and square legs- I never discriminate.  All legs are welcome in my mental catalogue. Certain days, when my longing for legs is creating an overwhelming pressure in my chest, I take myself on leg tours. In town, there is a college (which, is not a far walk from my home) where there is always a feast of legs to be found. I bring binoculars, wear a sun hat, and put on my hiking boots and a backpack and head out for the day. I will walk around town and the campus for hours, staring at legs, until my own legs grow tired.

There is a certain oak tree covered knoll that I go and sit upon. The knoll is perfect because it allows me a covered spot to watch the student center without being noticed by anyone. I take out my binoculars and enjoy what feels like a major motion picture made up of nothing but legs. I watch them all and delight in the variety of legs like a committed connoisseur. I cannot say that there is a specific kind of leg that I find particularly attractive. Instead I relish in the multicultural leg environment that universities seem to be. After an afternoon spent out in the world staring at legs I return home exhausted by the amount of legs that I have lodged in my memory. I pour myself a glass of red wine, sit on my couch and spend hours alone remembering all the long legs, tanned legs, black legs, muscular legs, tattooed legs, white legs, thin legs, brown legs, small legs and every other kind of beautiful leg I admired that day.

One More Reason To Get Nothing Done.

1.
I am not an ambitious man. Under motivated is an adjective I have often heard used to describe me. I have a tendency to dream of fame and fortune but I do little to make my dreams a reality. I suffer from a particular kind of congenital laziness that seems to fill me with sloth and despair. Now do not get me wrong- I am a man who is happy to be alive. A bit addicted to my melancholy, sure (I am working on this in therapy) but I see the beauty in every moment that I am alive. Maybe this is my problem- too much attention paid to being alive and not enough motivation to get things done. If I could spend my days sitting in a chair doing nothing and have checks show up in the mail- I would choose this reality, but since this is not the case I feel the constant pressure to get things done.

Of course I do everything I can to resist this pressure. I drink beer, read novels, write short stories that no one reads, eat, ride my bike, meditate, go for walks, paint and recently I have one more reason to get nothing done. My wife hung a hammock in the back yard. It is a purple hammock made out of thick hemp string. When you rest in this hammock it embraces your body with the comfort of a womb. This hammock is a universe unto itself that makes you feel like you have everything you need. It sucks you in until you fall asleep and it will not let you go until you are forced to come out. The hammock is tied between two trees and has a constant gentle sway, induced by the wind funneling through the branches. While swaying in the hammock I am reminded of being gently rocked to sleep in the tranquility of my mothers arms. Since my wife hung the hammock a week ago it has been impossible for me to get anything done. No reading, writing, painting or looking for work. I spend my days dangling in space between two trees, swaying to and fro, dreaming and thinking- while the world seems to pass on by.

2.
I have been unemployed for two weeks. I left my job as a teacher when I lost interest. The problem with me is that I do not know what it is that I am interested in. I enjoy being drunk more than I enjoy being sober. I prefer sleep to the waking life and I almost always spend my waking days thinking about food, sleep and what it is that I have to do. This nagging drive to get things done, to be all that I can be will not leave me alone and the only defense I have is to do nothing at all. I do not know if this is an American affliction, my jewish upbringing with heavy expectations or my own inability to be present with myself. Whatever the culprit may be- it seems as if the hammock has become the only way for me to break free. I have tests to take, jobs to find, money to make and a marriage to save- but none of these things mean a thing to me when I am swinging free beneath the trees.

3.
Last night I decided to sleep in the hammock. My wife was a bit perturbed that I spend more time in the hammock than I do with her. Lately she has thrown upon me the Puritan work ethic of “a man has got to get things done, work by the sweat of his brow all the days of his life.” I brush this logic off and spend my days sleeping in the sun. “The world is on the brink of collapse and I just want to enjoy my self- free from worry. Just think how much better off the world would be if people were as unambitous as me,” I tell her.  Spending the night in the hammock seemed to represent for my wife a final turning away from our marriage and my responsibilities as a husband- but for me it just was the impulse of a man wanting to be free. I wanted to sleep in the quiet and ordered nature of my back yard, fall asleep to the flickering lights of the cosmos above- and none of this had anything to do with a desire not to be man or husband.

The night was warm and I needed no blankets. As I swayed in the serenity of the hammock I watched a sky filled with shooting stars. I imagined eternity and how insignificant I was in the larger scheme of things and for once felt no fear. My life’s ambitions seemed to fade away from me and I was able to sway back and forth between the trees and experience what it feels like to be free. Most of my days can be filled with terrible thoughts: You are almost forty years old and have no idea what you are going to do with your life, you need to write the great American novel now or never, you are getting old and you are running out of money and terrified that you can not afford the necessities of life and will never find a decent job or a publisher. Last night, for a brief moment in time I was free- I had mastered the fine art of doing nothing. Man, hammock and nature as one. I do not think I have ever slept so well.

4.
This morning I arrived back home from my walk to find the hammock gone. You can imagine my surprise and mortification- especially after spending a perfect evening in the hammock like I did the night before. There was no question in my mind that my wife had taken the hammock down. When I immediately confronted her dripping with the sweat that I accumulated from my walk, she said, “don’t even think about it.” “Don’t even think about what?” I asked with a defensive tone. Who was she to think that she was so superior that she could read my own mind? “Asking for the hammock back,” she replied while digging a hole for where she was going to plant a lavender bush. “I have hidden the hammock and will not tell you where it is until you have gotten a job.” “A job!” I said with the frustration of a man that does not feel recognized for all the work he does. I could not expect my wife to understand that doing nothing, in our modern world, was an art form that took work. I could also not expect her to understand that even though I made no money from my art and I live in a suburban neighborhood- that she was living with one of the greatest artists alive. Instead, I had to suck it up, remain humble and accept that my life had just changed when she looked me dead in the eyes and said, “that fucking hammock is just one more reason for you to get nothing done!”

Moving In With Bugs

1.
I have never lived with bugs before. At least not the kind of bugs I seem to be shacking up with now. This morning my wife opened a box and was startled to find a cockroach the size of her thumb inside. As if a surprise like this would not be enough for a delicate heart- the cockroach proceeded to spread its wings and fly away! When my wife came to me in a fit of exasperated panic and said “honey, the cockroaches fly,” all I could do was look at her and then ask my omniscient God….. “why?” Maybe it is my karma, or simply the way my deck of cards have been dealt- but flying cockroaches….common. Fifteen years ago my father and I stayed at a remote Mexican fishing village, where we spent our days fishing and drinking Pacifico beer. On the second night when both my father and I discovered flying cockroaches in our hotel room we packed our bags and left for an upscale hotel that was a moderate airplane ride away. I grew up in a family that detested bugs, did whatever they could to keep bugs astray- and now I have found myself in the nexus, sexus and plexus of a bug haven.

2.
My small home sits on a rose lined corner where a busy cross section funnels and filters cars, cyclists, skateboarders and buses like a large liver. From the outside, my home looks like a normal lower middle class home. My wife and I have done much work on the garden that surrounds our home and we have wind chimes and a sitting Buddha out front that helps give the appearance of tranquility.  However, if you dare to venture up a bit closer to our house you may get a quick glimpse of the various bug kingdoms that live within. On the doorway you may find a mass of ants or fallen moths, on the windows a slew of centipedes, in the garage an assortment of cockroaches and mice, and if you enter into our backyard you may behold the greatest spectacle of all- the bitchy black widows.

Upon renting our serene home in the country, the landlord failed to mention that we would be sharing the home with bugs. I have occasionally considered calling the landlord and cursing him to hell with regards to leaving this important detail out- but then I remember my spiritual vow of remaining loving, accepting and kind to all (this vow was not made with any particular religious denomination in mind. Instead, I made this vow simply to help myself along in my quest for inner peace). However, I must admit, that this vow has been difficult to keep considering the circumstances. Prior to moving into our home in the country I would abstain from killing bugs. I believed (and still believe) that all life is holy holy holy so I abstained from taking any form of life. Now I am a hypocrite and a murder. I cannot refrain myself from killing bugs. It is the only action that I can take in my defense. I indignantly spray ants and cockroaches until they curl up and die. I squash anything tendril legged that comes near my shoe. I swat flies and flying beetles with books or magazines and I have even managed to crush a few life threatening black widows with a large rock. And then when I am done, I am surprised to find that I have no shame. I go about my business with the satisfied feeling that I have made the world a little safer for all of us.

3.
My wife tells me that I need to make friends with nature and co-exist peacefully with all its slithering creatures. She also tells me that in the end nature will always win “so just let the poor bugs be.” What she fails to understand is that I am a man who grew up in a white walled and white-carpeted suburban mansion that had zero tolerance for the existence of any bug. My parents hired a bug specialist to keep bugs away and some of my most bleak childhood memories are of this “specialist” dressed in an orange jumpsuit taking away boxes, cages and traps filled with dead bugs. I never had to fear waking up in the middle of the night and crossing paths with a cockroach or going into my kitchen and stumbling upon a rat. When I recently admitted to my father that I moved into a place that is infested with bugs I listened to his bitter testimony of a long gone youth spent squashing cockroaches and chasing rats. It is almost as if he was saying good for you son, now you get to know what it is like to live with bugs. Maybe it will make you into more of a man. I found myself getting irritated with his passive implications and in my defense I wanted to say, it is not my fault that I have this aversion to bugs. It is because of the home that you chose to raise me in. However, since my new path to enlightenment demands that I be kind and loving towards all beings (except bugs) I listen to his stories and try hard to make him feel loved.

4.
It is difficult getting used to living with bugs. The strange sounds in the walls when I am trying to sleep, the awkward noises on my floor and window when I am trying to silently write or read, the strange antennas crawling out from my showerhead when I go to take a shower- all unnerve me. This is no easy feat for someone who already has fragile nerves. I have noticed that my consumption of alcohol has increased in order to mitigate the anxiety that comes along with sharing my home with creatures from the underworld. Last night while I was lying in bed what sounded like a tap dancer with claws frantically scratched its way around inside my walls. It would claw, tap, crawl and then stop to catch its breath before moving on. I looked at my wife and said “what the fuck is that?” but being more consumed by sleep than I (and less concerned), all she could say was “just let it be.” Even though every part of my body wanted to jolt out of bed and get the creature out of my walls- my mind just kept repeating let it be as I lye with the blanket pulled up to my chin listening to the varmint crawl. Eventually all three of us fell asleep and in the morning when I awoke it seemed as if the creature was gone.

Today the landlord has come to our home with some laborers to help take away a mass of cut wood that is littered all over our backyard.  “You pay the rent and I’ll get rid of the spiders,” he said to me with a confused smile on his face. Yesterday, my wife called him to ask what can be done about the black widows all over the backyard (who have my cat and I so scared that we refuse to venture “into the outback”). The landlord’s response was that he would get rid of the wood, branches and ivy (where he says black widows like to hide), which he thought should mitigate the amount spiders we come across. My wife and I have spent most of today in our front yard (while our landlord wages a holocaust in back) where we planted a variety of different kinds of summer flowers (all of which are known to be favorites of the deceased writer, Edger Allen Poe). I feel good planting in the sun, allowing my skin to tan as my hands get covered with the earth. There is nothing like digging in the dirt to take one’s mind away from all of the anxiety and unease that seems to come with life.  I can spend hours in the garden forgetting where I am in space and time, happy to be alive and mindful of every breath I take. And then I come inside for some water or lemonade and  suddenly I am confronted with a bug.

Being Michael Jackson

I am sitting here locked up in my small room listening to old Michael Jackson albums. I have put on my old Beat It jacket that no longer fits and “Rock With You,” plays on my old record player. I have used up an entire role of toilet paper with my tears. My feet are refusing to do a final moonwalk in the solitude of my room because they are so filled sadness (after all, Michael brought my feet to life). Michael Jackson is not a pop icon for me but rather he is like a dear old friend of mine that I never really got to know. He shaped my musical and aesthetic sensibilities in ways that not even I think I am willing to admit. He has had an effect upon the body and world in which I live in more ways than any of us can comprehend and in my current dark moment of mourning I am grieving the loss of an era. I want to get up and dance, but my body refuses to move- so I think I will just sit here and write.

As a young man I would sleep in my Michael Jackson Beat It jacket. My father nor my mother could relate to my obsession. The eighties were an era shaped by Michael Jackson and I was one of its major casualties. I suffered the weekly red neck beatings that were the result of dressing in tight black pants with white socks and penny loafers along with the Beat It jacket and my sparkling single white glove. I am not sure if I really imagined myself to be the Caucasian manifestation of Michael Jackson- but I was certainly a devotee to his cause. Everyday after school I danced in my bedroom mirror to the sounds of his music and I mastered the moonwalk so well that people at parties would pay me to do it. I grew up in the suburbs, a long way from the world of Michael Jackson- but in my small town, for a select few- I was as good as the real thing.

My Bar Mitzvah speech was dedicated to Michael Jackson. I wanted to acknowledge him in front of all my peers for the massive influence that he had upon a thirteen year old, soon to be man. I told the audience that I had never been the same young man since I saw the Thriller video. I never knew that man was capable of making such inspirational music or moving their bodies in such magical ways. Michael Jackson opened up the world of song and dance for me and I told all the ladies in the audience that even though I was only thirteen, Michael Jackson had taught me how to be comfortable in my pants. I ended my speech by saying “thank you Michael,” and it was at that point that my mother brought my Beat It jacket to the stage, which I proceeded to put on and then do a final short Michael Jackson dance off the stage. During the party that proceeded my Bar Mitzvah I danced with a Michael Jackson impersonator and did the moonwalk several times across the dance floor. Over the years I have not been able to live my Michael Jackson phase down with the multitude who where present at my Bar Mitzvah- but now as an older man, who rarely rocks the night away, I am not regretful that I was able to spend a lot of time beating it when I was young.

I have received numerous text messages from family members and friends all informing me that Michael Jackson is dead. It feels like a shock that the great majority of people are having a hard time coming to comprehend. I have resentment when most people talk about the Michael Jackson who was accused of molesting little children and dying his skin. I never chastised Michael for the things he was accused of doing but rather I always accepted him for the eccentric that he was. At parties I will occasionally acknowledge Michael in the few moves I make during a dance- and every so I often I have been known to be an aging man who likes to do the moonwalk across the kitchen floor. I can not deny the fact that Michael Jackson is a man that defined my youth. I used to dream about running away to his wonder land. Often times when walking down a side walk I could swear that I would see the pavement beneath my feet light up just like in Billy Jean. I grew up in Michael Jackson’s  shadow and now I sit in the dark, listening to old Michael Jackson records- knowing that with his death, a large part of my own youth is now….. officially gone.

“Free Packing”

I have been getting more massages lately. I prefer Asian massage simply because of the delicacy with which Asian women handle the human body. There is a softness in their touch that sends the person being massaged into a state of relaxation that I would say is akin to bliss. Massage is not for everyone. I myself was adverse to massage until the later age of thirty two. As a younger man I was always embarrassed to lie down with nothing but a towel between me and a strange masseuse. Body aches eventually drove me to overcome my insecurities and I actually found that I enjoyed being massaged, while wearing nothing but a towel. For a while, I was getting massaged once a week and eventually I became a connoisseur of various massage parlors. I settled upon a particular massage studio in Berkeley that specializes in table showers and deep tissue rubdowns. There is nothing more enjoyable than being nude on a massage table, while a stranger rubs your achy body with a warm sponge filled with the aroma of lavender soap. I frequented this massage parlor more than once a week until I discovered a new Asian massage parlor in downtown Oakland that was offering “free packing.”

I almost think it is human nature to get bored. The curse of being human is that we are always looking for the next best thing, never content with what we have. This is why I search various periodicals for new massage parlors that I have yet to find out about. I am excited by the prospects of finding something better than what I currently have. On a weekly basis I search for new massage parlors without much luck- so when I found this one massage parlor that was advertising its “Grand Opening” with “free packing”- my interest was sparked. “What the hell is free packing?” I kept thinking to myself all that night. I thought about calling the massage parlor and asking them personally, but I felt embarrassed by my lack of knowledge. You see, I need to be someone who appears to be all knowing all the time. Just the idea of being perceived as someone who does not have all the answers- sends my body into a minor panic response. I simply need to seem like I know what is going on- and this is why I had to find out what “free packing” was all by myself.

I Googled free packing/massage but nothing came up other than websites for moving companies. I went onto various massage message board websites and searched for info on “free packing.” I even left an add on Craig’s list asking anyone who knew what”free packing” is to respond to my email. I had various people reply with suggestions. Some thought that “free packing” was a new form of prostate massage, others thought that free packing could have something to do with inserting things into my rear end. One person wrote that whatever “free packing” was- it sounded like it would make it difficult for me to walk out of the massage parlor on my own. Even though these suggestions sounded feasible to me- no one new for certain what “free packing” could be. I returned to my usual massage parlor and asked my masseuse if she would be willing to give me “free packing,” but she laughed at me and told me that she had no idea what I was talking about.

Yesterday, I finally decided to find out for myself. I ripped out a copy of the massage parlor add, which offered a “Grand Opening Special Of Free Packing And One Hour Massage For Half The Price.” Since I have been doing a lot of heavy lifting and packing lately I was excited to not only get a half priced one hour massage but to have the new and unknown experience of “free packing.” The massage parlor was not far from my home and it sat on the corner of a dark and not very busy city street. Over the door hung a sign that said GRAND OPENING and in the window was a red neon sign that let potential costumers know that they were open for business. I put some cologne on under my arms since I had forgotten to apply deodorant and went into the massage parlor with the fake confidence of a man that appears to know exactly what he is doing.

A buzzer let me in through a gated door, which led me into the lobby of the massage parlor. Various Asian ladies sat scantily dressed on a red couch that sat in front of a big screen TV. They all watched me as I walked towards a man who sat behind a large mahogany desk. “You want thirty minute massage?” he yelled at me while I was still far away. I looked around at the Asian masseuses who sat staring at me from the couch and I noticed that they were all much more attractive than I had expected. “I would actually like what you advertised for your grand opening special,” I replied. “Oh… you want half off, hour massage?” the man said to me with a look of disappointment. I suppose he was hoping that I had not seen the add. “Okay we give you hour for thirty minute price, this our special recession price for you.” Just before it looked as if he was going to call over one of his girls, I said “I would also like to try the free packing.” Everything went silent for a moment and he looked at me with a glare that seemed to say, what the fuck are you talking about. He asked- “what you mean free packing?” I was confused. “What do you mean what do I mean free packing?” I said- returning the question with a statement so as to hide my not knowing. I pulled the advertisement out from my pocket and put it on his desk. “You see right there you are advertising free packing and I would like to have it,” I said with the confidence of a man who knows what he wants. I was dead serious but the man started laughing as he read the add. He said something in Vietnamese to all of the girls sitting on the couch, which then sent them into a fit of laughter. He held up the add and they laughed some more. What the hell? I thought. I had not a clue that I was the one that failed to detect one simple error- until the man looked at me with a smile, lit a cigarette and said…”sorry sir…..this is mistake….. because add supposed to say….. free parking….. which we have for you in back.”

The Hooker In A Tree

I never would of expected that I would rescue a hooker in a tree on my way home from work. I may fly or win the lottery and still believe it, but a hooker in a tree, who would of ever thought? The older I get the more I resign myself to the idea that truth really is stranger than fiction. On my way home from work I briefly stopped off at the nursery to look at plants. Lately, I have been doing as much as possible to reduce my stress levels and a friend of mine told me that looking at plants was a good way to relax. Teaching high school is a job that seems to leave me devoid of any energy after five p.m- so lately I have been trying to look at plants everyday.

As I walked back to my car with a new gardenia plant in my hand (occasionally I will buy a fragrant plant to surprise my wife with) I heard what I had initially thought was angel calling on me from above. Since I am certain that when I die, I will go to a place that is some what like heaven, I refrained from looking up because I was not yet ready for it to be my time to go. Instead, I continued forward pretending as if I did not hear the voice from above. “Stop, stop, please stop and come help me,” the voice persisted and when I finally did look up, I realized that if it was indeed an angel that was calling me- she sure looked like a hooker stuck in a tree.

She was wearing big black boots, both of which were braced against opposing branches. I could see the crotch of her pink underwear that was exposed by the wide opening in her mini skirt. I tried looking at her in the eyes but I had difficulty taking my eyes off her exposed bare thighs. “Hey, you…please help me get down. I am stuck in this fucking tree!” she pleaded as I stared up at her in disbelief. She was not more than fifteen feet away from the ground and when I asked her why she just did not jump down she told me that it was because she was terrified of heights.

I put my new gardenia down onto the pavement and asked her how she wanted me to get her down from the tree. “If you stand with your back against the tree I can climb down onto your shoulders.” If anyone would of told me an hour before that I would end my afternoon with a hooker standing on my shoulders I would of thought that you were nuts. The impossible became reality when I felt the heels of her boots  digging into my shoulder bones. “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh,” she kept repeating as she struggled to slowly get her self out of the tree.

Once I was finally able to help the hooker get onto the ground, she struggled for a few moments to regain her composure. My body slightly ached because in her frantic attempts to find her way to the ground, she stepped all over my head, shoulders, hand, chest and thighs. At one point during her descent- my face rested comfortably in the warm embrace of her crotch as she had both her knees resting on my shoulders (I can only imagine the shock and disbelief that passers by must of felt). Her odor was not terribly disturbing but I could smell the scent of cigarettes and sex emanating from her flesh. Once she was able to get herself composed and firmly planted on the ground she threw her arms around me and repeatedly declared, “you saved my life!”

I have never had the opportunity to be a hero before. I have often thought that heroics alluded me because I simply do not have what it takes to be a hero. If “life is a fortuitous collaboration ascribable to the fact that one finds oneself in the right place at the right time” (from a passage I read in an essay on karma)- than it could be fair to say that I have never before found myself in a situation that I needed to act as a hero. Helping a desperate woman out of a tree hardly qualified as “the right place at the right time,” and as the hooker continued to passionately declare that I had saved her life- all I could do was take a deep breath and say, “lady I am no hero.”

Apparently, she had not climbed into the tree just for fun. She had a legitimate excuse for being perched up fifteen feet high between branches, leaves and a few vagrant squirrels. “Men ain’t got nothing better to do then to mess with us bitches. I was mindin my own buzness working my usual street, when two thugs got in my way and startin to makin me feel threatened for my life. When I tried to get away they be relentless so I saw this tree and I knew it was my only way to safety cause thugs don’t like to climb trees.” She informed me that she had been in the tree for hours, waiting for the coast to clear. There was a childlike lightness and play in her new found freedom and I was tempted to give in when she asked me if she could repay me with a quick blow job or a ten minute lay. I turned down her offer not because she was unattractive, nor because I am a man with strong moral sensibility. No, I turned her down simply because I was already late to meet my wife for our once a week dinner date.

The hooker dug deep down into her purse and brought out a five dollar bill, which she offered to me. “Please, at least let me offer you something for your brave service,” she said holding out the bill. I put my hands up and refused her generous offer and told her that I worked as a high school teacher, which was a job that payed me well enough. “You a teacher!” she said with a sudden burst of surprise. “I am,” I replied with a hint of pride. “Well than…you take this five dollars, you hear me! You need it much more than me,” she insisted. I know for certain that a hooker can make in a few hours what I make in a week, so I resigned myself to taking the handout without feeling much guilt (although I have been thinking about how unfortunate it is that a teacher needs money more than a hooker). I thanked her for rewarding me with a cash payment and she said, “shit, it is the least I can do for a handsome young man like yourself who was just kind enough to save my life.”

She gave me another hug. It was almost as if we were like two lovers who were about to forever go our separate ways. “You stay out of trees now, you hear,” I jokingly said to her. As we started to go our own separate ways a part of my brain (the part of my brain that never makes wise choices) told the other part of my brain (the part of my brain that always makes good choices) to quickly reconsider the kind offer of a free blow job. As I have grown older, I am proud to admit, that the side of my brain that makes the right choices has started to win out over the more reckless side of my brain- so I just stood there for a moment and watched the hooker walk away with what felt like a hero’s smile upon my middle aged face.

The Run Away Jury

I had the day off today, the only advantage of having to do jury duty. I tried to get out of it by writing the court a letter in which I told them about my deep belief in the philosophy of anarchy. I also put in my letter that I always favor those that are being persecuted by the law and that I feel like justice can never be served in a court of law because the entire legal system is broken. This seemed to have little effect upon the court because they demanded my presence with the threat of a fine and possible jail time if I did not show up. So much for scare tactics.

I woke up before the sun and tried to talk myself into looking forward to a new experience. I had never served on a jury before and a part of me was proud that my state trusted me enough to hold such a position of authority. I showered, did my morning meditation and put together the nicest outfit that I could find. I gave myself enough time before having to report for duty to read the local paper at my favorite cafe and eat two sunny side up eggs with toast. It was one of the more leisurley weekday mornings that I have had in quite a long time.

After going through the scrutiny of the court registrar (personal history, finger prints and other forms of invasive identity verifications) I made my way into a small room where I took one of the two oaths that I would take that day. A fat man (why are they always fat men?) began to brief the virginal jury on the case that they were about to rule over. An older couple was suing Google because Google’s camera car drove up their private driveway and the resulting pictures were posted to Google’s street view. My first impression was that this could be an interesting case because I had always been concerned with matters of privacy and anonymity. The more I was briefed however, the more my mind began to think that this was just a ridiculous case of a suburban couple, with too much money, who was pissed off that Google showed pictures of their front lawn on the internet. I had better things to do with my time. I began to dread the impending case and wished that I could have fallen into something more interesting like murder, prostitution or a first degree robbery case.

Granted, my attitude was not good upon walking onto the jury stand. It would even be fair to say that I was bored before the case began. In my stated of impatience and agitation I thought about my students who were having to settle for an underpaid substitute teacher. A saying of the Buddha’s came to my mind, “if you can learn to enjoy waiting then you do not have to wait to enjoy,” and I settled into the fact that I was going to have to spend my day in this banal and stuffy courtroom. With my fingers crossed behind my back I was sworn to tell the truth and nothing but the truth to the court for the second time that day. I was able to have a pad of yellow legal paper and a pen upon which I wrote poems while lawyers made opening arguments and the judge briefed the jury on the legal aspects of the case. “Who gives a crap…..” was all I could cynically think. Sitting beside me was a younger Hispanic man who seemed to share a similar disinterest as mine, and for at least two hours while we listened to various testimonies about privacy infringement  and the legal rights of Google earth, I noticed that he was drawing caricatures of the balding judge. By the time a lunch remission was about to begin, Johny and I seemed to be struggling to keep our eyes open.

The jury was sequestered into a small room without windows where we were given our boxed lunches. It was more like a lunch fit for lower employees than one meant for a kings and queens that we thought we were. I had known Johny for more than an hour when we began our first long discussion about how the court should have the dignity to feed us better after making us sit through such a boring case. The thought of going back into the courtroom for the rest of the afternoon weighed upon both of our shoulders like a heavy brick- and in a moment of wild inspiration I jokingly suggested that it could be fun to spend the rest of our afternoon hanging out in a strip club instead of a courtroom.

Twenty minutes later Johny and I were sneaking out of the courthouse. We traveled down a long corridor of empty, florescent lit halls and found a back door that led out onto a parking lot for police cars. We casually walked over to the cafe where I had had my leisurely breakfast and we order a lunch that was more fit for us kings. Over burgers and fries and two carrot juices Johny and I talked about immigrant rights, government control, anarchy and social revolutions. We shared similar interests and I was engaged in his stories about being a child soldier in El Salvador and coming to America on an academic scholarship twenty years ago. As we finished our carrot juices and began to leave for the afternoon of bliss spent in a strip club, Johny asked, “you think we can get busted for being runaway jury members?”

Tonight I have done my research and learned that walking out in the middle of jury duty is punishable by a $10,000 fine or a year in jail. I did not know this earlier when I tried to convinced Johny that we had nothing to loose by leaving a courtroom that fed us like undeserving pigs. Johny was not convinced by my conclusions and decided to go back to court after we had finished our lunch. I on the other hand decided to continue on with my plans. I after all work my ass off five days a week slaving away as an underpaid high school teacher who desperately wants to create social justice on planet earth. I deserved not to have to spend my afternoon off in some banal courtroom listening to a couple argue over Google earth. I deserved the afternoon that I would spend basking in the good fortune of an all nude strip club. Right?

Tonight, I am a bit concerned. All the lights of my home are off just in case the police come looking for me. I have received four phone calls from the court letting me know about the severity of the punishment that I face. I have never before been intimidated by legal threats and court ordered bribes (after all I am an authentic anarchists who has read Emma Goldman’s autobiography twice) but now that I am getting older I start to shake where once there was only a trace of fear. I see the damage my anarchist virtues may be doing to my future freedoms filled with dead end jobs because of a police record. What is this sense of responsibility that has suddenly overcome me like a quickly caught cold? Where once I would romanticize running and hiding from the law, now I am sitting in my home shaking in terrible fear, wondering if I should turn myself in for being a member of a one man run away jury.

$50.00 Cup Of Coffee

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The rain has been pouring down for three days straight. I am wondering if melancholy is starting to kick in. I awoke at around 10:30 this morning but would have stayed in bed if I did not have to drive my wife to work. So like the responsible husband and man that I try to be, I climbed out from under the warm blankets and dressed.

When we opened the front door to leave, our cat came running in wet as a used mop and whining at the top of his lungs. He was obviously feeling neglected and angry because we had forgotten to let him in the night before. To be honest the past few days my cat has been perturbing me, so I did not really forget to let him in, I just hoped my wife would not remember. It was reciprocity for all the scratches on my arm and the flees in my bed.

I dropped my wife off and then began driving back home. The inside of the car was warm from the high heat and I was uncertain if I wanted to return to my cold and over one hundred year old wobbly home. So I decided to drive for a bit. I listened to the radio and watched the world go by in the warmth of the car. There is something very enjoyable about driving around on a rainy day.

I decided to stop and grab a small coffee. I rarely drink coffee- if ever. It makes my body shake unpleasantly and my heart race. So I try to stay away from the acidic liquid. However, this morning I was feeling the need to have the bitter taste of coffee in my dry mouth and the aromatic smells in my nose.

There was no parking to be found on the busy street- besides a yellow zone which sat empty right in front of the coffee shop. I decided that I would quickly park in the yellow zone, run in and out- no problem. I could not of been more incorrect.

I tipped the somnolent looking woman who served me my coffee a dollar and then put half and half with a bit of sugar in it. The smell was already awakening me to the pleasures of existing. I took a brief sip of my coffee and walked back outside.

There where two UPS trucks blocking me in. Behind my car was a police car with its lights flashing and behind the police car was a small meter maids truck. I rushed to my car pretending as if I was not the subject of this mass gathering. Once out of the rain I decided to wait patiently for the UPS trucks to move so that I could leave. I kept my mind focused on the scent of coffee.

Then an ugly man with nose hairs, covered in a black rain coat knocked on my window. It was a police officer. I opened my door frustrated by all this commotion. “What is wrong officer?” I asked stupidly revealing that I may have done something wrong. “Can I see your drivers license and registration?” he said with a seriousness that indicated that he may not be human but rather a clone. “What have I done?” I said with the innocence of a child. “We have a report that this car may be stolen.” “What?”

In the meantime one of the UPS drivers came up behind the police officer and said to me “hey man!! This spot is for commercial loading not for the convenience of people to get their coffee!! You need to never park her again. You have blocked up traffic because I have had to park in the street!!” I looked behind him and noticed that traffic was blocked up for as far as my eyes could see. People were honking their horns and trying to get around the UPS truck. “See what you have done!! Jerk!!!” And then he was gone.

Meanwhile I handed the officer the requested information and told him that I have owned this car for years. “We will see,” he said with a tone in his voice that suggested that I was already guilty. “Wait here, while I check out your information.” “Where am I going to go?” I said with a sarcastic tone in my voice. I remember thinking to myself with indignation, “the police are everywhere, they even watch you when you sleep. they are like phantoms!!”

There was another knock on my window, but this time it was a black meter maid who looked rather swollen in her cheeks. She wore a yellow rain coat with the hood over her head and handed me a green ticket which was already wet from the rain. “What is this for?” I asked with a hint of anger in my voice. “For parking in a NO PARKING spot.” “But I was loading some boxes into the coffee shop, I am the owner!!” I decided to lie. “Then why don’t you get commercial plates!” she said walking away and leaving me helpless. I am not normally prone to anger or disrespect but I lost control of myself in my moment of helplessness and yelled “bitch!!!”

It was bad timing, because as I yelled out the police officer was approaching my car. He looked startled and unsure of how to respond. “What did you call me?” he asked. I took a deep breath and said “I did not call you anything, I was talking to the ticket lady.” “What ticket lady?” he asked. “The one that just gave me this ticket,” and I held up the green ticket to show him what I was talking about. “Sir, that was placed on your window while you were inside getting coffee,” he said suspicious of what was going on. “What the hell are you talking about… she just gave me this ticket!!” I was frantic and did not know what to do. Was this officer of the law accusing me of being crazy, of seeing things? “Sir I suggest that you try to calm yourself down and sign this citation.”

“What citation?” “It is a fix it ticket.” “I thought I was being accused of possessing a stolen car?” “No we had the wrong vehicle, but your back left brake light is not working and you have thirty days to fix it,” he said with a hurried sound in his voice. I assumed he wanted to get out of the rain so I took my time. I read over the pink citation and noticed that I would not be charged any money if I proceeded to go through all these various steps to absolve the citation. “Sir you will be given a list of everything you need to know,” he said impatiently. I then signed on the dotted line and returned the clip board to him. I took another deep breath and could feel the residual anger and frustration in my chest. “You are lucky that I do not site you for your conduct towards an officer of the law,” he said staring me straight in the face. I decided to stay quiet. He ripped of a portion of the citation handed it back to me and said “I know you slandered me sir, happens all the time.” And then he returned to his bat mobile.

I sat in my car for a moment trying to register everything that had just happened. My coffee was cold and I felt like I was just the subject of a terrible prank. I waited for something to happen like someone who was suffering from post-traumatic stress. I listened to the rain pitter-paterring on the roof of my car. I then heard a loud honk and looked out the drivers side widow. There was the same meter maid driving down the other side of the street!! She looked at me waved and I could barley make out her lips saying “have a nice day, sir” with a malevolent smile on her face. I felt like I was going to be sick. I tried to yell out “wait!!” but it was I futile attempt. I looked down at the green parking ticket which said in black ink hand writing “your fifty dollar cup of coffee, sir!!”

Now I am back in my cold wobbly home. I am confused and forlorn. Once I am finished spell checking this post, I will get back in bed and try to sleep. Then maybe I will wake up and things will make sense.

The Drinker

I am drinking again. I should probably abstain from writing because I may say things that I regret and mis-spell words that I know how to spell, all to well. But what the hell- I always say things that I regret and I often mis-spell words that I know all to well. I am not a good speller nor am I a good keeper of secrets so I mine as well go ahead and write on. Is not alcoholic inebriation one of the better causes of literary fame? From the beginning of time authors like Homer, Hemingway, Joyce, Lessing and Fitzgerald have gotten away with writing things while drunk- and we now refer to these writings as literary classics! So I mine as well take a shot at literary fame while drinking. I certainly can not seem to achieve it while sober so allow me a minute to take another sip of my wine and then I will continue to write.

I have been drinking a half a bottle of wine to a bottle of wine on a nightly basis for more years than I care to remember. My love affair with wine and beer is frenetic and wild (and causes me to do things that I often later regret). Of course we have taken a few weeks apart now and then but my inability to exist without beer and wine in my life quickly drives me back into a week long binge followed by a nightly bottle of wine. I love booze. It is the only over the counter medication that brings forth the fruits from my vine. I achieve more inner peace after two glasses of wine than I have from five years of regular meditation. My mind seems defenseless against two glasses of wine or more- and drinking for me is fair retribution for the hell my mind puts me through on a daily basis. I don’t mean to be negative but when I drink I am able to achieve an objective distance from my sober mind that makes me wonder how I have not yet become a raging alcoholic. I suppose it is my need for control, or some semblance of sanity that I make myself stop right when I have had too much to drink…….but after twenty plus years of almost daily intoxication, it is a wonder that I still have a rational mind at all.

I have been meditating a lot on “what if?” scenarios the past few weeks. “What if clocks stopped functioning?” “What if the oceans suddenly dried up?” “What if my sister turned into my brother?” “What if vegetables could talk?” “What if I was 38 years old and financially independent?” I like to entertain these fantasies because it show me the expanse of possibilities that are out there. My normal anxiety ridden life is filled with all these possibilities, and I realize that when I get stuck in my anxiety I am unable to open the bird cage of my mind. “What if I was sober for longer than a month?” “What if I loved working?” “What if I had no fear?” “What if I was so generous that I gave away all the clothes I owned while walking down the street?”

Okay, I am getting a bit ahead of myself. I have far surpassed my ordinary faculties for imaging the impossible. This tells me I may have had one to many glasses of wine. I am often a very pragmatic almost middle aged male- but when I drink a particular screw becomes loose in my head. This may be why it is not such a good idea that I write now. Currently I am banging on my keyboard and typing with a hurried speed that is desperately trying to keep up with the thoughts that want to come pouring out of my head. But maybe I should hold back. Maybe I should not say everything that I want to say. I should just pick up my glass of wine and go sit outside and watch the sun set. In the morning I will be happier that I did so rather than finishing this blog entry and exposing all of my futile insecurities and transgressions to the world. “Just leave certain things that do not need to be said alone,” my grandpa always told me when I told him about the first blow job I received with a hair dryer. He maybe right….maybe I should know when enough is enough. I am overworked, tired and in a state of fragility- no great writing comes from this particular space. So, I am just going to pick up my glass of wine (refill it), go outside and watch the sunset- before I say anything else that I will later regret.

The Coolest Cat

I never thought that cats liked me even though I have always been a lover of them. Ever since I was a young boy I have had cats in my life. To this day I own two cats (one of which I won in a local pet lottery), both of which are black, both of which refuse to sit on my lap and scramble away when I come into play. I do not know if they simply dislike me- or if they are afraid of my tall and normally tense stature or if I have done something in particular to make them afraid of me. Granted swinging them around by their back feet or tugging on their tails and refusing to let go may not of been the wisest ways of befriending them when they were young- but cats have always been afraid of me. This is why tonight I was so surprised when three cats followed me home.

My daily exercise consists of an hour walk around my neighborhood. I am done with sweat and cardiovascular exercises and have resigned myself to a body less sculpted by rigorous workouts and more defined by a moderate walk. I do certain exercises to keep my minimal muscles toned, but other than a few push-ups and arm curls with some weighted green balls I own, walking is my main fat burner. I like to drift off in the mental space that walking takes me to even though at certain times, like today, my thoughts can become negative and relentless. I will try and focus on the wind, or various elements of the outside world….but sometimes I get so caught up in my thoughts that I can not recall where I have been. I get lost and find myself on some street that I have never seen before.

The three cats sat on a fence post and I was as surprised to see them as they were to see me. I could hear their purrs from many steps away so I approached them with the hope that they would not run away like every other cat seemed to do. In my head I repeated the word “love” so as to emit a gentle energy from my body that was attractive as opposed to repellent. As I reached out my hand one of the cats immediately took to it and rubbed its whiskers all around the base of my thumb. I was immensely excited by the lack of their immediate retreat so I stuck out my other hand and little did I know that the fun had just begun.

I pet them for what seemed like an hour. I rubbed my face against their cheeks, ran my hand under their chins and all along their spins. One of the cats drooled and they all purred with the madness of elation as I pet them them with the delicacy of a man who is in love. I was sure to be gentle with them and tell them how beautiful I thought they were as I ran my hands all across their fur. I was surprised that they were not in the least making a move to run away but instead reaching out their claws towards me as if to make me stay. With their shredded fur all over my hands, arms and shirt I decided that it was time to call it a day and when I started to make the move to walk away- in what looked like a synchronized unison the cats leaped from the fence and began to follow the shadows of my foot.

I must of walked for ten blocks before I realized that these cats had no intention to leave. At first I was a bit concerned about pulling them away from their home, but I resigned myself to letting them have free will and simply enjoyed the rare occurrence of being followed by three cats. They rubbed their heads against my shins and made movements in between my legs that a few times threatened to send my falling onto the ground. If cats could laugh they would of been laughing out loud with me as they followed me down many streets with what looked like smiles upon their feline faces. Pedestrians who would pass by would stop and stare and I noticed that from the windows of certain houses, faces would be looking out at me with looks of confusion, disbelief and delight. You would think that I had cat nip in my socks from the ravenous way these cats followed me but I had nothing but the delight of a man who was finally experiencing something extra-ordinary. Tears of joys occasionally made their way to my eyes as I walked along. I was overwhelmed by the surreal realization that I was actually worthy of being followed by cats, that cats liked me! For the first time in many years I felt like what I can only now refer to as…… the coolest cat on the block.

The Chronic Consumer

“The cost of something is the amount of life that you are willing to exchange in order to have that thing.” – Henry David Thoreau

I spend a lot of money. The irony is that I do not make much money. Off of my meager Teachers wage I seem to get by in a style that would not beget a king, but is better than most who suffer the wrath of poverty. I am no celebrity but neither am I a poor popper. I do not know if my spending habits arise from a deep emotional lack or if I simply enjoy the transaction process. Sometimes I think I may be closely aligned to the Pavlovian dogs who drool when they hear the meal time bell. Except for me it is not a noon time bell, but rather the feel of my fake gold debit card in my hand or punching the keys on that little machine that deducts my hard earned money away, away. My therapists (yes I have two now) seem to believe that my spending habits stem from a dis-satisfaction with the present moment of my life. Like most Americans, I have been conditioned to believe that things will get better if I spend some time each day as a consumer. But it is always the same story, I spend money on one thing and am gratified for a short allotted period of ti-me until the next day comes and I am looking for something brand new to buy.

Do not get me wrong, I am by no means a ravenous spender. My purchases are humble and thoughtful and often contribute to my own well being and peace of mind. I am also not an excessive spender, buying up property, stocks, vacation packages, children and costly material items. Rather, because I only make an income that is beneath three grand a month- I have to keep my purchases within the realms of what I can afford. I have been keeping a budget for the past few months and on average this is what I spend a month:

$500 on groceries mainly bought at Whole Foods (or what I prefer to call Whole Paycheck). I try only to purchase organic food and booze which can be pricey.

$400 on gas and other car expenses (I drive an old SAAB with over 200,000 miles on it so I am always having to attend to it).

$500 on eating out ( I do enjoy the Epicurean experience on a regular basis).

$200 on books and music (one way that I experience pleasure is by frequently visiting book and music shops).

$900 on rent and other survival necessities like electric bill, credit bill and phone bill.

$200 on drinking in bars.

$300 on miscellaneous things like clothes, cat supplies, bird supplies and vitamens.

$300 on Therapists

I no longer spend money on prostitutes, strippers, massage parlors and other erotic addictions so at least this is one way that I have managed to save money the past few years. However, before the month is up I am usually broke- or beyond broke lying in a ditch of moderate debt. Now, none of my purchases are what I would label as excessive or exploitative (I consider myself to be a mindful consumer) but I can see how they are addictive. For each thing I purchase I receive a small rush of adrenaline to my brain (it is a sensation akin to accomplishment). Yesterday, when I treated myself to a nice dinner (which I do on an almost nightly basis since there are good restaurants everywhere around where I live), a concert and a new ipod I felt that the rush of adrenaline was more gratifying, almost sensual in nature. I felt as If I had achieved something strangely satisfying- the ability to spend money on things which I do not really need. Is not this the American way?

My chronic consumerism has been concerning me lately. Not only do I feel like I am spending more money than I need to, but I enjoy the concept of “forget savings.” The idea that one should spend what they have today because who knows if they will be around tomorrow to enjoy it has permeated my spending habits and left me little cash to watch grow the flowers of interest. All my hard earned labor has been exchanged for momentary pleasures that leave me feeling empty and searching for more the following day. I have become a consuming animal not that far detached from my cat who spends his days searching for something to eat. There has got to be more to life than this constant need to go out and buy. Recently, I have felt like it is impossible to step out the front door of my home without spending twenty bucks! I watch my friends drop cash that they worked hard to earn on superfluous things that leave them to feeling unfulfilled the following day. Is our material conditioning nothing but an economic hamster wheel that has been set up to keep us working and the cogs of capitalism spinning? Have I been duped and brain washed by the very country that I have grown to love? Sucker.

My concern has grown so large that both of my therapists have recommended that I move to the country where there is less temptation to spend. I have seen the best minds of my generation get tied and tangled up in expenses and spending habits that have caused them to have to trade in their happiness for a fifty plus hour a week job. Chronic consumerism has become an epidemic that has already managed to define me. I am helpless in its clutches and the only way that I can see how to be set free is to move out of the city.

In a month my wife and I are moving to the country. We will hire movers and relocate our lives to the central valley of California, where not much goes on other  than the natural cycles of day to day life. We have rented a two bedroom home that will not cost us half of our paycheck a month and it is not surrounded by Whole Foods and five star restaurants. It will be a quieter life filled with bird sounds, barking dogs and late night walks (without the fear of being mugged). We plan on eating the great majority of our meals at home, spending less and enjoying our lives together more. I realize that this will be a difficult life style change to manifest since what I have become accustomed to is consumerist, cosmopolitan satisfaction. I am going to have to dust off my old poetry books, set up a chair in the back yard and be content just staring at the redwood and the things we will grow for food. Neither of us knows what we are going to do for work (there are so few jobs around where we will live)- but one thing will be certain, I will finally have the opportunity to heal from my chronic consumerism and find a new way to be in this world without needing to spend a single buck. But for now, my wife is waiting for me in the car, because I promised I would take her out for a nice lunch.

The Spiritual Materialist

I went to a Tibetan Fair. There were all sorts of Tibetan rugs, scarves, sweaters, ornaments and jewelry for sale. There was Tibetan music and “Save Tibet” booths, along with booths trying to bring attention to various imprisoned Tibetan activists. However, I was not there for any of these things. What I was looking for was enlightenment. I had been asking around about enlightenment. A co-worker told me to check out the Tibetan fair because they might sell it there. Since I was in desperate need of enlightenment I figured I had nothing to loose. I paid the $10 entry fee and was overwhelmed by the amount of people, vendors and music that sprawled all over the three acre park. With so many booths to choose from I started going up to various vendors to see what they were selling. Most seemed to offer material goods but I asked anyways if they sold enlightenment. The response was always the same “no” and the degree of the laughter depended upon how well the vendor understood me. There were also booths for acupuncture, massage and psychic readings. There where even meditation booths. Since I had nothing to do for the rest of the afternoon, and a pocket filled with three hundred dollars- I decided I would take my time and look around.

An acupuncturist told me that he did not sell enlightenment but that he could help me find it. I only let him put three small needles into me and after ten or so minutes of lying still on his table I had to ask him to please take out the needles because I was feeling anxious. I had a massage from an old Tibetan woman who told me that her hands could bring me close to enlightenment but she had none for sale. I gave her ten bucks for ten minutes- but half way through the massage I felt so uncomfortable being rubbed in public that I had to ask her to stop. “Maybe you try more meditation,” she told me as I thanked her for taking some of the stiffness out from my neck and upper back. I paid a psychic fifteen bucks because she told me that she could not sell me enlightenment but she may be able to guide me in the right direction. After fifteen minutes of her sitting still without saying a word she opened up a flood gate of prognostications, that made me feel a bit uncomfortable. She told me of my bad luck and the various ways that my impatience has caused me to make several bad decisions. She told me that soon I would make a career change and that the reason that I have so much stress and tension in my body and life is because I am not getting the recognition in my life that I feel I deserve. She also told me that I am smart and posses an analytical mind which causes me to be unhappy because I am angry at all the less intelligent people who get ahead in life while I remain behind. All of it was too much for me to take. I stopped her in mid sentence as she was saying, “you are getting older and you are afraid that……” I thanked her for her revelations but told her that I felt no closer to finding enlightenment than when I began. She smiled, shut her eyes and I went on my way.

I continued to travel around the fair looking at all the wide eyed Buddhists. In the background music played from the main stage but was muddled by the multiplicity of various voices that traveled through the fair. It felt like the entire city of Berkeley was making their way through those two acres of land. I had to squeeze my way up to booths that seemed like they could be potential sellers of enlightenment. “Do you sell enlightenment here?” I would shout so that the vendor would hear loud and clear what I was trying to say. People would look at me in disbelief as I was told again and again, “no, no enlightenment here.” The afternoon was ending and I could feel the heat being put off by the sun begin to decrease as the sun made way for the moon. Relentlessly, I traveled around from booth to booth determined to find the object of my search. If I could not find enlightenment here where else would I find it? Some vendors who could not sell me enlightenment offered me a good deal on items that may bring me close. I purchased some sandalwood prayer beads and a t-shirt with the “OM” symbol on it. I also purchased some incense and a new meditation cushion, but I knew when I bought these material goods that they were only steps to enlightenment, and not enlightenment itself. With bags containing my new purchases I asked old Tibetan women, sexy Tibetan women, young Tibetan men and older Tibetan men if they knew where I could purchase enlightenment. None did, except one. She pointed her decaying finger callused by such a long life at a lone booth that sat on the top of a hill. The woman without any teeth in her mouth and more wrinkles on her face that that of a redwood tree said, “Up there…he may find it for you.”

I walked toward that booth like a man making his way towards a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. A lone, middle aged Tibetan vendor stood contentedly behind a pile of beautiful Tibetan rugs that had intricate patterns hand woven into them. An array of colorful Tibetan scarves blew in the wind above his head. He stared eagerly at me and I could tell that his eyes had achieved some semblance of nirvana. “Do you sell enlightenment here?” I asked him like an eager pupil. Since he was a little hard of hearing I had to repeat my question. “Enlightenment, do you sell it here?” I asked again. He did not laugh like all the rest. Nor did he look at me with dumbfounded disdain. Instead he opened up the doors of communication by saying, “oooooooh enlightenment, you looking for it here?” “I have been looking for it everywhere,” I replied, feeling some sense of relief overcoming me. Maybe I had finally found a man who can sell it to me, I thought. “You know why you no find enlightenment?” he asked me. “Why?” I replied. “Because you look for it. You need to stop looking for enlightenment and then you will find that it is everywhere….all around you, all the time” I had a brief “aha!” moment, where time stood still and it felt as if I was the center of the universe. I listened to the sounds, smelled the scents and looked around me. For the first time in years  I was free from my desire to find something I did not have. Instead I simply let go and for a brief moment or two I felt something akin to enlightenment. “You not need what is in your bags or on your shelves, just remember the breathing,” the man said in a calm tone as I smiled at him and took a deep inhalation. “Thank you,” I told him, “you have helped me find exactly what I was looking for.” “And it’s even free,” he said and then let out a little laugh.

A Career In Meditation

I like spending a lot of time in stillness. I don’t mind people, but I prefer being left alone. The pleasures of my own mind far out weigh the experience of being around other human beings. I enjoy going on long mental walks, alone. I also enjoy just breathing and watching my own mind fill up with thoughts flashing across the movie screen of my consciousness. Somehow I am fully gratified by this simple experience in the same way that most others would be gratified by going to a movie. I will be honest- in my home there is a closet where I enjoy spending most of my time. I sit in meditation sometimes for hours at a time in darkness, just watching my breath and the thoughts that snake through my neurotic mind. After twenty minutes or so of calming my mind and heart down- I reach a state that some people refer to as PEACE. Everything becomes still. Thoughts stop menacing around in my mind. My cravings calm down and my breathing is so slow that not even a feather would move if you put it under my nose. My lust and ambitions dissolve and I no longer need to do anything or be anywhere. I am a man at peace- alone in the privacy of his own closet.

My wife is having difficulty dealing with the amount of time that I spend closed off from the material world. She thinks that it is abnormal behavior for a grown married man, who is almost 40 years old to be closeted off from the world for such long periods of time. “You should be more ambitious, pursuing a career- and out with friends,” she tells me. I should be devoted to work and wife and striving to achieve the American dream. I try to tell her that I am working on myself so that I can be a better husband, friend, lover and member of society. Most of my life I have struggled with chronic anxiety- and meditating in my closet is my one way to be free. She still thinks that there are better ways of doing this other than holding myself hostage in a closet. I could join a group or go back to school, she suggests but all I want to do is be left alone far from the light of day.

I think one of the reasons why my wife may have wanted to leave me for another man was because of the amount of time I was spending closed off in my closet. Even though I told her that I was practicing meditation (self growth) she saw it as a form of alienation and felt like I was not paying much attention to her. Over the course of many months my wife started getting involved in her own extra curricular activities and eventually was able to get her needs met elsewhere. I on the other hand was able to meet my own needs by sitting in the lotus position, focusing on my breath and being still in darkness. I needed little sexual fulfillment (even though I confess to smoking marijuana a few times in my closet) and I was content enough to simply be alone. My closet became a universe of its own- a reflection of my mind turned inside out.

Recently I have begun to notice that there are no careers in meditation. My wife can understand my need to spend long periods of time in my closet if I am working towards something specific. I asked if she would be more content with the time I spend alone if I was working towards a career in meditation. She told me that would make more practical sense to her. So during the day I have been looking around for careers in meditation, but there are none. There are careers and graduate degrees in everything from taxidermy to vivisection but there is nothing out there for working silently with your own mind. Human beings are a strange species- we value doing experiments on animals and then stuffing them when they die more than we value our own inner peace. I could be a Psychologists or a Psychic, I could be a Yoga Instructor or a Thai Chi Master- but none of these careers appeal too me. I simply want to find work in the field of meditation so that I can spend the majority of my time sitting alone in the darkness of my own closet. I want to teach others how to sit equally still so that I can feel like I am doing something to contribute to a more relaxed world free from all the paranoia. Until I am able to find a way to have a career in meditation I have promised my wife that I will spend less time hidden away in my closet (or else she may threaten to run away again into the arms of yet another man). For the time being I will continue to do things for money that the world (and my wife) thinks of as more pragmatic and maybe go out with a few friends now an then. I will pretend to be normal. This way I will get my wife off my back, but I can promise you dear reader- that when she is not looking I will sneak back into to the wonderful dark world where you will find me sitting alone.

The Man With Green Balls

I have two green balls. They are heavy and round and stuffed with sand. Each one is the size of a soft ball, but one of them has a permanent indentation, which causes it took look like it went through a kind of surgical procedure. I use these balls almost every day to keep myself strong and my posture erect. They weigh five pounds a piece and I was told that if I walk with them in my hands for sixty minutes a day my arms would get a gladiatorial kind of definition. So it has been about a month now that I have been carrying these balls around with me for an hour or so. I go for walks through the city in which I live and do curls with each arm as I walk. The general public stares at me because they are not quite sure what to make of a grown man dressed in civilian clothes walking around with large green balls, but I am past the stage where I care what people think. I know that I am doing something that is good for my health and I realize that there is a price to be paid to achieve a body that looks as if it was carved out of stone.

A month and a half or so ago I took off my jacket in front of a class I was teaching. I was wearing a t-shirt that had sleeves that revealed my slushy biceps. I did not know why my students were saying”ewwwww” and giggling at me all of a sudden until one of my students pointed out that my “flesh jiggled like jelly on my arms” when I took off my jacket. Humiliating. I had not realized that my muscles had become so flaccid until this public humiliation. That evening I returned home and stood in front of a mirror with my shirt off and realized that my months of beer drinking, reading and inactivity had turned my body into an undefined mass of weakened flesh. I immediately became self conscious and started doing as many push ups as I could, which was only three.

I am to young to go muscularly limp. I still have two years until I turn forty and there is no excuse for hanging blubber beneath my arm pits and having biceps that are as soft as a cotton swab. I am a skinny man and if you looked at me with my clothes on you would never know that I was so weak, but the following night (after the public humiliation) when I was naked in bed with my wife, who recently had an affair, I found out that I was loosing sex appeal. “You’re not taking care of your body anymore and your loosing all your muscle tone,” she said as I rolled away from her. “Is this why you had an affair with a younger man?” I asked, well aware of the answer. “It was just a fling. He was an attractive guy and I needed to put some passion back into my sex life since you have not been able to take care of that. Maybe if you develop muscle, it will make you better in bed.” I could not argue with her. For over a year I had been sexually disinterested and allowed not only my muscle but also my sexual passion to dwindle away.

I had not been in a sporting goods store for years but when I was told about the benefits of walking with green balls I immediately went and purchased them. I admit that walking with large green balls in my hands may be an abnormal thing to do, especially for a grown man. In our day and age of conformity and moral righteousness it is difficult to be abnormal or go against the grain without being noticed. I am mortified by the idea of joining a gym or taking an exercise class so instead I have quit drinking for a few months and started walking everyday with my green balls. Police officers stare at me (do they think I could be a terrorist?). People yell out their windows, “freak.” Heads turn everywhere. It is as if I am carrying a bomb or the ten commandments. I can not figure it out for the life of me- I mean they are just large five pound green balls! What is so unusual about green balls? Some brave souls stop me and ask me “what are those?” or “what are you doing with those green things?” Since I am open to meeting new people, I immediately put the balls into their hands and say “see for yourself.” The moment that they feel the weight of the balls in their hands they can understand the function that the balls serve. When I tell them my story and then let them feel my biceps they immediately ask, “where can I get balls like these?”

I have thought about making an exercise video called Walking With Green Balls. My marketing pitch would be “you can not only build arm muscle but you can also build friends, community and attract attention.” Over the past month I have met more people on walks and attracted more attention to myself than ever before. It is almost as if the green balls are people magnets. I do not know if this is the kind of attention that I want to receive, but for now I am okay with being the local freak since I am moving soon. City living is not all that it is cracked up to be. The shared consensus amongst people is that cities are a place for diversity and eccentricity- but if this were true why then is a man who likes to walk with green balls such an aberration? Why all the attention, when my only intention is simply to get in shape so that I can feel better about myself and please my scandalous wife in bed?

In a few months my wife and I are moving to the country. I have tired with city living and all its contradictions. I want clean air, flat land and cows. I want trees, simplicity and anonymity. I want to work on a farm and spend my days in the sun, away from freeways, pedestrians and police cars. My wife is excited about the move and so am I but I am also a little nervous about taking my walks in rural areas with the green balls. I am a tall man with dark skin……..and I fear that the green balls may attract the wrong kind of attention from some crazy hillbilly or rancher. I may have to find other ways of staying in shape- like push ups or an at home Yoga practice. Whatever the case may be, I feel like the green balls have given me back my strength (psychologically and physically). They have served a functional purpose. My arms now have some semblance of definition. My wife is comming on to me more often. I feel like I can face the world (and my students) again with dignity and without a fear of wearing t-shirts. Most importantly, when I now stand naked in front of the mirror- I can see something that may look like sex appeal.

The Parallel Parker

I have always been amazed by one particular ability of mine. I say this with hesitation because there are not many things about myself that amaze me. The fact that I am six foot five amazes me. The fact that my walls are lined with bookshelves filled with books that I have been incapable of finishing amazes me. The fact that I am thirty eight and still confused about what it is that I am going to be when I grow up amazes me. But none of these are talents (I apologize here for using but at the beginning of a sentence. The fact that I am a hypocrite also amazes me, since last Friday in my English class I told my students never to use the word but at the beginning of a sentence). They are more like physical attributes and behavioral characteristics that I have somehow inherited from my parents. However, my ability to parallel park in any spot, no matter how tight- this is a talent that I have developed all on my own.

Ever since I began parallel parking at the age of fifteen, I displayed a natural talent. I learned how to drive in my mothers Cadillac, which was more like an elongated boat rather than an automobile. Getting this vehicle into cramped spots was no easy task (my mothers inability to do so was demonstrated by the large amount of dents on her bumper). I practiced parallel parking in her car for hours at a time, never once indenting her bumper. When I took my drivers test the instructor was impressed by the fluidity with which I snuggled my vehicle in between two park cars. I remember him  saying to me that if I was this graceful at squeezing my way in and out of things that I was going to make a dam good lover to many lucky ladies. Once I received my drivers license I was able to impress my friends and potential lovers with what they began to call my stealth parallel parking abilities. I earned a reputation. For fun most teenagers ride dirt bikes, play sports, go to movies and drink beer….I parallel parked.

I have parallel parked in some of the tightest spots around the world. In piazzas in Italy, on the small cobble stoned streets of Spain, in the desert sand of Israel and in the market places of Thailand and Vietnam. I have parallel parked effortlessly and with mastery. It has taken me a long time to accept that my gift or my greatness is my ability to parallel park. I have always hoped that my greatness was more in the realm of the arts or humanities- but at some point in every mans life he has got to accept the deck of cards that he has been dealt. So I may not be the next Tolstoy or Picasso. I may not create a body of paintings that will be viewed in a modern museum of art or write a book that will be on the New York Times best sellers list but I am content knowing that I can parallel park as well as Picasso, Klee or De Kooning could paint. My greatness will not land me on the cover of a magazine or into the millionaires club but I, and only I- have the satisfaction of knowing that if there was an appreciation for parallel parking in this world…I would go down as one of the greatest parallel parkers that ever lived.

How Facebook Can Help Save Your Life.

I was once terribly disturbed by facebook. I did all I could to avoid it. Despite the fact that almost every individual around was digging deep into facebook- I held out an iron fist. After many months of a stern unwillingness to join the social arena I allowed my wife to convince me of facebooks many attributes and I decided to drop my fist and give it a try. Not long after my honeymoon with facebook had come to a delightful end I found myself obsessively pulled towards the website on an almost hourly basis. I was leaving at least five status updates a day and hearing from past lovers and friends that I had no desire to re-connect with (as much as I am happy to hear that they are alive and well). Facebook was becoming not only an obsession but also an affliction that I was struggling to control. I went out less, socialized with real, corporeal human beings less and began to feel more insecure when I was in public situations. I became so comfortable with hiding behind the facebook platform that my anxiety was easily triggered whenever I found myself in social situations. My habitual usage of facebook became so extreme that my therapist threatened me with and intervention unless I attended a weekly meeting for facebook addicts. It was at this point that I realized I was dealing with a serious addiction. I attended FBAA (Facebook Addiction Anonymous) meetings on a weekly basis and slowly began to sever my unhealthy relationship with the facebook world. I went through months of mourning, a week spent in the woods away from computer access and several detoxes until I was finally able to return to my normal self (which is quite abnormal) in a modern, living, social world- free from the facebook grip.

Months went by without taking a single glance at the facebook homepage. Even though I was tempted every time that I went on line to take a peak at my friends most recent updates I was able to abstain with a combination of a superhuman will and the resolve of a zen monk. I was committed to regaining my confidence by socializing with people in the flesh and by being more engaged in my professional pursuits. Even though I was around people all day I struggled to make friends, which I discovered was not as easy as pushing the “Add Friend” button. Through dozens of consultations with my therapist I learned how to become more comfortable with the sound of my voice, my tall stature and my style of dress (all of which have always been a source of distress for me). Despite the fact that I slowly felt more confident inside my own skin…I was constantly compelled to go back onto facebook and check in with all of my friends because I was feeling very lonely in the real world.

I became conflicted (more so than I already was) and frustrated. It was not as simple for me to communicate with other human beings with honesty and vulnerability as it was for me to do on facebook. Even though I had a strong moral resolve to abstain from my facebook addiction my inner turmoil was become more malignant. Not having a venue to express my deepest thoughts to friends was causing me to feel isolated and constricted. I felt the cloud of a familiar depression following me around wherever I would go and my desire to find the closest computer to log onto facebook with was becoming stronger and stronger. I was going in and out of an FBAA support group but I was well aware of the fact that I had no friends in the real world that I could update about how I was feeling. This resulted in a chronic introversion that left me ten pounds thinner and as tired, isolated and sickly as an old cat.

Then one Sunday, one beautiful Sunday afternoon- I happened upon a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. My gold came in the form of an article written in The New York Times about how having a large community of friends that you can be honest with and that listen to you in return, can extend your life by decades. The article concluded, that several long term research studies had concluded that people with a large friend network not only lived happier lives but also lived healthier and longer lives! I immediately thought about the 56 friends that I had left behind when I retreated from the facebook arena and decided that my current poor health was being caused by my isolation and lack of community. I took the article to my therapist and told her that I was convinced that if used properly and moderately, facebook could save my life.

Initially my therapist thought that my new theory was the ravings of a mad man. After a few consultations and another health scare she decided that there was nothing to loose by seeing if facebook could indeed make me well again. Even though it made perfect sense to me that someone with many friends on facebook  was gaining the same health benefits as someone with the same amount of friends in real life- my therapist remained skeptical but open to learning something new. I persuaded certain family members to support me in my transition into a new relationship with facebook and my sister, my blessed sister, committed to monitoring  facebook homepage in order to make sure that I was not leaving more than one update a day. A contracted was signed between my family, therapist and myself that if I was caught leaving more than one status update a day or spending more than twenty minutes a day on facebook- I would permanently and forever give facebook up.

It has been a month since I began my new relationship with facebook. I have devoted myself to spending my allotted twenty minutes a day on facebook judiciously recruiting new friends, leaving a very honest status update and reading my friends updates (and responding to some). Interestingly, I have noticed that my health has returned to a state of homeostasis and the cloud of depression that followed me around like a bad memory…has all but vanished. Normally, I try to sign onto facebook first thing in the morning or before going to bed for the night. If the study in The New York Times is indeed correct, than I am a living testament to the power of friends. My goal for this summer is to recruit over 200 new friends which I assume will only add to the quality and quantity of my life. It is only a matter of time until I have mastered myself enough that I will be able to spend more time on facebook without becoming addicted (it is my desire to get to a balanced state of being able to leave no more than three status updates a day). The other day my therapist told me that life was a series of trials and transformations. She congratulated me on my personal progress by recognizing that I had regained my confidence, optimism and energy. She is not quite willing to admit that my positive transformation is the result of more friends in my life, but whenever I meet with her now- I always end by saying…. “It really was facebook that saved my life.”

On Being Crazy

Today in the middle of class a student of mine told me that I was crazy. “Mr. R, your crazy,” he said. Just like that, in the middle of a lecture on Franz Kafka’s “The Metamorphosis.” I felt a bit embarrassed about being accused of this in front of my class. I replied with surprise, “what do you mean I am crazy?” “You know what I mean, your crazy,” he said once again looking me straight in the eye. “Why do you say that?” “I don’t know, I just know that you are crazy,” he concluded. He was not one to talk. This particular student has a reputation for being one of the crazier men on campus. He is missing his two front teeth from trying to bite through rocks (while high) and he has a huge scar across his neck, which is a testament to a failed suicide attempt. I could not just stand there in front of a classroom filled with 52 students and take this assault on my reputation. “What do you mean I am crazy, you’re the crazy one,” I said with a strong defensive tone. He stood his ground and simply replied, “I know I am crazy but YOU are the craziest.” The class laughed and all I could do before continuing with my lesson was say “great, so we are both crazy.”

For the rest of the afternoon the idea that I may be crazy has not left my mind. I have been reviewing my past and present behavior to see if there is any validation in my students judgemental claim. I have even gone so far as to ask a few of my co-workers the uncomfortable question, “do you think I am crazy.” Of course all of them told me what I wanted to hear: “no you are not at all crazy,” “I would not use the adjective crazy to describe you,” “definitely not crazy, maybe a little eccentric, but not crazy,” and of course “what! you are one of the saner people that I know.” Ever since I became an adult I have grown less and less trusting of an adults ability to tell the truth, so of course- I hardly believe any of the above claims. I could see in all of my co-workers eyes the truth wanting to come out but their inability to tell me how they really felt, that yes they agree with my student, that “yes, you are crazy,” only restores my belief that if you want the real truth about yourself, ask a teenager.

I don’t understand why it is such a big surprise to me that I am crazy. If I examine my past- it makes perfect sense that I would end up a little mentally unstable. I am the offspring of two Jewish parents who were filled with guilt and high expectations for their less than ambitious son. I let them down on almost a daily basis. They raised me on a golf course (in a suburban country club) where my worst fear was a golf ball hitting me in the head while sitting out by the pool. I had a maid who made my bed and cleaned my room every afternoon and a cook who prepared my meals. My father, who was an angry and violent man, terrorized me with his unstable emotions and always walked around our house naked. I was forced to go to a college that was $60,000 dollars a year and I had know idea what I was doing there. I joined a fraternity that made me eat live goldfish, dog feces and half dead frogs and stick my penis into prostitutes and other things that to this day I am still uncertain about what they were. After college, I developed a panic disorder that kept me confined to my apartment for years and by the age of thirty I was penniless and living in a transient motel. Now close to forty I am just starting to get my footing back. I live in an area where bullets rain down from the sky and sirens have replaced my childhood sounds of blue jays, swaying oak trees and golf swings. Why would I not be a little crazy?

Now that I think about it more, I am crazy. Okay, my student called my bluff today. I have never questioned the brutal honesty of teenagers before today because I have never been subjected to their sharp accusations. My defensiveness was an admission of guilt. Yes, I am guilty of craziness. Some may even agree that I have lost my mind. Maybe it is the transition from the first part of my life being filled with so much wealth and the second half being filled with so much struggle (it ain’t easy to be twenty five years old, living alone in a run down apartment and dropped into a kitchen without a clue on how to cook for yourself). The transition between the two may have jolted my nervous system into imbalance. Add upon that a sensitive disposition that not only feels but wants to end all the sufferings of the world- then yes…..you could call me crazy. And if that was not enough now add the threat of swine flu (I teach at an inner city high school made up of over fifty percent Mexicans- most of whom just arrived back from Mexico after their spring break) and yes, I may be loosing my mind. However, into today’s world, who isn’t guilty of insanity? The lifestyles that we live, the news stories that we bare witness to on a daily basis, the life and death struggles that frame our own existences…..is this not enough to jolt any nervous system into imbalance? As I was leaving my classroom today my student approached me and said “Mr. R, I hope I did not offend you by calling you crazy… I was just messing around.” I stood there in silence for a moment and then I looked at him and said, “I think everyone is a little crazy, don’t you?….and beside who the hell would not want to be crazy. It’s just another way of saying….. your are alive.”

P.s……..I apologize for any grammatical errors or poor sentence structures. Today…I am writing with tooth picks in my eyes (to keep them open) and a strong need to rest my crazy head.

Man In The Box

I am a man in the box. It is a box that I have made myself. It has its own logic and unique structure that took years to conform. It is a stubborn box that does not like to change its shape nor does it like it when I make certain revisions. My box has a very specific idea of the world and it is in this shape that it wants to stay. No matter how much I clean, fix, mend, adjust or renovate- my box always returns to its former state of disarray and disorder. My box is a universe unto itself. It has its own date and time and it does not care if it conflicts with yours or mine. It deviates from almost every norm and code and does not seem to care about such concepts as good or bad, right or wrong. I do know how it is that I have ended up in this box, but now that I am here I feel like I am always struggling to stay alive.

Within my box, I am perpetually alone. I can often hear the discordant sounds that can only be heard when the mind becomes silent. A wind chime that slow dances in the wind, the box settling into the agitated earth, a solitary bird call, a cats yawn or yell, a metallic bird flying overhead, distant voices alive and dead, siren sounds and occasionally I will hear a star falling.  When I am in a mad rush to get my box cleaned and ordered I can no longer hear these wondrous sounds but instead I am lead by anxious thoughts that will not let me just sit down and breathe. The thoughts torment me with the things that need to get done in order for me to become the man that I wish to be. These thought refuse to let me be just who I am and at times my thoughts will fill my mind with sexual fantasies that erect in me a load that I almost always have to release in the bathroom. As I clean my box, these thoughts knock away at me from the deepest rooms of my soul and my only defense is to continue cleaning until I can hear no more. I scrub, wipe, mop, sweep and dry until there is no more dust, dirt, grease mold, bacteria, stains, odors and lingering cobwebs left that I can find. I work my heart into a frenzy in order to free myself from my mind.

It is only when my box is clean and tidy and filled with the luscious odors of gardenias and lavender that I can be still and content. I can then once again hear the stars falling from the sky and my box settling into the agitated earth and now that everything is in its right place, everything is as it should be. Even though outside my box chaos and entropy may be lords inside feels fine. I sit quietly, sometimes in the lotus posture, besides my space heater and feel and listen to the calming expansions and contractions of my own breath. I become drunk on my own breath and sit as calmly and effortlessly as a man without a worry in the world would. It is in this state that I will often times remain for hours or days, content with who and where I am (without a single spark of desire that wishes to be someone else or somewhere else) and proud of the box that I have made.

Unfortunately, one can only sit still for so long before things begin to fall apart. I get back up, dust off my numb and pulsating legs (which I usually have to drink green algae and magnesium to relieve) and notice that my box is no longer as clean as it once was. The cobwebs, dust, dirt, odors, stains, mold and bacteria that were once long gone have returned with vengeance. I immediately return to work. I clean on my hands and knees and can no longer understand the peace that once was mine. I scrub with an effort of determination that wipes away all my joy but still the thoughts that emphasize words like failure, sick, poor, worry and death are relentless and refuse to let my body and soul be. I struggle against the forces that want to take from me what I once had and I end up turning my box into a living hell. In my distress I open windows, light candles, play Mozart and Bach on my record player and force myself to breathe deeply and bring my attention to the gentle notes emanating sounds from violin strings- but my box is shaking with fear and only a few stiff drinks will settle the trembling earth beneath my feet.

Sometimes I have a tendency to drink one to many. I knock into walls and fall onto the floor. My laughter returns from the void and I want to dance. I smoke cigarettes and talk to myself about philosophy, art and politics as if I was engaging three others in stimulating conversation. My thoughts are still and my soul is once again filled with lightness and joy and free to swim around in the swimming pool of inebriation. For hours I will wonder around my box drunk and in love with the world inside my front door.  I look at everything that I own with adoration and gratitude and I celebrate the life that I am living with song and dance. I dwell in my pleasant memories like a lone sailor quietly drifting out to sea and I remember faces from my past with a heart the beats with fond nostalgia. Free from my fears and the burden of daily responsibilities I relish away my time in a drunken revelry like a man who is living his final day to its fullest. When my time is up I will pass out wherever I maybe and in the morning awake with nothing to show for my hours of glory and celebration other than a clouded memory of fun, nausea, aching temples and a lingering thorn of shame and longing somewhere in my gut.

No matter where I go or what I do, in my box I always end up right back where I began. Day turns into night and night again turns into day and I am continuously left alone to deal with who I am. No matter how many distractions I may preoccupy myself with during the course of a day I always come back to the life I am living. My box is stubborn and will not twist or alter its shape no matter how much I change things around. Everyday, like a loyal servant, I clean and open the windows so that light can come into my box and shine against the freshly cleaned walls and floors. but I am always faced with inevitable night that fills my box with darkness. Since I have confronted the irreversible fact that I am stuck in this box, I am learning to become comfortable with these cycles that I have no control over. Even though my box refuses to move, shift, tilt, sway or stretch I can accept the things that are beyond my control. Within my box I can embrace the moments when I am still and at peace as equally as the moments when I am filled with fear and worry and driven into drunkenness. The more I embrace all of my experiences the more I see all of these cycles not as dualities that oppose and work against each other, but rather as textures filled with layers of love, fear, passion and dispassion. This is the continuum that I prefer to think of as life. Within my box I will continue to accept my experience as apart of this continuum and fill my box with love, hate, joy, anger, worry, sadness, bliss, terror and anything else that contributes to my experience of life. I will clean, scrub, care for, and tolerate my box until the day that it is time for me to pack my bags and find another place to live.

Genius and Daemon

Where do the words go? Do the ideas come before the words or do the words give birth to ideas? Whatever the case may be, I can not find either one of them. I have looked everywhere. Under my couch, bed, pillow, stove and refrigerator. I have looked on top of my bookshelves, behind them and even within the dust ridden pages that sit patiently on my bookshelf awaiting a time when they will once again corrupt my mind. I have cleaned out the insides of my car but still found nothing. This is as frustrating for me as when I loose my car keys and have no idea where I put them. I can remember the last time I held them in my hand but I have no idea where they are. It feels like yesterday that I just misplaced my words and ideas, but the irony of my search is that the more I look the harder they are to find.

It is true that the creative process is irrational. There is no sense to it only because the recipient of creativity can not depend upon it being there when he or she awakens in the morning. I remember a time, not to long ago, when words and ideas for stories would come to me as if brought by a divine delivery service. I would be out walking, working in the fields or sitting at a restaurant and I could hear and feel words and ideas for stories coming at me like a thunderous train of air. The ground beneath my feet would begin to shake when the train was not far away and I would run from wherever I was to find paper and a pen so that I could collect the delivery before it passed away. As I grew older and wiser I began carrying paper and pen with me wherever I went so that I would be better equipped to catch the ideas and words before they could escape and fall into the lap of the next available Writer. As some of you may know, the divine delivery service is impatient and does not care if you are in the middle of dinner with friends, on a nice leisurely walk or riding your bike along a tall cliff. You are a slave to its delivery times, and for someone like myself- the packages where coming quite frequently. I look back on this period of my life with fondness and realize that as an aspiring Writer this was my golden age, and age that seems to now be hiding from the sun.

The Greeks and Romans believed that creativity was a divine attendant spirit that came to human beings from some distant unknowable source for some distant and unknowable reasons. Greeks called these divine attendant spirits of creativity Daemons. Socrates believed that he had a Daemon that spoke wisdom to him from afar. Romans referred to this disembodied creative spirit as a Genius. They believed that a Genius was a magical divine entity that literally lived in the walls of an artists studio and came out to help the artist shape the final art work. In our contemporary time we seem to put the emphasis of creativity all upon the artist (rather than see them as merely a vessel, a cup if you will) and rarely think of the artist as a normal individual with aches and pains just like all others. The only difference between the artist and everyone else, is that the artist receives deliveries from these divine attendant spirits. This may be why we look upon artists as depressive, struggling, idealists who drink too much and live not long enough- we fail to realize how much grief is caused when the delivery service stops showing up and they become normal human mortals again.

It is true, for months I have felt lighter, as if a part of my soul or spirit has stepped out for a stroll. I am not drinking more or becoming more self deprecating because of my loss, but I find myself searching a lot more than I did before. It is almost as if I lost something but I do not know what. Could it be that I am missing my Daemon or my Genius? Have my divine attendant spirits left me for another? This is another one of life’s big questions that I have no answer to, but I do know that I have spent days listening for that thunderous train of air. I will go for long walks or bike rides with my pen and paper in hand, awaiting the sensation of the ground shaking beneath my eager feet. I will sit in restaurants with friends trying to get lost in conversation, or deliberately put myself into preoccupying situations so that I can be surprised by the furious rumble that always used to unleash a tidal wave of words and ideas upon my soul- but I am always waiting in vain. Like a lover who waits everyday for the mail so as to know that their beloved is still alive, I dangle the pen in my hand, flip through the blank pages in my notebook and anticipate what seems to no longer be coming.

Some say that absence makes the heart grow fonder but I say that it can also make the mind mad. I am cleaning my house twice a day and checking spaces that I have checked numerous times before. I have starting talking to myself in public and wherever I am, I look around hoping that I will find something that no one else can see. I travel to the strangest places in my mind and spend hours driving around in my car like a man looking for a run away pet. Maybe the words and ideas that I have lost will come to me in the least expected of places, I tell myself as I search. My wife once told me when I was searching for a wallet that I could not find, you can never look to hard for something that you desperately want to find, and so with the determination of a man who believes that the best years of his writing career are still in front of him, everywhere I go I am searching for those words and ideas that once roamed so freely in the sanctity of my creative mind.

I have started an altar in the corner of my room. On it is an orange and a banana and the words Genius and Daemon writing in black ink and stuck in two small frames. Every morning when I wake up without my creativity I light a candle and sit in front of the altar. I say a few prayers, I make the offering of fruit and then I start to beg. I beg for Genius and/or Daemon to return to me. I beg for them not to leave me alone as an ordinary mortal in this world of mediocrity and nine to five work sentences. I make pledges that I will commit myself to my writing so that I can write books that will enlighten hundreds of thousands of minds. No longer will I neglect writing for days. No longer will I say that I am a Writer when I never re-write. I confess all of my writing sins and with my hands held in-between the palms of my hands, I cry a little and ask for forgiveness. When I am done with my holly supplications I blow out the candle, thank Genius and Daemon for their time and then shower and dress for the long day in-front of me. My hope is that today I will find a word or idea that will get a story rolling. Even better, I hope that I will hear that thunderous train of words and ideas approaching when I least expect it. If hope is what keeps a man alive than I will continue to hope and pray that today will be the day that my search will end and I can sit down and write the stories I was born to tell.

The Sex Life Of A Computer And A Man.

I have decided that I am having an unhealthy sexual relationship with my computer. As much as I want to deny this fact, I can not because it is truth. If I really contemplate the nature of this relationship I can tell that it has been going on for a really long time. Much longer than I would like to admit. Unlike most relationships, my sexual relationship has become more addictive as time has passed by. What once was a once a month or so sexual interaction, has become almost daily at this juncture in my life. The relationship is one sided, I do most of the work while the computer simply projects images of my sexual fantasies onto the screen. When I am finished having a sexual interaction with my computer I almost always feel a pound of guilt and shame, like I am doing something I should not be doing or should be doing with my wife rather than alone behind a locked door.

Tomorrow I have decided that the relationship will end. Today will be our final sexual interaction and then tomorrow I will block any sexual information or imagery from coming through my computer. I know that this is a rather sudden and harsh measure to take considering the duration of our sexual relationship, but I feel like this is something I must do. I will do it over lunch. I will take my computer with me to a very nice café and do it after I write a few emails and check my facebook account and blog. I found a sex blocking program on the internet that will take about five minutes to download onto my computer. As the program is downloading I will explain to my computer that I am a different kind of man now. I will tell it that I no longer want a life where I am pre-occupied with our sexual interactions. I want a life where I am in charge and focused upon my wife, work and personal growth. With all of my linguistic acumen I will try to get my computer to understand that the sex life we share is bringing me down and making me feel like a loser. It just is not healthy for a thirty eight year old male to be having such an obsessive sex life with his computer. I need real physical interaction rather than simulated sex and I only hope that my computer will be able to understand this conflict of interests.

I have a feeling that I already know how my computer is going to respond. It will malfunction for a while causing words to be typed in incorrect spaces and the screen to go out when I am in the middle of doing something important. In the past when my computer and I have been through similar situations it has always malfunctioned either to get my attention or to punish me for what I have done to it. It is annoying and I usually have to take my computer to a shop, spend lots of money to get it fixed- but I figure that if I can forever stop having sexual relations with my computer that it will be well worth the financial investment.

My therapist and I figured out that so much of my valuable time is taken up by having a sexual relationship with my computer. For a week I kept track of the time that I spent sexually engaged with my computer and the final results were shocking. I could spend this valuable time working on a novel, making a painting, sitting in meditation, walking in nature, making love to my wife- but instead I have been choosing sex with a computer. Even though I have tried this kind of break-up many times before with my computer, what will be different this time is that I realize how big a toll my sex life with a computer is taking on the rest of my life! The last time that I tried to break-up with my computer I was not armed with a therapist, self- awareness and a program to download onto my computer that will block anything sexual from coming through. This time, unlike times in the past, I am well prepared for the task at hand.

Deep down, I know that I have the talent needed to manifest my dreams. I just lack the work ethic. I am lazy and will come up with the most elaborate distractions to avoid doing the work that I need to do in order to manifest a dream or two. For a time longer that I care to admit I have been sexually using my computer as a device of distraction. Rather than sitting down at my computer and composing the novel that I desperately dream of beginning, I take off my clothes and sit naked in front of my computer instead. If you would of told me as a self obsessed teenager that I would still be doing this kind of stuff as an older man I would of taken boy scouts much more seriously and tried my hardest to make myself into an honest young man. But instead here I am some twenty or so years later still struggling with similar issues as I was when young. I do not suffer from the same degree of guilt and shame as I did when I was young (because I know that I am not a bad person) nor do I live in fear of hair growing out from the palm of my hands. Now I have a degree of extra confidence and I am able to express my needs without the fear of rejection. Even though ending this sexual relationship with my computer will be difficult, I have faith in my ability to end relationships that are no longer good for me. I have done this with many people before and I can’t see why now I should not be able to do this same thing with my computer.

My therapist tells me that ending the relationship will not be the hard part but staying away from sexual interactions with my computer over time and re-placing it with healthier interactions like emailing, facebook or blogging, will be the real challenge. I have already started a facebook account and I am now blogging more than I have in the past. I have been conditioned (a Pavlovian response) to get an erection every time that I sit down in front of my computer because I have had such a dominate sexual relationship with it in the past. In the future when this occurs, my therapists recommends that I take deep breaths, ignore my erection and over time I will not have sexual impulse-responses each and every time I sit in front of a computer screen. So starting tomorrow, my intention is set- no more sex with my computer. It is going to be a hard break-up, I know, but in the long run it will be best for both of us. My mother always told me that time will heal all wounds and strengthen the spirit and heart- for the first time in my life I am going to hope that my mom knew what she was talking about.

Transcendental Drinking

For more time than I care to think back upon, I have been seeking enlightenment. I have looked for it in more places than you could imagine. I have engaged in various pathways to personal liberation such as silent meditation retreats, aura balancing workshops, weekly psychoanalysis consultations, mantra gatherings, daily morning meditation sessions and on and on. At one time I even sold everything that I owned and lived in a shack in the country for three years. I have hundreds of books piled in the corners of my small apartment that focus upon themes such as inner peace, mindfulness, destroying fear, living in balance, the power of the now and meditation. In every available spiritual crevice I have stuck my head, still after all these years- nothing has brought me closer to enlightenment than two beers and a shot of whiskey.

It was Ben Franklin who said that beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy. If what Ben says is true than maybe he was on to something. It has been well documented that Ben Franklin read eastern philosophy and dabbled in the esoteric arts. Various historians say that Ben Franklin was interested in magic and others have written widely upon his interest in trying to transcend his reality through various spiritual modalities. One historical account that I was reading of Ben Franklin the other day, said that nothing was as effective as beer for Mr. Franklin to reach the desired state of enlightenment. This is why he is often referred to as the transcendental drinker.

Like Mr. Franklin, I consider myself to be a transcendental drinker. In all my many years of spiritual investigations, nothing has had the ability to center me like booze. Every day, through my various retinue of spiritual supplications, I strive to reach a state of being where I am free from anxiety, fear, worry and my chronic feelings of inadequacy. I do my daily mantras, breathing exercises, yoga postures and prayers- but still I am left with a lingering sense of the apprehension and negative emotions that I strive so hard to transcend. But when I drink (which is a daily practice of mine as well) within twenty minutes or after the second beer, my thoughts come to a halt, my fear is silenced and my normally guarded, anxious, angry and uptight personality is put away. Out will come a more outgoing me that has no problem talking freely with strangers. After a shot of whiskey to wash the final residue of my second beer away, I am fully grounded in the present moment without a worry in the world. The earth upon which I struggle on a daily basis is turned into a paradise and I am as close to being in the same state as any transcendent spiritual master I have ever read about. I become (for a few hours at least) what I would like to call- enlightened.

Living Underwater

It does not take a perceptive individual to be able to see that the world and everyone within this world is in great danger. From the toxins flying freely in the air to the life denying wars and corporate greed- antagonists of life such as global warming, violence, disease and recessions are here to stay for awhile. I had a Teacher once, many years ago, who taught me the fundamental law of life on earth. He taught that human beings are the microcosm of the larger world environment, which is the macrocosm. If the inner condition of human being is sick and run down the outer conditions of the world will be a direct reflection of this inner malaise. This theory works the other way around as well- if the outer world environment is ill so is our inner human environment. One is directly connected to the other, and the idea that our actions are separate from the larger world environment is simply misguided and the single reason why these current global problems are going to stick around for awhile.

I have tried to cultivate wisdom, love and good health within myself- with the expectation that somehow this will save the world from what seems to be her inevitable end (as we know it). But all of my attempts seem futile considering that all around me, I see things and people in a million little pieces of dis-repair. The skies are filled with smog, the news is filled with violence, war and economic recession on an hourly basis. The school in which I teach is filled with a poverty so overwhelming, that ants are currently eating away at the desks in  classroom.

Two weeks ago I read an article about the health benefits of spending time underwater. Not only does spending two minutes a day underwater improve your stress levels but it also induces a sense of over all well being that is said to cure high blood pressure, panic disorder, OCD, fibromyalgia, connective tissue disorders, arthritis, migraines, diabetes type one and various other bronchial and cardiac stress induced disease. Considering that I am a reflection of the world around me, it is only natural to understand why I experience a variety of health challenges. Like any individual who is determined to get well, I drink wine and beer on a nightly basis, do Yoga, masturbate at least twice a week, watch what I eat and take on any other life style changes that may add to my inner sense of well being. Oh, I also have been living, underwater.

All day long I look forward to the time that I will spend in my tub. When I make it home through the smog and grid lock traffic, I immediately run into the bathroom and start running the warm bath water before I have even put down my work day baggage. All day long between the screaming teenagers and the demanding administration, I have been dreaming about the time I will be spending underwater. The thought of being underwater pulls me forward like the most irresistible force of entropy. When I am finally home, and the bath tub is barley filled- I strip down into the nude, fill the tub with lavender salts and then plop right in.

My wife has been concerned because I have not been eating dinner lately since I am spending so much time in my tub (I do not like to eat at night because food in my system gives me cramps when I am underwater). On some days, I will spend up to six hours underwater. I will use a large straw as my underwater breathing device and I will lie still in the sanctity of my tub, until my skin becomes so water logged that I have no choice but to get out and go to bed. When I am underwater I feel like the outer world is washed away and my inner world is filled up with a sense of crystalline equanimity. I am a man at peace, desiring nothing and needing to go nowhere; like a holly Samana on a spiritual journey, I am able to dwell in the calm abode within myself. I have often thought that the reason why spending so much time living underwater is so helpful for me is because it reminds me of being in my mothers womb. My mother told me once that when I was born I resisted coming out with all my might (she could feel my little hands grabbing onto the sides of her uterus), and after twenty one hours of radical resistance the powers that be were able to yank me into a world that was not as wet and warm.

If I could live underwater I would. I would stay in my tub all day in the silence of the underwater world. Unfortunately, man can not make a living in the underwater world and he must come up for air once in awhile (so that he can afford the tub and the water in which he rests). So I live a divided life. Part of my day is spent in the world of human aspirations. I pass on my fragmented knowledge to the youth of America and in return receive enough money to be considered upper lower class Teacher with some cultural legitimacy. I am able to afford rent on a decent sized abode in the ghetto, the pets that I love and the wife that I adore. The world of human aspirations occupies half of my waking time, but when I am done with that transitory world- I say good bye to my wife, my work, my writing, my birds, my cats, my dog and I fill up my tub and enter into the underwater world. It is here, in the sanctity of my tub, that I am fully myself, fully at peace in the nude. I lie on my back looking up at the world through my clouded speedo goggles with a feeling of deep reassurance that what I am doing is not only good for me but also for the larger macrocosm, which is a direct reflection of a man who is living underwater.

The Man Who Pissed A Miracle

Three weeks ago I peed upon a large plot of dirt that was located behind my parents home. I was locked out and had to go. The large plot of dirt was the only piece of land on my parents property that was not touched by landscaping. My father had wanted to build a Japanese tea garden on the dirt plot but because of the recent economic recession he had decided to wait it out. I was in my parents neighborhood that day (I went to a job interview) and I decided to stop in. Not only was I hoping to borrow some money but I desperately needed to use the toilet. When I found no one at home- I had no choice but to pee on their small piece of land.

When nature calls it is difficult for man or woman to ignore the call. The twentieth century was filled with magnificent inventions that attempted to bypass natures call. Somehow humans thought that if they could be ingenious enough to trick nature then maybe they could be in control. I however have difficulty ignoring the call of the wild. I prefer to listen and respond when necessary. Possibly a great deal of my anxiety stems from the fact that I am too tuned into nature but this seems to be a disposition that I was born with. That day under the sun and in the quietude of my parents back yard, I peed without any thought about the personal violation I may have been committing. When I was finished watering the dirt I zipped up my pants and drove back to my home.

Today I returned to my parents home and was stunned by what I saw. In the very plot of dirt where I peed three weeks before grew a gorgeous lemon tree. My father and I stood in silence under the spring time sun staring at this lemon tree that had grown over four feet tall- in no time. Full grown lemons sat perched upon the end of its branches and a yellow hue highlighted the trees fluorescent leaves. For a few minutes all thoughts about my peeing in this spot three weeks before escaped me. I asked my father if he was sure that the gardeners did not plant this tree. He told me that he was cutting expenses for the time being and one of those expenses was the gardener. No one had worked on this land for months. My mother came out with a cup of iced tea in her hand and said “isn’t it amazing!!” I looked at my mom and said, “how could this be?” My father picked a lemon from the tree and handed it to me. It was the most beautiful lemon I had ever seen. I could smell it before it was in the palm of my hand. “Amazing,” was all I could say.

And then I remembered that three weeks before I had taken a piss in the same place where the lemon tree now stood. I questioned myself for a few minutes trying to convince myself that the tree must of been here before I peed. It was not. There was no way to explain what was before my eyes other than that my urine had given birth to this lemon tree. How this could be escapes my rational mind but I remember when I gave a urine sample to my doctor a few months ago he told me it was the most nutrient dense urine he had ever seen. “It almost reminds me of lemon juice,” he said. I thought nothing of this remark until today. As I stood besides the lemon tree with my mother and father I was shocked by the possible power of my pee. I wanted to tell them that I may know the reason why the tree is there. They may be upset that I peed upon their valuable land but when they found out what their son’s urine could achieve- all hurt feelings would possibly turn into an emotion of awe towards the holly man who was their son. Finally they would think that after 37 years of failure on earth- I had made something out of myself. As my mother stood there repeating, “incredible” over and over- I remained silent afraid that if I took the risk and told the truth as I saw it I would never be allowed to come home again. My father went inside and got his camera and for the rest of the day I pretended to be as surprised as they were about this strange lemon tree that grew from my pee.

The Man With A Beer Butt

This may seem a bit ridiculous to you, but for me it has become a serious problem. For many years, I have lived comfortably with my beer butt, but now that I am entering middle age and my metabolism is slowing- my body is becoming disproportionate. I am a tall man. A very tall man. To make things even stranger I am quite skinny, maybe even skinny enough to be used as a toothpick between god’s teeth. Having a large behind is not flattering for a relatively handsome man such as myself. It looks oddly out of balance with the rest of my body and almost makes me look like I stuff crumpled up t-shirts in the butt of my pants. When I am out in public I am starting to receive more questioning or maligned stares from strangers, and the collection of women who once found me moderately attractive, seem to stare at my beer butt and then quickly look away.

I will admit. It is strange to see a tall, skinny man with a rather well proportioned face, with a huge ass. Like a cat that is confused by the strange creature in front of it, people seem confused by what they see when they look at me. They notice that something is off, not quite right- but it appears that they do not know if what they are seeing is a practical joke being played upon them or the hard and often troubling truth of reality. My family seems to have a bit more empathy for my condition but I have noticed that my father refuses to look at me and my sister seems a little disgusted. When I am around my family I feel as if they are thinking, “how could you have let yourself go like this! Once you had so much that you could of achieved with your looks and now you have let it all go.” I do not mind their scorn since I can not expect everyone to love me for who I am- but I will not argue the fact that my beer butt is becoming a bit of a problem.

I started noticing the beer going to my butt about five years ago, around the age of thirty. Prior to that I had been drinking beer regularly without it ever affecting my physique. I always considered myself one of the fortunate few who could drink excessive amounts of beer on a regular basis without any collateral damage to my form. It was a luxury that I took advantage of in a world where people who love beer usually pay for it in the belly. The beer belly is one of the most loved and dreaded physical features in our society, and I was always relieved that I did not have to carry around that bulging symbol of my love for beer. But like my grandpa always used to say, “karma is a bitch, son.” Once I hit thirty I became more self conscious of my belly. To ward of any possible collection of fat I would do obscene amounts of push-ups everyday and after a night of drinking a dozen beers I would fast the following day. I knew that with age comes a breakdown of bodily functions- and I wanted to meet this breakdown with the devotion of a man who is committed to eternal youth.

But the fat followed, despite my attempts to keep it away. My girlfriend at the time was shocked to see my normally non-existent skinny ass grow into a bit of a hump. There was something in the ass of my pants that had not been there before and for a few months I found my self confidence increase as I found myself getting more female attention (a man can not underestimate the power of an ass). All of my pants squeezed my swelling butt into a particular position that made it look more appealing to the eye. This, of course is the optical illusion of tight pants, because when I took off my pants and looked at my butt in the mirror I was concerned to see the collection of what appeared to be two mounds of sagging fat. I was only mildly concerned at first but as I continued to gain my weight in my rear end and not in my stomach- I started to think that something was seriously wrong.

Of course, I never considered quiting beer. Beer for me has always been a form of medication (and meditation) that I am not sure that I can live without. I realize the alcoholic implications of saying that I need to drink beer, but I rationalize my beer drinking by telling myself and others that not only is beer low in alcohol content but I also drink only top quality artisanal ale. However, I am getting to the point where my rationalizations are no longer working for me. My ass has gotten so large that I am constantly in a state of discomfort. Not only do I look ridiculous but I have become an aberration- a freak. I am almost certain that if I continue drinking beer I will end up in one of those Diane Arbus type picture books of oddities. The doctor that I have visited has told me that I have a strange chromosomal “mismatching disorder,” which causes fat to collect in my rear rather than my stomach. I am told that this often happens to women, not men, and the doctor seems to think that I have incorrectly acquired a female chromosome that has caused this ailment to occur. I have indeed always prided myself on being a man who is connected with his feminine side- but this seems to be to extreme of a price to pay.

So, I will make two major New Year’s resolutions for 2009. The first one will be to take up a very serious meditation practice (even though sitting on the meditation cushion with my beer butt has become very uncomfortable for me). I want to really develop the skill to be fully present in my life without any worry, fear, dis-satisfaction and hopelessness. I want to be able to take control of my thoughts rather than having my thoughts control me. I no longer want to judge myself for the man that I have become and I want to be able to accept my butt for exactly what it is- big, strange and a pain in the ass. The second New Year’s resolution that I will make is to significantly cut back on my beer drinking. I have been perpetually escaping from my discomfort by drinking beer for almost twenty five years now. Like every vice will eventually do, my beer drinking habit has caught up with me and literally bit me in the ass. As much as I enjoy the inebriated state, the physical repercussions of my vice out weigh the pleasurable attributes. I am aware that it will not be easy to drastically decrease the amount of beer that I consume, but I believe that fear is the greatest motivator. I am terrified that my butt will get to a weight where I can no longer stand or fit through a door. I am aware that in my youth I always made fun of people who suffered from an obese disposition and now in my middle age, I can not get my grandfathers nagging words out of my head, “karma is a bitch, son.”

Recession Depression

My father has been in bed for ten days now. He is not a man in his prime, but he is not yet old enough to be acting infirm and/or terminal. All of my life, I have never known him to sleep more than six hours a night, and taking naps or staying in his room during the day light hours, was always considered an act of sacrilege. Instead, my father always believed that time was money and the thirty-five years that he spent working as a Podiatrist, earned him enough money to have an abundance of time. Along the course of his economic life, he made some smart investments that allowed me to grow up in a gated community and drive a luxury sports car at the age of sixteen. He was always a strong supporter of capitalism and he lived to make money- and make money is exactly what he did well. Now three houses later and a dwindling expense account that is causing him to struggle to support my mother and their luxurious lifestyle- he has given up. I try to talk to him (to make him feel more fortunate) about the cholera outbreak in Zimbabwe, the conditions that immigrants live in, the struggle for survival that most children currently live through- but he does not want to hear my attempts to help him feel redeemed. Instead, all he can do is think about the thirty three million dollars that he has lost in such a small amount of time.

My mother and I are both struggling to get him to walk. He has been lying supine (on his back) in bed and staring at the ceiling since he resigned himself to his bedroom ten days ago. We keep his legs elevated on two down pillows and my mother keeps the comforter up to his chin (so that he does not catch a cold). He speaks little and when I talk to him about genocide, war or global warming (he was always interested in these subjects) all he seems to say is, “they took my money and built a jail.” He can’t understand how an American self-made multi-millionaire, who has worked hard his whole life and then lost everything in the stock market- could be left to bleed, while the government continues to put hundreds of millions of dollars into building jails. “The government bails out corporations but not those who are and have always been its backbone,” he repeats. I have talked to a therapist about my father’s condition and she feels like he is suffering from a deep feeling of betrayal. “This is a chronic psychological condition that a lot of Americans are suffering through currently,” she told me. He never thought for a moment that his entire fortune would be permitted by the United States government to “go up in smoke,” simply because a few idiots dropped the economic ball. Now, my father curses these negligent men in suits, and he stares at the ceiling, not knowing, what he is going to do or whom he is going to trust.

I go to my parents home every few days (it is close to where I live) and spend a few hours with my dad. I have noticed that the gardener has not been coming as often and there is no longer a live in maid. A refrigerator that was always filled with fresh food is suffering from neglect, and the house is cold because my father will not let my mother run the heat. “What am I going to do son?” he says as he looks at me with clear trepidation in his eyes. “I am a man in jail and I don’t know how to get out.” I try to talk to him about metaphysics and psychology. I tell him that a man is in jail only because he chooses to be. No one can put him there. “We create our jails from the inside out, from the ways in which we choose to think,” I say. “Humans have the remarkable ability to be confined behind bars, living in cardboard boxes or stuck in terrible holocausts and still feel free and happy. It is all in how you choose to focus or think about your life, your environment and your world. This singular ability is what makes human beings unique and durable.” My father has never been one for new age speculation or alchemical realizations. Even though he has seen the film The Secret twice, he looked at me and said “easy to say son when you have not lost everything you have worked your whole life for.”

To take my father’s mind off his current uncertain predicament, I have been reading him Kafka short stories, T.S. Elliot poems and a section from 2666 (a novel I am currently reading). I get the sense that his mind becomes more syncopated, less forlorn, when I read to him. He seems to be lying in front of me in a state of peace, a man not yet dead, but also still unsure if he is willing to remain alive. I try and suggest that we take a walk, but he says, “there is nowhere to go son. Everything is closing in.” I suggest that we have a family dinner at his favorite restaurant, but he replies, “I would rather not go where I can no longer afford to be.” His voice is slow and lugubrious and reminds me of the sound of a man who is recovering from a serious mugging. For some reason, he feels as if losing his treasure chest is akin to losing his life- and I am trying desperately to make him understand, there is life after cash.

Years ago, when I decided to become a writer (or when becoming a writer decided me); I gave up on the pursuit of money. Instead, I resigned myself to being financially idle and made peace with the fact that I would never earn much cash. While the nineties and first few years of the twenty-first century seemed to me to be overly excessive, I was struggling through the worst personal recession of my life. I worked in bagel shops, cafes, shoe stores, mortuaries and restaurants. I refused to take, or ask for money from my parents, who seemed to be always vacationing. They resented me for abandoning the family obsession with achieving high social status, and they thought I was foolish to try and write fiction for a living. As I age (and am yet to see any economic harvest from my fiction) I am realizing that there was some practical truth to their literary disdain. But now, I find myself in an unusual predicament. My inheritance has dissolved before I could get my greedy hands upon it, my father wont get out of bed because he is unwilling to face the fact that he might be poor- and frankly, I am getting fed up with my father’s and every one else’s recession depression. To be so dependent upon your fortune, that when it disappears, you loose all lust for life- is an American mental illness that is wreaking havoc on our entire collective psyche. Life can be just as wonderful, if not more wonderful without the cash, cars, houses and corporations. I am personally insulted that now, as the middle class, the upper class, and the corporate elite are strapped for cash- they seem to be worrying about becoming poor. I have been living as an economically poor man in recession for many years, and frankly, there is not a dam thing that I do not love about it (well, maybe this is not true, but it sounded like a good way to end this paragraph).

It is only a matter of time, before I impose my frustration upon my father. I am going to tell him to get himself together and pull himself out of his self-induced pity party. I will give him a few more days to mourn his loss, and get over his illusory American dream. Then I will get real, serious and specific. I will remind him of his health and his wife’s good health. I will remind him of his beautiful son and daughter. I will remind him of the sound of the swaying and enduring redwood trees, where hopeful birds make their homes, right outside his bedroom window. Somehow, I will find a way to bring him back to the world of the living, which eventually I know will be much more fulfilling than his priority corrupting thirty three million dollars ever was. I am determined to resuscitate my father, to put air back into his wilted soul, and help him to see that this economic crisis is really the greatest gift he has ever received.

Mad At Leaves.

I dread the fall. I count down the days until its arrival. When I see the trees begin to shed their leaves, I noticed my anxiety levels rising. I develop rashes and a temper. My chest constricts and I start to drink hard alcohol. I drink to pacify my anger and remove the tension that is building up beneath my flesh; to expel the demon that feels as if they have their hands around my throat. You see, I have a strong need for order. Living in a world that has become as chaotic, impulsive and on the brink of collapse as our world is, I need a space in which everything appears to be safe, secure and under control. An island of sanity. This island happens to be my home. I maintain my home like priest would an alter. In fact my home is my alter, my sacred space. Not a hair of dust collects anywhere on property without me cleaning it away, and I am proud to say that everything is in its right place when I come home. Order reigns in my kingdom.

Outside of my home is a different story. I am a victim of the seasons. The spring, summer and winter months are not terribly challenging. My front and back yard can maintain the appearance of order with only a modicum of work (I have a small front and back yard). In the spring and summer I feel the greatest sense of well being because my yard is populated with all kinds of fragrant and alive flowers and plants. Coming home after a long day in the chaotic world is a transcendental experience. My drinking and anger all decrease in the spring and summer months, and I am inhibited by a general sense of equanimity and well being. Various ailments that I suffer from pass away and I return to what my homeopath refers to as a state of homeostasis. It is only in the final weeks of summer, when there is a particular lingering scent in the air, that my dread of the fall starts to come forth.

I purchase rakes, blowers, lawn mowers and tree nets- anything to stop the downpour of leaves onto my property. But by mid-fall my attempts at mitigating the amount of leaves drifting into my yard seems futile. There are large collections of yellow, red and orange leaves everywhere. They fill my rain gutters and cover my lawn. They blow onto my windows and stick there as if they were trying to tease me. My one man battle against the leaves is a war that can not be won- so I take to the bottle. When I return home from work in the chaotic world, coming home is no longer the transcendental experience that I need it to be. Instead, I feel a fury constricting my chest as I notice the pile and piles of dead leaves strewn all across my front yard and dangling from the edges of the house. My initial reaction is to immediately grab a rake and start to clean my yard of the leaves, but the wind always blows more leaves over from my neighbors yard, and all I can do is get really mad at the leaves.

I kick them. I curse them. I wrestles them and I take them in my hands and slowly destroy them. I stick them in my mouth and crunch them up into little pieces and then spit them out in the street. I dump them in garbage cans and then climb in and enjoyably crush them like grapes. I dance around in the garbage can like a man who has been victorious in battle. But then, as I dance, the wind always blows more leaves into my yard. My momentary expressions of anger seem to do little to alleviate the disorder that collects on my property. Sure, I feel good for a moment, feeling like I am getting revenge, but this does not last long. I throw the rake down, go into my home, where I cover all the windows so that I do not have to see outside, and I start to drink and clean. Raking, working, drinking and cleaning. This is my life in the fall.

There is a support group that I go to once a week for men who are mad at leaves. All the men in the group are home owners, except for me (I rent). They all have worked hard their entire life, making great sacrifices, so that they could own a home. The majority of men in my group say that the reason why they worked so hard to own a home, is so that they could feel in charge, in control over their piece of property. Men seem to face the threat of daily dis-empowerment in our chaotic and technological world and owning a home allows a man to feel like a king. The men in my group spend their off time working on their homes. Their home is their passion and temple. They receive a general sense of well being from the order they can create in their homes, from achieving man over nature. However, in the fall we come together and express our anger towards the leaves, which are robing us of our achievements. Risdin, who is the facilitator of the group, suggests to us that all of our insecurities are being brought out by the leaves. “Our homes are our attempts to create a semblance of control in a world that is chaotic and out of control. Our homes are how we try to not be helpless victims of divine or universal law, in which we are all victims of chance. The leaves are making us aware of just how little control we have, and we do not like how this feels,” Risdin says. Some of the men seem to be uncomfortable with this new age speculation, they just want to come to the group and vent their fury. However, the group is a productive way for me to expel and learn how to deal with my deep, resentful anger towards the leaves.

We do all kinds of projects in the group. We bring leaves from our property and play pin the leaf on the mad man. This may seem silly at first but it helps all of us to laugh at the object of our hate. We also have been doing art projects with the leaves. We make collages and paintings using the leaves from our yards. The idea is to create beauty from hate since Risdin believes that hate is a seed for love. “As you paint with the leaves I want you to see into the heart of things, the truth of things…really see, like seeing into metal and making it melt. See that these leaves have a deeper structure, which is there to teach you something about yourself. If you can interact with the leaves in a more positive way, you can change your behavior towards your environment,” Risdin says. So we make art with leaves, we play games with leaves, we meditate with leaves, we even talk to the leaves and we go to each others homes, where we sit and talk to one another in a pile of leaves. As ridiculous as this all may seem- I am actually noticing that it is helping.

When I return home from my men’s group I am less angered at the collection of leaves on my lawn and in my driveway. I remember what Risdin constantly tells us, “We create our own experience by controlling the thoughts in our head.” I try to think positive thoughts rather than the standard thought process that I normally have: these fucking leaves are fucking up my whole life, ruining my life! Why the fuck wont these leaves go away!! They are making my house look so ugly and destroying my temple!!! I hate these fucking leaves!!!! I am going to rake them up and destroy them!!!!! Crumple them into a million little pieces and then dump them in the garbage where they belong!!!!!! Dam these fucking leaves!!!!!!! Why wont they just leave me alone? Instead, I am learning to control my thoughts, and say to myself as I pull into my driveway: I am home and I am so fortunate to have a home. Look at all the beautiful leaves on my lawn and in my driveway. So nice to see nature playing itself out where I live. I am so fortunate to be able to witness the cycles of nature and to be apart of them. These leaves are collecting now on this land just like they have for thousands of years. Like all things that exist, the wind will eventually blow them all away.

Jumping Into Buddhism

I’ve got to be quick because I do not have much patience for writing at the moment. I would rather be standing on my head, or sitting silently in the lotus posture. I have piles of laundry that need to get done, and six novels that are all partially unread. Writing is only an inconvenience at the moment, but when the muse taps me on the head with his or her lancet filled with a plethora of ideas- I have no choice but to sit down and write. However, today I am writing about no big idea. My subject matter does not come from the magical wave of a muse’s wand. Rather, it comes from my own stupidity and desperation, my own inability to cope with being inside of my own body and mind. Let me explain.

Lately, I have noticed that I have been carrying around a lot of tension. I feel as if everyone is nagging me whenever they talk to me. If they are not nagging me, then I am almost certain that they want something from me. Under my breath I am finding that I am mumbling Sartre’s dictum that “hell, is other people.” I do not like that I am thinking this sentiment, because I desperately want to love and accept all people, including myself. But most of the time, this is an incredibly difficult objective to obtain. Instead, every word that someone else says causes an organ in my body to do strange contortions. When I spend more than five minutes of my time with anyone else, I am constrained by a constriction in my chest so tight that I am concerned that my oxygen might be cut off. I grow anxious and panicky and I either have to run and grab a beer, or excuse myself, and go away into a corner where I can take slow and deep breaths and pray for some sort of relief.

I do what I can to remedy my condition. I drink, and I see acupuncturists and a certain over-charging therapist who does guided meditations with me. I read books about modalities for spiritual transformation and the cultivation of love. I have purchased numerous forms of massage devices to rid my body of all the pent up tension. I have also started to take baths before going to bed. I stand on my head and do walking meditations. I try to walk on the earth with no shoes and tap into the healing energy of the earth. My mind tells me that I am behaving like a new age freak, but I am willing to experiment with whatever modality I can, in order to find a brief moment of calm. However, the calm is temporary because the moment I go back out into public, my mind begins to race and my body tightens.

People talk to me and I do not hear. My wife asks me if I am okay and I shake my head saying “fine, fine, no problem.” Meanwhile, inside of me I am being tortured alive. My thoughts are condemning me for the failure that I am. I am wishing that I had more money, a nicer place to live, less fears and a better sex life. My thoughts pick me apart like a wild animal chewing flesh off the bones of a fresh kill. I am a helpless victim of my thoughts. Everything that someone says to me triggers a new thought that sends my mind racing out of control. Money, health, status, job, family- my mind picks apart every failed and unhappy element of my life. The only thing that I have found that quiets my rancorous mind is the medicinal properties of beer.

And then there was today. I do not know if I will ever recover from the fool I made of myself. I certainly will never again be able to set foot into the bookstore. There really is no logical explanation for what happened other than my wife’s explanation that I “lost my mind and freaked out.” You see, I was with my wife shopping for various gifts for the holidays. Half way through the day, I found myself becoming stressed out by the amount of money I was spending. I started to worry about money. Then I felt as if my wife was nagging me when I wanted to put on the breaks and stop purchasing gifts. We had lunch and after lunch I felt as if my chest was beginning to tighten. Air became a scarce resource. My hands and feet were tingling and I thought that I might pass out. I tried to keep my suffering to myself but my wife kept asking me what was wrong. “I am all right,” I lied as my mind tortured me alive: You are 37 years old and you can not even afford the rent on a $ 1,400 a month apartment, you are angry, you live in a freezing cold house in the ghetto, you are childless, you hate your job, you do not know what you are going to do with your life, you are mean to your wife, you read depressing books that you never finish, you are still dependent on your parents for money, your health sucks and so does your sex life, you are a pervert and poor, you are not famous and never will be, you have not been successful at anything, you will never publish a thing, what are you going to do!!!!

I suggested that we go into a bookstore and look for gifts (I really just wanted to have an excuse to look at books, which usually takes my mind off of my own suffering). We browsed through various art, cooking, architecture and literature books but my wife was not finding anything that she wanted to give for a gift. Then, we found ourselves in the Buddhism section. At that point I was having difficulties breathing, my chest was tight, my heart was palpitating and my thoughts were tormenting. I thought I was close to my end. I looked at the various titles that said “The Nirvana of Joyful Living,” “Quieting The Mind,” “How To Be Happy And Enlightened,” “Tree of Peace.” The master’s faces that decorated the book covers looked so peaceful, refined and relaxed. Words like nirvana and enlightenment became like food that I was desperate to eat.  I started to salivate. I wanted in. Desperately, I wanted what Buddhists had. My wife said she was ready to go. But I was not. I wanted peace and joy so badly that all I could do was throw my entire body into the book rack as if I was jumping in to a deep pool. I yelled “I want it!!!!,” as I let my body go- and the last thing I remember hearing before I landed on the ground covered in Buddhist books, was my wife screaming……”oh my God.”

The Hairbrush And The Thief

I have been in need of a good quality hairbrush for some time. My hair likes to gather together in lumps and locks which refuse to let go of one another. I am at times subjected to the most excruciating pain when combing my hair. Often I avoid this task, letting my hair have the freedom to form whatever shape it wishes. I was told that if I purchased a better quality hairbrush, the pain would not be so great when brushing my hair.

My parents invited me to go with them to view a possible home that they were considering for purchase. It was a large home, still decorated by the current owners modern furniture. There were sputnik lights all over the ceilings and Andy Warhol rugs covering the heated hardwood floors. There were all kinds of bookcases and credenzas filled with books on art and artists along with numerous antique objects. Whom ever the owners of the home were, they obviously had not only much more money than myself but also a collection of culture that very few people could compete with.

The home was a celebration of modernism and the rewards of financial success. It was designed by the innovative architect Alvar Aalto- and was a complete reaction to the dull aesthetic of box homes built for form and function. This home had winding staircases, spiraling hallways and domed ceilings. The real estate agent led us from room to room describing the home with his refined English accent and educated explanations. I could smell the rank scent of alcohol on his breath when he laughed.

My father and mother were pensive. The real estate agent did what he could to paint a picture of the home that no man/woman could resist. I became bored with his pragmatic descriptions and asked which bathroom I could use. Down this hall, around that corner and through some door I traveled until I reached a bathroom that was surrounded with mirrors and heated by radiant heat. The sinks were made of gold and the toilet was marble and had an electronic device that flushed the toilet and activated a fan with a cedar scent. It was at that moment that I realized my parents pensiveness was the result of a realization that there was no way they could afford the house.

I pulled up my pants and proceeded to wash my hands. By chance I opened one of the bathroom doors for no reason at all and inside I found a large black hairbrush. The bristles were made of sheep’s tail and the rest of the brush was made out of ivory. On the handle of the brush was an engraving which said Holmes Hairbrushes For Men, London, Since 1886. When I brushed my hair with it, there was a tingly, almost ecstatic feeling on my scalp. This was the nicest brush I had ever come across. I had to have it.

Fortunately I was wearing a thick coat and had little guilt about stealing from rich people. I stuck the brush in the inside pocket of my coat, washed my hands again and made my way back out to where my parents and the agent were gathered.

“How did you like the bathroom?” the agent gregariously said to me expecting a fascinated response. “Quit an experience,” I replied with a slight cynical smile. My mother then told me that they were just talking about the owner of the home. “Yes, he invented teeth whitening,” the agent said with a contrived look of pride in his eyes. My parents were impressed but all I could do was think “oh, well that explains all the ostentatious wealth.” I then heard my father release gas when the agent said “I talked to the owner today who said that they would be willing to sell the home for $3.4 million.”

I had lunch with my parents afterwards. My father kept bemoaning the self declared fact that he had worked hard all his life and that he deserved to live in whatever kind of home he wanted. My mother tried to be sensible and tell him that he could live in whatever home he wanted as long as it was less expensive. “You guys are too old to go into debt,” was all I could add. “Son, I have enough money to afford that home if I wanted to,” my father said with a hint of frustration in his voice. It was like he was trying to convince himself of something that he knew to be untrue.” Okay dad, you can have your dream home, fill it with all the debt you want,” I remember thinking to myself.

At home, I stood in my freezing cold bathroom (my house is without heat) and brushed my hair for at least an hour. Every frustrated lock in my hair came undone. My scalp was tingling with such joy that I can swear that my hair grew an inch. I rubbed the bristles of the brush against my face and under my chin. I basically took a head bath in that wonderful brush. I then spent a few hours reading One Hundred Years Of Solitude until my wife came home from her night shift. She noticed the beautiful hairbrush on the counter in our bathroom. She asked about it and I could not tell a lie. I may be a thief but I am not a liar.

“You stole this!! What kind of man of integrity are you!!! You want me to have your children!!!! Just last evening you were talking about the virtues of honesty and respect. How could you violate another’s property, no matter how rich they may be? You are 36 years old and do not need to steal other men’s hairbrushes. Get a job and buy your own!!!!” She went on and on until I started to feel a tightness in my chest. Had my small act of theft compromised my integrity? We both have been struggling to make ends meet and the last thing I could afford to loose was my integrity. “Beside,” my wife said, “don’t you know that using another man’s hairbrush could make your hair fall out?” I then looked down at the book I had been reading and noticed a smile pile of hair that had collected upon the page. “You have to return that brush,” my wife said.

My wife packed the brush in a brown paper lunch bag. On the outside of the bag in black pen I wrote I borrowed your hairbrush for a few hours. I did not leave my name. Instead I just wrote the hairbrush and the thief. I drove my car up into the hills where million dollar homes lined the sky line. After a long search I found the Teeth Whitener’s home illuminated with blue and white lights. I pulled up beside the mailbox, rolled my squeaky window down and reluctantly placed the package inside. I could smell the cold midnight air. The air always seems cleaner to me in the neighborhoods where rich people live. It’s almost as if the abundance of money filters out all the pollutants. I took a few deep breaths and looked at the panoramic view of the Bay Bridge, the Golden Gate Bridge and San Fransisco all lit up in the full moon night. As I put my car into second gear and began my descent back to the lower income neighborhood in which I reside, I noticed that my scalp was beginning to itch.

The Sniffling Whore

As I grow older my memory seems to constantly be letting me down.  Just today I had an experience which I am already starting to forget. Strange how this happens- all while we are awake. Slowly time just seems to disappear. I guess this is why I write. To remember. I want to have stories to tell my children when they are salivating in their cribs. If I don’t write it will all vanish like a cloud of dust.

Again this morning, I decided to take the day off work. I just received a moderate paycheck so I had a few bucks to blow. I went and studied with my meditation teacher for an hour or so and then went to the bookstore where I purchased Roberto Bolano’s epic novel, 2666. As I was driving my car which runs like an old man with one leg, I saw out of the corner of my eye a very attractive prostitute walking down the street. I was not feeling particularly horny, but something deep in my gut told me that I should pull over and see if she was in her hour of need. On my radio I was listening to Some Kind Of Blue. The cold rain was coming down in puddles and I thought that being a helpful fellow human was the least that I could do to compensate for all my sins.

I did quick u-turn and drove past her at a slow pace. I waved and directed with my aging hand to meet me around the corner. I was still a distance away from her, but from what I could see she looked untethered by the tempestual hard life of a whore. She was wearing a short black skirt and a tight t-shirt that said Oakland, California on it. I guessed that she felt a sense of pride wearing the cities name on her breasts.

I pulled my car into a tight spot on a small tree lined street. I unlocked my passenger side door so she could climb in. The moment she did so- I noticed her nose was bright red and her nostrils were inflamed. I know that being sick and phlegmy is all part of being human- but for some reason I was instantly turned off . “How are you doin baby?” she said with a glib look upon her face and used tissues in the palm of her hands. Her voice sounded like chirping birds and I could smell the cinnamon in her mouth. “I am fine,” I said looking at her legs which displayed restraint when it came to eating lots of fatty foods. “What you looking for,” she said leaving out the are. For a moment I considered maybe asking for a quick look at a breast, but my degeneracy was not showing up. Instead I felt strangely empathetic. She kept sniffling and blowing her nose, and frankly all the sound affects were taking the erotic out of prostitution. She looked at me with a guilty face and said, “I know, I am a sniffling whore.”

I could not help but let out a deep laugh. I appreciated her self deprecating humor and felt relieved that she was intelligent enough to satirize herself. She laughed as well and then asked me if she could smoke in my car. We both understood that nothing kinky was going to take place at that point. “Can I give you a ride somewhere?” I asked. “It’s freezing cold outside you know?” she said while lighting her cigarette. “I do,” I replied. “Well if you would not mind giving me a ride downtown to the bus station, I would appreciate that.” The bus station was only a few miles away and I asked her if she was leaving town. “No,” she said, “it is just a place I can sit and get warm and let the sniffling in my nose dry out. You know having a sniffling nose ain’t good for my business.” I laughed again and told her that I thought its got to be rough having a cold and being a whore. “It could be worse,” she said. I asked her if I could bum a cigarette and I turned the heat up for her. We drove toward the bus station and on the way she said “you sure I can’t give you a blow job while you drive?” I was sure.

This is why I write. It is moments like these that I never want to forget. I want to tell these stories to my children and have them fresh in my mind when I am stuck in a bed or confined to a jail cell. Even though my memory seems to be fading away with each passing day, the experiences of my life can be preserved through the immortality of words. The one thing that time can not defy or colonize- the power words.

The Man Who Will (somehow) Save The World.

I teach at a high school that is so poor that students have to use plastic zip-lock bags filled with their sandwiches to play football at lunch. There are ants on the classroom floor and the achievement level of students is so low because they feel rejected from a world of wealth and good fortune. Instead they eat the same lunch everyday (Chinese food loaded with sodium and msg) and are as hopeless as a writer with carpal tunnel syndrome. By lunchtime I am exhausted and filled up with a tension so thick that all I can do to release my distress is think about fine food, wine, women and massage parlors. Unfortunately, I do not have the money to indulge myself in any of these recreational pleasures- so I spend my afternoons feeling my discomfort, focusing on my breath and wondering when the day will come were I will write the great novel that will finally set me free. The irony of my daydream is- I lack the discipline to write anything long winded and I am better at dreaming than I am at doing. So, I try to sit in the lotus position for twenty minutes a day and except my fate “as it is, in the present moment.”

But this is not easy for a guy who cannot stop thinking that he has become THAT guy who thinks “why am I not in this other position? Why am I not that other guy? Why am I me?” I do agree with certain mystics and New Agers who suggest that the situations that we find ourselves in are predetermined by our past karma and the only way that circumstances will change- is if we change our karma. But this is hard when you are unaware of what you karma may be. If I could just understand my feelings and needs than maybe I could tell a lot about my karma. Maybe my karma has something to do with going from a childhood of privilege and opportunity to a mid-life filled with frustration, procrastination and inability to know what it is that I want to be when I grow up? Every day I look at the help wanted section on Craigslist because I am not certain that I want to be a high school teacher any longer. The mental and physical exhaust that the job entails- is not what I was looking for when I decided to set out and save the world.

I often talk to my students about the year 2012. They all seem to have rather fatalistic attitudes about this year as representing the end of life on earth. I try to tell them that it is not the end, that they should focus on thinking about new beginnings. I try to suggest ways that they and I could make small transformations in our lives- that may just save the world from annihilation. But they can’t hear me. The school is falling apart, rats often run across their shoes, the backyard of the school is a toxic freeway and on the other block sits a Chevron refinery that pumps out smoke stacks of chemical pollution that corrupts the air that we all breath. My students parents are loosing their homes and jobs, their brothers and sisters are being shot, their school looks like third world dormitories- why should they believe that hope is something that they could have? After all, they hear everyday, someplace or from someone, that America is the greatest country in the world, but when they look around them this is not at all what they see. As far as they are concerned- the end of the world is already here. They are just chilling out in limbo.

So I have started to look for another job. I thought that by this point in my life my novels would be selling well enough that saving the world would no longer be a hard thing for me to do. Now that I am married and with little money in my bank account I have to find more efficient ways to make a living than to rely upon my deluded dreams. Being a writer will one day pay, I still believe this, but for now there is a world that seems to be cracking apart- and I need to put aside all of my personal ambitions and get to work. So I consider myself lucky that I was hired to teach at a high school in the hood. I thought that this was a good place to start doing what I could to help humanity avoid the crash course it is on. Teaching the disenfranchised seemed like a good way to get back at all the franchised who are “living it up” while indiscriminately disregarding all the rest. But ten-hour days and hours of hopelessness and disregard are wearing me down. I am looking for some place else to go.

I dream now of no longer being that guy who says “why me?” I no longer want to hear myself think why the fame, fortune and deep belief in what I do for a living has not come my way. Instead, when these thoughts come into my head I make myself stop and look up at the sky or feel the breath come into my lungs. I attempt to convince myself that these thoughts are nothing but the workings of my conditioned ego that wants to assert itself in this tempestual world. Three years ago I was fortunate enough to ask the Dali Lama a question that had been in my mind for most of my life. “What does one do when they no longer no what to do?” I asked. He looked at me in a state that expressed deep consideration for my question and then said- ”In what ever way you can, go through the entry level and do what you can to work hard to save the world.” So I took his advice and took a job teaching while putting my authorial ambitions aside. Tonight, is Friday night and after a long week at work one would think that I would return home from school and rest and relax. But instead- I have been searching for jobs on-line, for ways to make this world continue to work. I realize that no matter what I do my authorial talents will not be immediately recognized and I will have to start at the entry level. It is probably simplistic to think that what I write is worth a buck, but I cannot deny the fact that our world is falling apart and that somehow, someway- I may just be the man who will save this troubled world.

Sharing My Wife With A MacBook Pro.

Last night I had it. The finally straw was picked and I finally said it. My wife returned home from a long evening of being out with friends who think they love her more than I do. The moment she walked into the house I became excited to see her because I sat in my study with one of our new birds on my lap whom I had successfully tamed for the first time. I waited with the parakeet for her to open my door but instead I heard her heavy footsteps travel to the back of the house- where her studio is. This had not happened before. She always greeted me the moment she came home and my anticipation and curiosity about her dismissal of me made me suspicious. I put the parakeet back in its cage and made my way slowly into her studio. I did not want for her to hear me coming so that I could catch her in the act. You see, ever since I became a husband I have become much more prolific in understanding human behavior- and anyone who thinks they can fool me with their motives is basically underestimating my mental acumen. I knew that my wife had chosen her email before I caught her- but the moment I caught her caressing the keypad I knew that I finally had enough evidence to declare, “The computer or me, what’s it going to be?”

The computer has a way of slowly integrating its self into the human mind. It has an addictive element to it that enslaves human needs. For as long as I have known my wife I have been concerned about her prodigious computer use. I would wake up in the middle of the night, in the beginning of our relationship, perplexed by the fact that a cosmic glow would be illuminating her face in the dark room. She would be smoking pot and doing something on-line, unable to sleep because of her over stimulated mind. Whenever I mentioned my concern, she used her work as a video animation artist as reason enough to be immersed in the virtual world at least ten hours a day. Now, seven years later I am no longer perplexed- instead, I’m jealous and confused. Night after night I go to bed alone while she is still on her computer. Infact I do more things alone than any married man I know- while she works away on-line. I try to find ways to tell her that it is not healthy to always be on-line but I can never find the right words to enlighten her mind. Instead- I deviate from my feelings and leave her alone. I allow time to pass and hope that it will teach me whatever lessons I need to learn. I feel like I am sharing my wife with a MacBook Pro.

I often talk to my Psychoanalyst about my frustration. He has made some diligent suggestion but how can another man with a vibrant career and a successful marriage authentically understand the trouble of a man whose wife is married to her computer. My analyst tells me that I should buy some board games and play with her, or that we should go for walks together or cook together. “More activities that engage both you and her intellectually and emotionally,” he tells me. I have tried to practice his suggestions but when we are together I feel like she would rather be with her computer. Her hands twitch like they are withdrawing from an electrical connection. Her mind wonders off like a wireless device that is receiving signals from some unknown place. When I try to talk to her about what I call her “computer affliction” she becomes angry and defensive. So I have learned to keep my concern and frustration to myself (because a man can not compete with a bitter woman)- but this has only caused my indignation to stew.

Without communication relationships become as backed up as a constipated toilet. There is no more fluidity between both partners and individual needs go unmet, which sets the relationship up for conflict. I should know this more than anyone because I have been living in this tempestual sea of mis-communication for what feels like decades. I have had tumultuous conflicts with every individual who has ever been close to me, so much so that I feel like it is impossible to have a relationship without the torment. I know that difficulties always abound, but when your wife communicates more through email than she does with you- there is obviously a problem that does not require a psychoanalyst to point out. Without the proof to back up my assertion, I am still convinced that email is as addictive as any illicit or intoxicating substance. Email allows individuals to communicate without the interaction of two or more corporeal bodies- and this is as intoxicating to an introverted individual as a glass of fine wine. When I found my wife checking her email before she greeted me, I not only felt rejecting but also my years of repressed indignation had returned with a vengeance. No more am I going to sit quiet in my study while she spends hours on facebook. No more am I going to tolerate that we have nothing to say to one another because we have both spent so much time on-line that we have forgotten how to talk. It is either the computer or me- and this time she is going to know exactly what I mean

Living In An Ice Box

It is cold in my house. So cold, that I have not been able to write. My fingers are not quite frozen but they are stiff enough to not be as limber as I am used to them being. When I am cold all of my brain activity slows down and it seems as if my creative sensibilities are packed in ice. I say little and to be terribly honest I have little to say because my brain feels like it is freezing. It is as if my imagination has gone into some kind of cerebral hibernation. Once I get the heater going ideas seems to fluidly flow but since I am currently living through a rather bitter economic recession- I only use the heater in small doses so as not to accrue a terribly expensive bill. This winter is going to be all about minimizing expenses while trying to figure out effective ways to stay warm. It is my feeling that staying warm is going to be much more of a challenge than living through the forth coming economic depression.

“This is the sacrifice I make for living the bohemian existence…living as an artist,” is what I reassuringly say to myself as I fight away the cold in my home. My wife has been struggling against the on set of pneumonia and yesterday morning we woke up and one of our birds was frozen stiff- supine on the bird cage floor. Using electricity to keep the refrigerator cold is a futile act since it is warmer inside the refrigerator than it is in my kitchen- so I unplugged the refrigerator. I often find myself filled with envy as I imagine all those with money who have the luxury to have radiant heat and heated floorboards as I walk across my hard wood floors that are as frozen as ice (I could ice skate on them). Today the temperature inside my house was colder than the temperature outside- so I decided to go and read and do some work in my car. I often wonder why am I withstanding another freezing cold winter in this hundred year old house without insulation? Why not move? The honest answer is because I love it here.

Love often comes with the price of pain. Physical and emotional. As good as love feels it also hurts that much. I know of no love that has been easy to bare. This is the yin and yang of love- it is hard to have love without its opposite. So, I tell myself this as I spend my nights shivering beneath my blankets. I tell myself this as I try to homeopathicly alleviate my wife’s chronic cough. I tell myself this as I scoop up my frozen parakeet. It is all the price of love. I have loaded up on warm clothes for the winter and even as I type this I am wearing gloves and am bundled up in two scarves and a long black wool jacket. I bought my wife the warmest gloves I could find and I even purchased a sweater for my cat. I am ready to go, ready for a survival match against the cold in my house- but what often fills me with a lugubrious feeling of despair is a thought that I have been having all week- “man…..it is not even winter yet.”

The Spain Diary, 11-12

11. The Train Station.

Bells, smoke, fresh squeezed orange juice, men in suits, sirens, more bells, bustling espresso machines heating and steaming, silverware on glass, bags rolling, men and women hustling and a few smiles staring while bodies sniff through the train station. I sit here in my corner watching people chasing Euros like a man viewing some kind of business or commerce circus. All around me people on the go go go and men in suits smoke cigarettes, laughing loud (which exposes their inner pain) and drinking beer while I sip fresh squeezed orange juice- waiting for Jen to buy her tampons and for the train to depart.

I am impressed by how different I am from all these souls that surround me but how similar we all really are. We are all the same- in that we are all run by our fears, same in that we all have a difficult time just sitting still like a Taoist master (instead we are always on the go, why?), same in that we all want, we all desire and we all have unfulfilled dreams. What makes us different from one another may be the language that we speak, the beliefs we claim to own or the paths that we choose to take in order to achieve that one common human goal- happiness; but these differences are simply illusions. Illusions created by our various forms of social conditioning that we are all a product of- in one form or another.

Whether I am in Spain or San Francisco people seem to think that happiness is found outside the self. The great myth of our time is that happiness is materialistic, something that we can buy and own. How often have we bought that beautiful rug that fills our heart with joy for about a week, until we start to desire a newer rug? Maybe it is because of our social conditioning that we fail to stop the madness and take pro-active steps (such as introspection, meditation, mindfulness) towards achieving authentic happiness that lasts. Instead, we buy into this misguided notion of happiness that has made human beings into profit makers and over workers- all desiring the dream of fame and fortune. Specialists in things that are irrelevant to the souls desire for freedom and happiness. Instead we are confused by the messages that we are given and this confusion (because at an instinctual level we know that we are going against our soul’s desire) is a bacterial breeding ground for ulcerated emotions like anger, fear, frustration, hostility, arrogance and depression. These have all become the symptoms of a disease that I believe is destroying this beautiful world.

The inherent irony in our modern time is that technology makes life better, easier- more organized. However, I am afraid that the reality is the opposite of this packaged marketing scheme. Technology has manifested out from a disease and has made human beings more isolated from one another, less imaginative and less powerful. Technology enslaves, engulfs, weakens and takes away what is beautiful in life or nature. It cuts down the self reliant trees of the mind and replaces them with computer chips of conformity and dependence. Technology is the opposite of freedom. Technology is an illusive freedom that an individual believes that they have- but it is not really there. What they believe to be their freedom is really only an institution. This institution promotes ideas of autonomy and personal freedom but this is the inherent irony of technology (ever try to fix your own computer of cell phone?)- these ideas are false beliefs.

I have traveled half way across the world but I am astounded by the fact that here people look the same as they do in California, dress the same, have the same laptops, business suits, yellow anti-cancer bracelets, haircuts and cars. I suppose this is a rather ambiguous display of globalization- and I am not so sure that I am terribly comfortable with it. Standing in a Starbucks Café in Madrid that looks just like the Starbucks in Oakland, California is not my idea of personal freedom or imagination. It hybridizes the human mind to think just like everyone else and it evaporates autonomy and imagination. Zap!! Just like that.

My solution is one that reeks of new age simpatico. It is a philosophy built upon the edifice of self reliance, love and authentic freedom. What this solution looks like at a practical level- I am still uncertain, because I myself am enslaved by the current logic. I buy, spend and work- all to have things which I hope will bring me happiness. I have been branded a consumer as well- sitting here with my laptop on a cafeteria table top. I am equally dependent. This is the brilliance of the current technocracy- it makes hypocrites of us all!!!

I have written long enough about this. I am rambling, I know- but these are the thoughts that fill my head this afternoon. I am in Spain and should not be so heavy but I am constantly reminded that:

Humankind has lost its way.
Humankind has gone astray.
Humankind has forgotten what it means to play.
Because Humankind has fallen into a debt,
So deep, that Humankind has lost its ability to weep.
So we buy.

Here comes Jen with a shopping bag filled with things that she bought in the store. We needed new toothbrushes, deodorant and a few other articles of good hygiene. I am writing and watching her move towards me through the sea of hustle and bustle. I hope she is not run over bye a suitcase because she is the most beautiful thing in this place.

12. Seville, Spain.

We have made it to Seville. Quite a long train ride. Half the time it was foggy and I could not see out the window. We are staying in a very bizarre hostel with blue and yellow tiles all over the walls and dead bugs on the tiled floor. There are wooden shutters on the wall that do not open onto a window- but rather a white spackled wall. I assume we could not afford the room with windows. The room had such a morbid smell that I had to go out and buy scented candles. DO NOT COME TO SEVILLE. I wanted to leave the moment I arrived. It is a loud, overcrowded and dirty city that is not only unfriendly- but mad. The city has an inferno quality to it (not unlike Madrid) and I am told that out of this pathos came the art form known as Flamenco. It is 7:30 p.m and Jen and I are going to leave our sordid cell and go out in search of food, wine and Flamenco.

(shrunken dogs barking in narrow streets as the sun falls down.)

Warning: Lead Poisoning or The Man Who Chewed Plastic.

I have always been curious why my mind and body have had such a difficult time getting along. The other week I was over at my parent’s house. My mother noticed that I was chewing on a white Bic plastic pen and she said, “You always have loved chewing on plastic.”  I thought nothing of it and continued to masticate my pen. Then, yesterday I heard a report on the radio that was talking about the massive amounts of lead that are in children’s toys made of plastic. I added two and two together in my obsessive compulsive mind and decided to research whether or not there is lead in plastic Bic pens. Of course what I found out horrified me. I decided to call my mother and ask her for how long I have been interested in sticking plastic objects into my mouth. “You had a plastic pacifier and were always sticking your plastic toys in your mouth. When I or your father would take them away- you would go into terrible convulsions of tears,” she replied. I became very concerned that I have been chewing on plastic for my entire life (I am perpetually chewing on Bic pens and have done so since I quit smoking ten years ago) and decided to do research on the health effects of chewing on plastic.

Lead poisoning is the leading health risk associated with chewing on plastic. There are major crusades right now waged by various health and environmental organizations to get lead out of the plastic that manufactures are using to make children’s toys. The health symptoms of lead poisoning for children are:

Various neurological and behavioral problems.
Organ damage
Blood toxicity

This was not good news for me. I researched more trying to investigate what the ramifications could be for an adult who has been chewing on plastic for years. I searched all over the Internet coming up with various symptoms of lead poisoning- but I wanted to know what the health effects on a grown man who chewed on plastic his entire life could be. Then after a few days of searching I found just the information I was looking for.

The information is “A Homeopaths Guide To Detecting And Treating Disease.” I managed to find this book on accident while perusing the health section of a bookstore. In the book there is a page devoted to describing the long-term health effects of chewing on plastic made with lead. The symptoms of lead poisoning from long term exposure to chewing on plastic are:

Neurological disorders: morbid proclivities, perpetual thoughts of impending doom, depression and panic disorder.

Behavioral problems: ADD, Autism, Obsessive Compulsive disorder, Agoraphobia, Addictive Personality Disorder.

Physiological Symptoms: respiratory infections and lung disease, heart ailments, kidney flatulence, liver turpitude and poor circulation (to name a few).

I read these symptoms in disbelief. I could see my hands shivering. It was as if I had just figured out the riddle that had confused my entire life. Each day, always wondering about what is wrong with me has driven me to the brink of insanity and now- I had the answer to all of my health “challenges,” a code by which to understand what is wrong with me. I bought the book and returned home to read and re-read the section on lead poisoning. I did some more research on the Internet and found more information about my condition. Adults who chew on plastic made with lead are also susceptible to ulcers, low ambition, delusions, hysteria and paranoia. It is I; all these symptoms are describing me!!

I am uncertain about what I am going to do to get rid of the lead poisoning that has turned my life into torment. I have a few ideas. For now, just knowing what I am being affected or infecting by is providing me with relief. The book that I bought has provided me with certain herbs that I can take that will help rid my system of some of the lead that is within me- but for the most part the after affects of lead poisoning are chronic and difficult to recover from. I am accepting myself as I am.

I have however gotten more active in joining campaigns to stop manufacturers from making toys and plastic pens with lead. There are numerous other sustainable materials that could be used to save a young child from ending up like a demented and paranoid person such as myself. One of the greatest joys of childhood is sticking plastic toys into your mouth and I would hate to see childhoods greatest pleasure remain its greatest risk. So today I have contributed a small amount of money to assist an environmental campaign in fighting their anti-lead crusade. I hope that my attempts to safeguard the youth of tomorrow will be good enough karma to change the destiny of man who has been chewing on plastic all his life .

What I Do Not Like About Facebook, Part 1

Ever since I joined facebook my past has been creeping up on me. For so many years I had done a good job of keeping my past behind me, compressed and folded away into the back of my closet. Now it seems to have returned with a vengeance- and for this I have only myself to blame. For months my wife has been urging me to join facebook. “It’s a great way to stay in touch with friends and acquaintances and it is also a good way for you to re-connect with people from your past,” she would always tell me. “I have few friends that I need to remain pre-occupied with and why would I want to revisit a past that I always got seriously wrong?” I would reply. Besides- I saw facebook as another shackle to the on-line brave new world that I have witnessed slowly swallowing many people alive. I try to keep my on-line commitments and activities to a minimum so as not to become a mere digital reflection of the flesh and blood that I really am.

I am a man of contradictions. For as long as I can remember my thoughts and beliefs have rarely lined up with my actions. One day I may swear allegiance to one thing and the next day- despise it. Ralph Waldo Emerson once said that a man of contradictions was a sign of a brilliant mind- but in my case I think it is nothing more than a  sign of my confusion about who I really am. So not to make a long story short- not too long ago, I joined facebook and nothing has been quite the same since.

I first began with the hesitancy of a cat crossing a busy street. I posted one or two pictures of myself and made no more than five friends. But as the weeks passed my mailbox filled with requests for friendships- which I granted. Soon after this I was receiving greetings from people I had not heard from in quite some time. I felt mildly excited about this new way to connect with people I had thought I had lost touch with. I returned their greetings with affirmations and interest. Like most others, I was having fun stirring up old friendships on facebook without having to leave the sanctity of my house. My wife and I also began to communicate over facebook more than we communicated over the dinner table- and for a few weeks I thought that facebook was the greatest invention since sliced bread.

But like all good things, something went seriously wrong. I felt agitated by the numerous requests I was receiving that asked me to give gifts, accept gifts, join organizations and get involved in causes. I am a simple man and like many aspiring Taoists, I believed (and still believe) that happiness is to be found by being in the world but not of the world. I try to maintain a simple life but facebook seemed to be making my life much more complex. I was becoming jealous about the fact that some of my new found friends seemed to be happy and “success filled” while I still struggled to maintain my monthly rent payments and was terribly uncertain about what happiness meant. On the other hand, those of my friends who were still struggling to survive and “down-in-the-dumps” made me feel an uncomfortable relief that some people were doing worse than I.

My past started to encroach upon my present when long lost girlfriends and old photos of me from centuries ago- found me on facebook. The photos filled my mind with not only a younger self that I have been trying hard to forget but also an awareness of the relentless passing of time that has cleared away years of my life in the blink of an eye. I made contact with my x-girlfriends and began struggling through weeks of insomnia that I am convinced was induced by old memories. I would lye in bed and be dumbfounded by the question- “where did all the time go?” I would recall may teenage years with the vividness of a movie screen right behind my eyes. The young faces of my x-lovers would follow me around all day and the only thing I could do to mitigate my strange emotional reactions was to return to facebook and read more.

“Randall is attending an art show in his head,” “Randall is happily flying with the birds,” “Randall just awoke from a nap and is going back to sleep-“ I would find myself spending hours of time contemplating what kind of clever entry I would make- that would allow my 56 friends to know how clever Randall was at that moment. When I had a break from my job I would run to the computer and make entries and check up on what friends were up to. I reached a point where I was making entries into facebook at least 5 times a day. My wife and I would make comments over each others entries and we were actually having more fun together on facebook than in our real life!! Even though I was enjoying this newly found fun with my wife and friends- I could not get away from the thought that something was seriously wrong.

After a conversation with my therapist- we both thought that it would be best if I took some time off from facebook. My past was haunting me like a bad dream and my relationship with my wife was becoming dysfunctional, in person. I was constantly checking my face and pulse for signs of aging- since I had becoming overtly conscious of time’s passing since joining facebook. I was spending more time on facebook than I was in my life and I think it would not be unfair to say that I started to confuse the two. Facebook became a social gathering for me (and I am a guy who is not very social and considers himself a self declared introvert). My withdrawal from facebook was hard and lonely but once I got back into the swing of living my life in the present and off-line, I found that I forgot about my on-line community of friends and began my life again where I once left off. I was no longer plagued by the burden of my past and the perpetual responsibility of maintaining 56 friendships.

After a month of abstaining from facebook I have gone back to it with a more moderate approach. I know that I do not like what facebook can do to me, so I have to use it with caution. I keep my friends down to a manageable number and I only allow myself to make an entry every other day. My wife and I have agreed to not communicate on each others facebook but rather try and communicate over the dinner table. I realize that I am susceptible to falling back into the digital jaws of facebook (I feel the urge now and then)- but with weekly meetings with my therapist, a supportive wife and the ability to choose only certain x-girlfriends that I am willing to communicate with- I have been able, so far, to maintain my distance from the things that I do not like about facebook…….

Thanksgiving Dinner (And Sweet Revenge).

It all started on Thanksgiving day, eight years ago. My parents had never before seen a wild turkey on their property and since their house is located in a suburban country club- wild turkeys are no ordinary sight. I had come home for Thanksgiving dinner and I remember eating cheese and drinking white wine before the main meal began. My father and I, along with other family and friends sat in the living room conversing while my mother and a hired cook slaved away in the kitchen. There was frivolity and talk about the new President that was about to replace President Clinton. I was mortified by the fact that most of my father’s friends, including my father were excited about George Bush taking office. Right when my father said, “Mr. Bush is going to bring this great American country the change it needs,” there was a scream in the kitchen followed by my mother yelling- “Tilden, come here…come here!!!’ My father said excuse me and I followed him into the kitchen. “What is it Fran,” he said to my mother walking at a frantic pace. My mother stood shaking above the turkey that had just come out of the oven. She pointed out the window and said “what is it?” We both looked, horrified by what we saw. I immediately knew what it was. “Holly shit,” my father said- “It’s a wild turkey.”

After throwing numerous rocks at the turkey to get it to go away- my family and company all sat down at the dinning room table and enjoyed a memorable Thanksgiving meal. We all ate and drank too much and the main conversation revolved around George Bush and where the fuck the wild turkey came from. I spent the night that evening, because I was to drunk to drive. I was awoken early by my father screaming, “go, scat, get the fuck out of here.” When I looked out my bedroom window I saw my father in his bathrobe and slippers throwing rocks at a large pack of turkeys. They were all over the place. In the trees, all around the pool and walking through my mothers flower garden. They made a terrible guffawing noise as my father scared them away with his brute force. That morning at breakfast we ate left over turkey and drank black coffee. My father did not say a word but simply stared out the window waiting for the turkeys to return.

My father worked hard for his wealth and his country club home. Years spent working day in and day out as a Podiatrist who was always embarrassed about what he did for a living- had paid off. Now he owned a golf cart, a live-in maid, two Mercedes and a large quiet house in the hills. Everything on my parents property was manicured and attended to on a daily basis by a slew of gardeners. When the wild turkeys began to invade my fathers home all of the security, comfort and beauty that my father had worked so hard to build was slowly being torn away. The turkeys would leave shit droppings all around the house that my father would step on every time he went outside. He became paranoid about contracting the avian flu virus and other bird disease. As the weeks passed the turkeys multiplied and one time, many weeks later when I was home, I could not believe what I saw. There were turkeys everywhere. They were on the roof, the driveway, in the trees…one was even sitting on a raft that drifted in my parents pool. My father was loosing his mind. There was nothing that the Country Club Residents Board was willing to do to help him and he was forbidden by law to buy a gun and shoot the wild turkey’s. So he waited.

Years passed and the turkeys multiplied. My father refused to celebrate Thanksgiving and he gave up eating turkey. His hair turned gray and he became a more vindictive and bitter man. After years and years of waking up every morning and throwing stones at wild turkeys and cursing God- he managed to burn a hole in his colon, which required major surgery and a colostomy bag to fix. My mother and I would try to talk my father into accepting change and being at peace with nature. “Fuck nature,” he would say- “I want my house back.” He did everything he could to commit various acts of genocide against the turkeys but nothing worked. They kept multiplying like the virus that my father feared. Year later when he finally realized that he was defenseless against the wild turkeys he received permission from the state to hire hunters to remove the turkeys from his property.

There was a period of a year that my parents home looked like a strange war zone. It was a rather surreal sight because along with the manicured lawns, flowers, stones, fountains and beautiful oak trees there was a horrendous amount of turkey shit and feathers along with numerous turkey cages that decorated the entire property. There were turkey cages on the roof, the lawn, in the hills, on the deck, by the pool- everywhere. And in these cages were screaming turkeys that had wondered aimlessly into the cage and had to sit in captivity and wait for the hunters to come and slaughter them. This went on for months. It got so bad that I refused to go home. I could not condone the brutal tactics that my father was using to get rid of the turkeys, however- after months of trapping them in cages- the wild turkeys did not come around so much.

It’s been a year since the assault on the wild turkeys began. As the turkeys diminished in numbers my fathers mood began to get better. He started to eat turkey again and going to Temple (he quit going to Temple for a while because he believed that if there was a God he did not want to believe in one that was allowing what was happening to him- to happen). Then, less than a month ago I received notice that my father wanted to host a Thanksgiving dinner at his home. I was surprised by this but excited that my father had come out of his misery enough to see the light. It had been eight years since my whole family has been together for Thanksgiving dinner but I have one latent fear. The past months I have been home to my parents home a few times and seen the cages with turkeys in them. I met the hunters one day and asked them what they do with the turkeys after they remove them from the cage. They told me this was the best time of year to hunt wild turkeys because they were able to sell them to markets for Thanksgiving dinner. “People eat these?” I said in disgust. “Sure,” the hunter replied- “they are the best kind. Free range, wild and organic.”

In a few hours I am leaving for Thanksgiving dinner at my parents home. I have bought organic red wine and pumpkin pie for the occasion. All week I have been trying to ask my father where he is buying the turkey that we are going to eat on Thanksgiving night. He responds ambiguously to me and does not give any direct reply. I have talked to my mother about it as well but she says, “your father is in charge of the turkey this year……. just come hungry.” This morning I emailed my father and said, “please, just tell me where you are getting the turkey from!” He replied an hour ago and said, “son, I do not want to say where I am getting the turkey from. Just come hungry and trust me that it will be not only good but good for you. I will only say one more thing on this issue and then the discussion is closed. Period. This years Thanksgiving dinner is my sweet revenge.”

The Spain Diary, 8-10

8. Madrid, Spain.

I am in Spain. For what ever reason, this thought astounds me. For years and years I have refused to fly, to travel. I isolated myself in my house, bought birds (so I could watch them fly) and was convinced that if I stepped foot on an airplane I would die. Like so many others, I fell into paranoia and irrationalism and forced myself to believe that travel was a superfluous and futile way to waste time. If a person could just be content in their room, with a book- then why travel? Travel is for escapists who are miserable or discontent in their lives. This is what I would always say. Now I am traveling and realizing that the belief system I bought into was misguided. Being an alien, far from home where no one speaks your language is simply magnificent. I am love with this experience. I am in Madrid and tomorrow we leave here- for the ancient city of Cordoba, where Senegal was born.

Jen, Sadie, Hamlet and I just finished watching an Almodavar film. To be in Madrid and watch a film that takes place in Madrid was surreal. The ultimate cinematic experience. The experience was so exciting that I drank too much wine and had a spell of palpitations. Now I will try to get some sleep.

Today I am better. Almodavar put me in the mood for deep dreams. I feel healthier than yesterday and much more exuberant. We walked all over Madrid today and ate good food, drank lots of red wine and now I am hoping that I have another good nights sleep. From tomorrow onwards I swear that I will no longer drink coffee- only juice. The coffee in Spain is making my heart run marathons. In the other room I can hear Jen and Sadie laughing. I can smell the weed that they are smoking- while they ring out the wet laundry and hang it up to dry for the night.

(for a quick moment- I must confide in this journal. Please do not judge me but last evening I swore that I would never drink coffee again. This morning I entertained the thought of abstaining for about an hour but exhaustion quickly overcame me. I took a quick shower in the dank bathroom and then I quickly came down to this café where I am now enjoying a butter croissant and a café con leche. The wonderful life of a man of contradictions!! This is what I will call my memoir.)

9. Leaving Madrid.

Oh Cordoba, oh Cordoba!! Beautiful ancient city in the south where Jews, Christians and Muslims all cohabitated peacefully together in an enlightened community for centuries!! Cordoba, how I hope you will save me from this gloomy and monolithic Madrid. Rip the despair right out from me!!

Jen and I are leaving the largest city I have ever seen in all of my life. Madrid is a bustling ghetto, spread out with pathos running through all the citizens of the city like blood through arteries. It is a rather depressing, hopeless maze for all who traverse through its big belly. It is an overcrowded and polluted city with a sadness welling up in its gut. Madrid is a city I will never return to.

An hour or so ago, Jen and I made a quick stop at the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofia where for the first and last time I was able to observe Picasso’s Guernica. Jen insisted that we see this enormous painting before we leave Madrid and I am glad that she did or else my miserable self would of gotten us both out of this city as soon as possible. Jen is getting frustrated with what she calls my “apathy” but she is handling me well. I have noticed that her drinking has significantly increased since being in Madrid. Before we went into view Guernica we both drank a bottle of port which made the visceral experience of standing in front of Guernica all the more intense.  Security guards surrounded the painting which hung on a large white wall. Jen and I stood arm in arm with a crowd of camera toting tourists with their ordinary mouths agape as we all stared in amazement at the painting that will forever haunt all of our dreams. What a work of genius! After ten minutes of staring, I told jen that if we did not leave we would miss our train and be stuck in this wretched city. On our way out I bought a t-shirt with a print of Guernica on the front.

We are now on the train, which is leaving Madrid. Slowly the train is pulling out and I am watching this gloomy city fade away in the clouds. Goodbye Hamlet, goodbye Sadie- so sorry to leave you behind. It just started to rain.

10. Cordoba, Spain.

The sky just opened up and there is sun! I am waiting for a hand to reach down through the clouds and wake me up from this dream. From the moment I stepped off the train I was engulfed in a clean, dry, Mediterranean heat. I could hear voices that sounded free from torpor and filled with life. Immediately I felt my spirits raised. After we checked into our beautiful hostile in the old section of Cordoba, Jen and I wondered around the cobble stone streets of the ancient city in amazement. We bought little trinkets from vendors and smoked a hookah in a tea house. Our skin slowly toasted brown from the warm mid afternoon sun and again Jen and I fell in love (I think we were slowly beginning to hate one another in Madrid).

And then the bells. A maddening sound of bells that woke Jen and I out of our mid afternoon wine, weed and sun induced nap. We could hear people cheering and clapping in the distance and down in the piazza of our hostile a man yelled up with a German accent, “ our new Pope, Joseph Ratzinger has just been elected!” I wanted to go back to sleep because I could care less about the new Pope who is too old to hold such a position. I feel as if we are living in a particular time of history where Christianity is the dominant ideology, and this makes me very uncomfortable. I am uncomfortable with any religious ideology that a mass of people follow. This only creates discord in the world. At a time where I am struggling to find the center of my own being, this dominant Christian ideology makes me nervous. I refuse to categorize “my being” as Jewish , Catholic, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu, or any other way- I am who I am and I assume that my life will be devoted to a long journey of trying to figure out what this “I” actually is. For now I just want the bells to stop their knocking so I can get back to sleep.

We must be out of this hostile by twelve noon. Last night Jen and I ate, drank and smoked too much and wondered around the dark narrow streets until early in the morning. We were so exhausted by the time we arrived back in our room that we fell right to sleep (now that I think of it Jen and I have not made love in quite some time). Now Jen is rushing to get all of her things together so that we can check out of this room (for each minute after noon we are charged a late fee). I am ready so I will wait and write. The sky is blue, the fucking bells are still ringing (they have not stopped since yesterday), cats hiss and tourists are everywhere! Cordoba is a tourist trap and yesterday I almost got into it with a gypsy who would not leave me alone. These gypsies come to this place because of the large amount of tourists that they can bum from. However- this is an endearing city with good tapas, beautiful architecture, and old bars that inspire a desire to drink and be philosophical. Jen is ready to go, a little grouchy because she had to rush and she feels hung over. We will grab a taxi cab, traverse through the narrow streets of Cordoba and go to the train station where we will travel for a few hours until we reach Seville, the city of Flamenco.

The Spain Diary, 6-7

6. Madrid, Spain.

Two walking tourists. All around this ugly city we walked in silence for what felt like days. We walked among crowds of Madridians smoking cigarettes and swallowing the smoke. The locals depressed me with what felt like a Spanish kind of  unfriendly thanatos that they carry around in their attitudes. One older Madridian woman came up to me with a parakeet on her shoulder and kept asking me “why?” in English. I have seen her around our hostile all night sitting on a stump, in the dark and staring at a ninth story window. Palpitations are keeping me awake and outside I can see this gray city dangling from what seems to be the last tentacles of life. It’s two a.m and more windows seem to have lights in them than are dark. Don’t people who live in Madrid ever sleep? Do they all suffer from palpitations like me? Maybe its in the drinking water or the food. From now on I should only drink bottled water. Outside it is cold. Really cold and this fucking hostile has little heat. April in Madrid, what a strange place for me to be. At dinner I drank a bottle of Dominican red wine but I am not drunk nor am I hungry. I just want sleep. I should of known better. I am guilty of gluttony. The Spanish consume food in a way that I have not witnessed before. At one time tonight on our dinner table there was fried chicken, pork, rice, beans, Spanish beer and wine and something called Fritos. We ate at a Barrio Caribbean restaurant in one of the poorer sections of Madrid. It was cheap.

This morning Jen and I left that suffocating hostile. Now we are staying in a dank apartment with orange juice and hair stuck on the ceiling. The apartment is on the ninth floor of a very unbecoming utilitarian building. A friend of Jen’s lives here with a man she is fucking for rent. Jen tells me that she has expatriated herself from her drug and birth place in order to live in Spain, get clean and teach English. Language of the dominator. Her name is Sid and she is a lovely looking manic-depressive with a wounded heart who is struggling to piece herself back together and walk through the world some what intact. She is dating a twenty two year old boy (she is twenty five) from the Dominican Republic who goes by the name of Hamlet. Go figure. At first I really was skeptical but he knows not what significance (at least for me) stands behind his name. He does not even know of a man from Stratford, England who lamented the loss of a woman and wrote some of the greatest plays ever written by a man. I suppose I envy his ignorance.

In the other room Hamlet (who speaks very little English but supposedly has a huge penis) sits with Sid (who prefers to be called Sadie) and Jen. They are drinking rum and smoking hash and I can hear them talking about repressed anger. Fuck them. I want to sleep and be alone. They want to go out and drink and dance and engage in what they call “debauchery, Spanish style.” I feel like I am getting a cold and need to take it easy. I fell asleep for a few hours but I have been awoken by all their noise. So what else can I do but write and wait for sleep to overcome me again? Adjusting to this foreign culture is not as simple as I thought it would be. Maybe I should stop suffering on this mattress on the floor with dirty sheets and go drink some rum and smoke some hash. Why suffer?

7. Madrid, Spain.

Jen and I walked all over Madrid today. My feet are flooded by a terrible ache. In the metro we were like two sinners stuffed into boxcars that were descending into the inferno. I could not get the question out of my head- “what am I doing here?” I felt like I was on Carrion’s boat crossing the river Styx. The metro was dark, crowded and stuffy. Everyone spoke a language I can not understand. For a moment I thought I felt a pick pocket dangling his hands in my shirt. We went to the Prado Museum where I met eye to eye with Goya’s suffering, Hieronymus Bosch’s renditions of hell on earth and Caravaggio’s madness. So much art portraying various kinds of people seduced by greed, madness and a fear of death. While in the Prado I also realized that no matter where you go in the world the rich dress terribly. Now Jen and I are lying on the mattress on the floor. It is night again- Jen is getting the hash ready, which I am about to smoke and then hopefully we will both be able to fall off to sleep.

I just met a woman in a very strange dream who cries compulsively when her flowers die.

The Spain Diary, 1-5

Inspired by a comment from Paul Squires I will be posting sections from a work in progress: The Spain Diary. I will be posting the dairy in installments (as they are typed up and edited). Feed back would be appreciated, but more importantly I want you to come along, and indulge in this mysterious and unusual journey that I took in 2004. ’sta luego.

1. Oakland, California

I have a terrible time letting go. Tomorrow my girlfriend and I leave for Spain. Our current compact one bedroom apartment is littered with restless garments and various idiosyncratic condiments that are waiting to make their way into my suitcase. Our indoor black cat, who prefers t

o be called Monk, sits forlornly in one of the suitcases. I assume that he is wanting to come with us rather than being placed into the foster care of my psycho-analytic sister who will tend to his numerous needs during the next three weeks of our absence. I have successfully avoided stepping foot on an airplane for almost eleven years now, but with my current girlfriend this seems to be an impossible crusade to carry on. She refuses to stay with me if I do not travel, and I am left in a predicament where I either loose the woman I love or get over my horrible fear. Surprisingly on this night, my fear is relatively absent- despite a tight jaw and my occasional ruminations upon death from a terrible loss of engine power that sends our lovely little airplane into a nose dive towards mother earth. I shake momentarily with subtle horror when these thoughts come into my consciousness, but then I take a small shot of whiskey that helps me to let these irascible thoughts go.

At this point in my thirty fourth year of existence, my greatest goal is to break out from the servitude of my self imposed existence of pre-fabricated comfort zones. I have a tendency to spend most of my time within a ten mile radius of my home. Outside of work, I keep myself locked up in a wall to wall carpeted one bedroom apartment with my cat on my lap and a book in my hand. Every man or woman reaches a point in his or her life, where it is time. And this is my time. It is my time to let go and travel despite how much I am dreading it. The past few afternoons I have spent more time staring at the sky, trying to comprehend the incomprehensible thought that I am going to be “up there” in the sky- where only the birds should fly. The thought bends my mind and sends little shots of adrenaline rushing to my heart. This is the stuff of science fiction- but tomorrow I am going to Spain and there is not a dam thing I can do about it.

(by the way, this journal that I am currently writing in and taking with me to Spain- I stole it today.)

2. Airport

I want to imbed this concept into my fear ridden mind:  “First of all you need to understand that no objective reality exists but that which is created by consciousness. Consciousness always creates form, and not the other way around. So my environment is a reality of existence created by myself and others like me, and it represents the manifestation of our development.” I also want to remember: “Identity is not dependent on form.” The more I imbed these concepts into my mind the more I must realize that life is but a dream, that my thoughts create my reality and that the flesh I carry around is imaginary and so is the airplane that I will be floating in- so what the hell do I have to fear???

3. Airplane.

Am I just going to sit here in my own hell? I know hell is eternal- and a living hell has the luxury of being brief. But I want you to see this from my perspective. You see, it is my belief that as long as a person is living through hell in the moment, this hell IS eternal and forever. It is pointless telling someone who is in hell that “everything will be okay” and that their “suffering will end soon.” This is like telling someone who is under the influence of anesthesia to “wake up!” But my girlfriend looks calm while currently I am a man in hell. I am too nervous to even continue writing in this journal. I am being subjected to the torment of turbulence at around 30,000 feet above ground. I am a six foot six man who has been shoved into the working class section of this gigantic airplane (how does this fucking thing stay in the air, and who the hell are these people who get to sit in first class???) and my discomfort is showing by the sweat that is pouring from my forehead and my hand which is grasping onto my girlfriends hand. I am being tortured…with ten hours to go. Fuck.

4. Madrid, Spain

Survived. How I do not know. But I know I am still alive because I can perceive form. Unless there is form in the spirit world. But I am almost positive that I am still alive. I am in a hostel in downtown Madrid and outside my window taxi cabs and pollution make their way through the large city like bacteria in blood. This morning I went for an exhausted walk which filled me with a strange mixture of elation and anxiety. I was elated because I was no longer in a country that I despised. Freed from the turpitude of American civilization, each step I was taking was on foreign ground!! I was anxious because I was beginning to suffer the strange and beguiling symptoms of jet lag.

Currently, I am sick and trembling. The coffee here is strong enough to kill an elephant and the orange juice I drank for breakfast is acidic enough to burn a hole in a copper coin. Last night when we arrived in Madrid I was like a wild bird set free from its cage. My girlfriend and I checked into our hostile and then roamed the new found foreign streets of Madrid. We went from bar to bar like two time travelers, mystified by the new world in which they found themselves. I indulged myself in cup after cup of Spanish red wine and smoked a pack of cigarettes. I was celebrating the fact that I had discovered a new world.

Jen, my girlfriend, is telling me that I am sneezing a lot. The city is dirty but beautiful. The shower is to small for my six foot six body, but I managed to squeeze myself in and rinse. We are not staying in the most luxurious of accommodations. The room is green, the bed is bent, the balcony looks out onto a white wall and the bathroom is the size of a shoebox. But who cares, at this moment despite the fact that I am sick and about to vomit- I feel like this is a small price to pay for being the luckiest man alive.

5. Room Without A View. Madrid, Spain.

And then it hits me with the force of gravity. Jen and I have no choice but to remain in bed for the day. Jen is dizzy and I am also spinning. The room we are staying in is a surreal mystery theatre that I can not figure out. The bookshelves and the coat rack keep moving. So does the archaic chandelier that hangs from the ceiling. Who am I again? Symptoms: chest tightness, vertigo, lethargy, shortness of breath, anxiety and fear of sudden death. I think it is afternoon in Madrid. Sirens sound in my head. The white sheets that I have been lying on all day smell like bleach. Am I Kurt Cobain? The smell of rotten fish wafts through the open windows. It must be past lunchtime? I can not move from this bed. The floor is like little waves of water. Jen calls our current affliction a homogenization of jet lag, time change, too much red wine last night and being displaced which are all creating a feeling that is equivalent to being a fish in a fishbowl. I am not ready to die yet Jen! I still want to marry you! So I take a multivitamin and some liquid trace minerals with a lot of water. The maid is vacuuming the hallways and I think there is a bird loose some where in our room. Jennifer can not hear me when I talk. A dog barks and more motorbikes, horns make their way down my wall. I am surprised that they have dogs in Spain.

Jen is asleep. She is sprawled out on her stomach like she has just fallen from a great height and landed on this miserable bed. Her beautifully seraphic hair is displayed gracefully all over her youth filled back. I love her more than I thought I would and at some point I would like to ask her if we can make babies. But not now, not yet. First I have to survive this house of mirrors. The white stucco walls are still breathing. Good. The lithe white drapes are gently swaying with each slight Spanish breeze. A siren, the maid is shouting in Spanish and I think I am going to be sick.

Blogger Block

I have been coming up empty. Drained or strained- unable to write anything that I feel is of much interest to me. In the year that I have been maintaining this blog I have not run up against this quagmire. Ideas for blog posts flooded my mental capacities and I could not keep my fingers away from the key board. But now I have grown uninterested and discontent. I’d rather meditate than write and I am more entertained watching my birds than I am creating blog posts. I wonder if I am growing tired of the self deprecating, victimized revelations that I indulge in my writings. There have been times that I feel as if I am revealing too much and should maybe with hold some personal information from the blogosphere. But the more dominant half of me has always believed that good writing is about honesty and if I am incapable of being honest in my writing, why write?

So I have abstained from writing. I have created a few short stories that lack the ardor, tenacity and wit that I would like to cultivate in my prose- but they are tolerable. Maybe I have grown bored with the tales of terror, anxiety, perversion, marital woe, sexual frustration and absurdity that I have spent the past year religiously telling or maybe I just need a break. Ideas for stories to write are still often coming into my head, as if a hand of some ethereal muse refuses to let me alone, but the moment I transform the idea into prose I grow bored before I have even gotten past the first paragraph. I spell word after word wrong and can not find the words to describe a thought. I often wonder if this blog is simply a ridiculous waste of my time but then I am reminded of how much I enjoy certain comments when they come maybe once a week. Or is this a lie I tell myself to manipulate my way around the task of writing the novel I have dreamed of creating ever since I came out of my fathers womb (this is another story I still have to tell). Even now as I write this blog entry I want to delete it. This is a ridiculous rant of a jaded mind that has become frozen in it’s own lack of spontaneity. Whatever the case may be- I believe that I may be suffering from my first case of blogger’s block.

A writing teacher of mine told me the other day to just keep writing. “Even if what you have to say is crap, put it up on your blog for all the world to see. You are writing for you and nothing more, so what have you got to hide?” What my writing teacher does not realize is that I am not writing just for me. I failed to admit to him that I am writing for fame, immortality, financial security and the privilege of accepting literary awards that will free me from my day job and afford me the title “novelist” when I have to tell people what I do. It is a grand dream that may never be attained, but deep down I feel as if this absurd digital diary is a small step along the blistering way. And after all, it is the journey and not the destination, that matters most, right? So I’ll keep writing, or at least I will try to keep writing- and maybe way out there, somewhere- one person will keep on reading.

The Reluctant Ornithologist, Part 1

1. “Where Two or More Are Gathered In My Name, There Will I Be Also.”

I had been buying a lot of birds. Not just one- but three. Their verbal flourishes dominated my every preoccupation. My heart became a sonogram of bird calls. Every thought I had hovered around birds. Che-wee-wee-ooo (which is the song that one of my bird sang), chip-chip-chip-chip (which is the sound of another) and tissy-che-wee-ooo (the sound of the third) all rang through my ears day and night. It was as if my head had been converted into and aviary. From where this sudden fascination with birds initially came from, I am with only one idea. It must of happened while I was in a hysterical state of anxiety, trying to calm myself on my back porch. For whatever reason, my ears clasped onto a seraphic song that sounded like this:

Chee chew chee chew chee
Chew-cheer cheer cheer
Chew chew chew chee
-up cheer up cheer up
tweet tweet tweet tweet jug jug jug.

I looked around to find the sound and noticed what looked like a nightingale singing in an apple tree. When I got up to have a closer look the bird was gone- and so was my anxiety. The bird’s song was the most salient sound I had ever heard before. After that memorable day I began to listen to bird songs. When I went on walks or sat outside I opened the aviary gates with my ears. The more I listened the more each note seemed sweeter than before. It was as if I was drinking the sound. My heart began to settle into a gentle hum rather than its previous frightening variations of tones and rhythms. I knew that the English romantics were blown away by the beauty of bird strophes and meters, which threw them into despair, awe and raw inspiration. However, something not terribly different was happening to me. The more I tuned into the songs of birds the more I could relate to that most American of bards, Walt Whitman, who was always singing about the joy of being alive.

Such joy is aberrant and unusual to me. I have often thought that I was condemned to a life in the mental bush. My mood swings have always been irregular and my feeling of hopelessness and despair less than melodious. My songs were never that of a mockingbird who is able to mimic many tongues at once, but rather that of madman unable to reconcile what he himself needs in order to live in peace. After taking the time to concentrate upon bird song- I began to feel like the meaning that I have always been seeking lies in the rhythms of the real world. And then one day, completely unexpected- I happened upon a poem:

Could they be birds that sung so well?
I thought, and maybe more than I,
That music’s self had left the sky
To cheer me with its magic strain,
And then I hummed the words again
Til fancy pictured standing by
My hearts companion flies in the sky.

I took this as a sign, an omen- not to be ignored. After work that day I heeded the call and spent three hundred dollars on my first bird.

Despite the fact that Keats and Coleridge wrote so much about the melancholy bird, I myself wanted to buy a nightingale. Keats referred to this bird’s song as “a love chant that disburthen his full soul of all its music,” and I wanted to own this sound in my house. However, the two bird stores that I went to did not carry the nightingale, whose melodies are said to burst with love, so I settled upon the next best thing- a thrasher. The man who sold it to me said “her sounds will make you laugh,” which I did when I heard the bird sing ShuckitShuckitSowit-PloughitPloughitHoeit! I knew she was the bird for me when the clerk said, “If you search for a single parameter to define this bird’s song, you will be barking up the wrong tree. This bird is an absurdist.” When I brought the little red thrasher home my wife was overtly surprised by my purchase. I had not told her about my bird revelations and not until I brought the bird home did we talk about it.

As the days passed my wife and I wanted another bird in the house. We both loved the natural sound of the bird songs that deeply involved our minds in the world of birds and drew us into a unique music that made us more aware of the immediacy of the natural world. The bird songs cancelled out the synthetic urban sounds of cars, stereo’s, aircraft and sirens that surrounded our abode. One Sunday I took my wife to a small pet store where we picked out our second bird- whose songs, my wife said, reminded her of Bach. The sparrow was not cheap but when the bird seller told us that the bird had 24 different song motifs- we decided to take it. We bought separate food for the sparrow and as we were walking out to the car, the bird which was in a box sung a song that reminded me of Verdi’s Rigoletto: Wertz, wertz, wertz, weet-weet-weet-weet-weet-spee-ge-wee-ge-dee. I was both amazed and inspired and while driving back to what would soon become our insane aviary/house- my wife looked at me and said “I love this bird.”

Having two birds in the house created a new vernacular between my wife and I. We were using more words like “beauty,” “joy,” and “love” rather than our previous lexicon of “bug,” “mean,” “frustrated,” and “jerk.” A new sense of well being came over our home and I was experiencing a remission from the anxiety that had been tormenting me for so long. We woke up in the morning to chip chip chee yer zig zig zig zig; chee chee chiddle hair terpee terpee terpee and tee tee tee eeeyer huffum huffum huffum. We named the sparrow Miro and the thrasher Dali. My ears filled with moments of excitement and exaltation as I listened to my bird’s songs. I finally understood what Aldous Huxley meant when he said, “bird song is simply an outlet, the most pleasurable one.” I began to whistle more and brood less. In the walkway of our small home my wife and I hung a sign that said “The birds sing blissfully until the joy is so great as to be unbearable: this joy cannot be heard from afar, but if you come near it, you will succumb.”

Then I impulsively bought the third bird- the one my wife and I would come to call Mozart The Terrible. It was a small green parakeet that sung astonishingly beautiful music. Her songs sounded like four instruments that weave in and out through unusual harmonies, rhythms derived from ancient India and Greek music, and impressionistic chords that rise up towards a sonic heaven. I stood there in awe as the bird seller told me that this parakeet was a truly innovative composer, a paragon of avian song. “The great thing about the songs of birds is that they are opposite of time. Only the sound of birds lasts longer than the greatest of composers,” she said to me as she packaged up my bird. I remembered what my grandfather told me about how in his darkest hours of gloom, when he suddenly became aware of his own futility- he would listen to Mozart. The sounds that came from the parakeet who waited in the box for me to pay the sixty dollars, sounded like an electronic alchemist, a hallucination of purity. I could hear a violin, a cello and a bass all in the birds single meticulous call. As I left the pet store, with my bird in a bag, I asked the pet seller again if she was sure it would okay to keep the parakeet in the same cage as the thrasher and the sparrow. “It will be like a beautiful musical composed by God,” she said as she held the door open for me with a smile I will never forget. Little did I know then that the supposed beautiful musical gathering of Mozart with the two other birds would become a blade to my inner ear, my marriage and what was left of my sanity.

The Lesson Of The Ring

I am embarrassed to tell this story, but it is a story that must be told. As a Writer- I am obligated. Prior to wearing my wedding ring I lived a different kind of life. I lusted after women on an hourly basis, spent my days pent up in sordid strip clubs and drank in dank city bars until the early hours of the morning. I disdained the whole concept of domesticity and found brief moments of love and bliss in Asian massage parlors.  There was a period of time in my life where I worked to not only live but also to afford my weekly visits to these massage parlors where beautiful Asian masseuses, who spoke little English, walked on my bare back and rubbed baby oil into my knuckles, toes and testicles. I justified my vice by convincing myself of the health benefits of the activity. Romans and Greeks had engaged in such restorative health practices and for $150.00 a week I should be allowed to do the same.

After I got married I swore that I would stop visiting the massage parlors. I sought out help from a therapist and visited a sexual addiction group, however- I could not get my mind off of one massage parlor in-particular. It was called The Sun Spa and every time I had walked into its warm and tenderly embracing belly, I enjoyed the most relaxing and sensual of erotic experiences.  After I was married I used all my residual strength to stay away because before I got married I swore that I would not become a husband that covertly goes behind his wife’s back and visits prostitutes. But sometimes the pressure was to immense and I would travel to The Sun Spa where I would sit outside in my car and use every conceivable mental weapon I had to keep my body from wondering inside. I did this several times. Once, I sat in my car for three hours outside of The Sun Spa pleading with myself to not go in. I watched jealously as men went in and out and I was transfixed by the neon marquee, that flashed SUN SPA in bright yellow lights. After month of forceful abstention, one day after a long and stress filled day at work I drank two beers and decided I deserved a break. Once again I drove myself to The Sun Spa.

This time I went in. I paid my $50.00 to the Korean speaking sugar daddy behind that counter and then chose from a wide array of scantily dressed Asian women. It was like looking into a fruit bowl with freshly picked fruit just waiting to be eaten. I chose one that was especially sexy to me because of her wide eyes and the way her white lace g-string revealed the fine contours of her hips. When she grabbed my hand to escort me into a back room I felt a feeling of liberation overcome me- it was as if all of the distress caused by my many months of indecision and moral deliberation had been suddenly released. For a brief moment I was freed from my guilt and resistance and once again allowed to indulge in my favorite past-time.

Since I do not remember the sirens name who lead me astray down a hall way of lust and transgression- I will simply refer to her as Her. Her brought me into a darkened room, set up just how I had remembered it from my visit two years before. There were mirrors on the wall, a bar on the ceiling for the masseuses to hold onto as they walked all over their patients back. There was slow sweet music playing on the speakers, a red light that created a red light district quality to the room and a shower in the corner that Her was preparing for me. She told me to take a shower, get clean and then rest on the mattress that sat on the floor and was made up with freshly laundered sheets and white towels. I showered quickly and was sure to clean my testicles and anus so that nothing auspicious would be found there. My nervous shivers went away with the warm heat of the shower and after I was done- I wrapped myself in a towel and laid down on the mattress in anticipation of the pleasure that awaited me. I remember being in a state of complete relaxation as I laid there. There was no guilt, no shame- just peace and quiet. The feeling a person gets when they are doing for themselves what they need to do.

After a long and relaxing massage in which Her lathered my body with baby oil, cracked my stiffened knuckles, walked on my back, massaged my temples and stuck her finger gently up my anus she asked me to turn over. Of course my erection was as stiff as a redwood tree because Her had been giving me the massage in the nude and I had been watching her in the mirror as she massaged me. Her immediately grabbed onto my penis and asked me if I wanted to have more fun. I thought for a minute, while she tried to entice me with her hand that went up and down my penis like a gentle Yo-Yo. I finally asked her how much it would cost to get a hand job and then ejaculate on her breasts. She laughed, told me $100 and then asked for the money in cash. I took the twenty dollar bills from my wallet and placed them into her hand. “Okay now, we have fun,” Her said in broken English as she climbed on top of me and began to lick my ears.

After twenty minutes of erotic and relaxed bliss Her said to me “Your time almost up. You need cumm.” I did not want the minutes to end so I was unable to have an orgasm. When Her told me that extra time would be extra money I asked her if she would do me a final favor. I told her that I really liked it when she stuck her finger up my anus and I asked her if she would do it again. I assured her that this would make me cumm fast. Her giggled and said, “oh you like it up there?” “Yes, very much,” I replied and Her stuck her beautifully shaped breast into my mouth. I felt like I was being infantilized, held like an infant- for a moment, as I sucked on Her’s breast and felt her finger being inserted into my ass. “Good,” she said as I had to release my lips from her breast and moan. “So gooooood,” I replied as she forcefully thrusted her finger all the way up my butt.

And then I felt it. It was like a cold zap in the deepest parts of my stomach. It felt like what an iceberg quickly breaking away from a glacier might feel like. I jumped as I was about to cumm and Her suddenly pulled her finger out of my ass. “What was that?” I said as I felt something very uncomfortable and stiff inside me. I tried to walk around the room but could not move without an immense scratching sensation in my bumm. “Oh gosh!” I heard Her say as she sat cuddled up in a ball on the corner of the mattress. She held up her hand and stared at me with a look of complete distress. I did not understand what she was trying to communicate to me until I made out two muffled words that came from her mouth. “No ring,” she kept saying as she looked at the finger that not long ago was up my ass. I immediately freaked out. My horror turned to absolute desperation as I realized the severity of the situation. My lust and bliss quickly turned into fear as I thought about how I would explain this situation to my wife. In a panic I jumped into the shower and immediately tried to get hot water into my ass in the hope that I could flush it out. I tried to stick my fingers in and pull it out- but the pain was to immense. I cried, I stomped and I yelled “fuck,” several times. I practically lost control of myself in the shower and by the time I got out the same Asian in sugar daddy that took my $50.00 at the door was standing in the room with a long chopstick in his hand.

“No problem,” he said. “Happen before.” I was confused. “What happen before?” I thought. I did not realize that he was going to be able to help me. The thought of this strange looking Asian man sticking a chop stick up my butt mortified me. I started to put my pants on but when Her grabbed me and said “it’s okay, easy..better than hospital,” all I could think about was my wife in the hospital waiting room and what I would say to her. I had nothing to loose and everything to gain, so I decided to surrender to the moment and lyed down on the mattress. The experience was brief but immensely painful. I screamed loudly as the Asian man tried to pull the ring out of my anus just like he was going fishing. He whistled and Her kept saying “I so sorry, so sorry,” while the man said “you relax, calm.” I made a fist and grabbed onto the edge of the mattress as if I was holding on for dear life. I kept trying to practice something that I had learned in Yoga class, which was that pain is just a state of mind, an illusion. I took deep breaths that barely went half way into my lungs and I felt tears plowing down my humiliated face. I thought about my life, my wife and how I would willingly give myself over to domesticity if I could some how get out of this tragic situation. There I was- a grown, married man (deeply in love) who was also a respectable high school Teacher, lyed out flat in The Sun Spa with an over weight Asain man sticking a chop stick up my ass. What had I come to?

After ten minutes or so, I do not remember how long, the torment ended. I heard the ring fall onto the floor and immediately Her grabbed it and went to wash it off in the sink. I slowly got up and thanked the Asian man who told me “take shower, blood.” The pain of walking from the mattress to the shower was immense but there was something very gratifying in knowing that I was freed from the surgical procedures that I thought awaited me. Her warmed up the shower for me and sympathetically said “I get your clothes ready while you shower.” I do not know why, but I thanked her and asked if she would get me some tea. In the shower I slowly washed out my pain, my desire, my lust, my guilt and my ass with soap to disinfect whatever kind of germs had gotten inside me. I remember feeling like a fool, like someone who had been punished in the worst possible way. I remember thinking about a passage in Hermann Hesse’s “Demian” that said, “A man’s fate and his character are two names for the same concept.” As I showered I stared at my wedding ring and swore that the moment I got out of the massage parlor I would never, ever return.  To make a very long story short, I have not returned since that terrible day…nor will I……. I hope.

I Am No Tolstoy.

If you have not already realized this, I am no Tolstoy. I have been trying to become a man of letters for many years now. All I have to show for it are a few unfinished short stories, a lonely out of the way blog that seems to be hard for most people to find and a job teaching English to high school students who can not seem to sit still. I get stuck in traffic every day on my way home from work, which gives me a large chunk of time to meditate upon my inability to achieve the status of a great Writer (do great Writers get stuck in traffic?). I often contemplate Tolstoy’s genius while constructing my own stories which seem to never be resolved in the end. Tolstoy was a master of resolution- and maybe this is why his entire country loved reading him. I, on the other hand, have one reader of my short stories- my wife, who usually falls asleep before she gets to the end. If my only reader is falling asleep before finishing my stories, I am assuming that they are no good, and this may be the reason why they end up buried alive in the bottom drawer of my desk.

Tolstoy’s wife read him fervently. She was in love with his writings. She inspired him to get out of bed in the mornings and she even dedicated her life to typing up his hand written and messy manuscripts. At one point in Tolstoy’s life she was so worn out from not sleeping for months on end because of her dedication to her husbands writings- that she was hospitalized for a month. Tolstoy always used to say that his greatness was only measured against his wife’s dedication to his work, and one of the most depressed periods of his life were when his wife was hospitalized and he was alone with his own mind. “I thought myself a failure, a hack writer, unable to produce any profound themes that mattered,” he once said commenting about the period of time when his wife was not around.

I often will give a story to my wife to read. Granted, I married a women who is not a big reader- but does this account for the week or two that passes before I see her reading what I have written. She prefers to read my stories in bed, which she says help her to fall asleep. I do not know whether or not I should take this as a complement- so I do not comment. Sometimes when I really want feed back on one of my stories I will ask her several times if she would not mind reading what I have written but weeks seem to pass without me hearing a single word about my story. It was not always this bad.

When we first met she loved what I wrote. Well she never really read anything that I wrote, but she loved the stories that I would tell and assumed that what I wrote on paper was just as good. She always liked to flirt with me and tell me that I reminded her of Jack Kerouac, and she often liked to refer to me as “the next great bohemian.”  I should have been more alert to the fact that she was not expressing any interest in reading my work, but back then I was stoned most of the time and addicted to Paxil. My judgment was poor and the fact that some one thought of me as a living Jack Kerouac was flattery enough to make me fall in love. But almost a decade has passed and I am still struggling to keep my dream alive. I have always been a believer in the theory that a man is only as great as the woman who inspires him to be great. I keep looking for her inspiration but it never seems to be directed towards my work as a Writer. I suppose that now that I am older and she is ready to start a family, that it is not so appealing to be married to an almost 40 year old Jack Kerouac.

Tolstoy’s wife completed the entire manuscript of War And Peace. She edited it, and typed it twice! When I was telling my wife about this the other day she looked at me and said, “well you are no Tolstoy.” “I beg your pardon,” I replied with a measure of hurt in my voice. “Well it’s true….. you have never really written anything,” she replied. I had to control my anger from bursting forth and I calmly replied, “but what about all those stories I have given you to read and you have never read or finished?” “I have read them and they are good and interesting but why haven’t you tried to get them published? Why don’t you make a commitment to writing every day, and if you want to be a great Writer why are you almost 40 and have not finished a single story or novel? I mean get real!!” I wanted to tell her that the reason “why” was all her fault. I wanted to say that these stories are rotting in my desk drawer because you fall asleep every time you read them and that there is no greater insult to a Writer than to fall asleep while reading his work. I wanted to say that the reason I am no Tolstoy is because she shows very little interest in my work and a Writer is only as great as the woman who is inspiring and pushing him. But I did not because I knew that she was right and that I would sound like a victim- so I walked away in frustration and have not said a word since.

Upon receiving one of the highest honors that a country can bestow upon a Writer, Tolstoy said to the upper class audience “I would not be here if it was not for my wife.” I often day dream. I imagine myself receiving an award for a short story or a novel that I have published. Maybe it is the Pulitzer. In my day dream I have become the great writer that I have always imagined myself to be. Instead of thanking my wife and family I simply look out into the crowd and say “being a Writer is a lonely journey and I could not of done this without my self determination and my self reliance.” The audience claps and my wife and my family look puzzled. “Why did I not thank them?” I know they are thinking. As I walk off stage I look at them and my eyes are proud with revenge. “That was for the years of neglect,” I think to myself before disappearing behind a satin curtain towards all of my adoring fans. Then I awake from my day dream, and am inspired with a new sense of purpose and a new motivation to complete a short story or novel and get it published- until I hear the haunting words of my lovely wife in my head, “you…you…..you….you are no Tolstoy. Get real!”

The Bitter Blues.

I am in a bad mood. A really bad mood. On certain mornings this mood overtakes me like surprising headline on a daily newspaper. There is nothing that I can do about it other than accept that this is the way it is. This morning when I woke up in a state of gloom and agitation- I was well aware that my bad mood would envelope my morning like strips of canvas used to mummify the dead.  This morning, is my one morning a week, to sleep in; instead I was woken up twice- once by the repetitive stomping sounds of my upstairs neighbors boot steps and another time by the flagellating engine noise of my next-door neighbors archaic jeep. As soon as the clock hit nine I had no choice but to realize my defeat and get out of bed. My heart was beating violently through out my body- fueled by the anger of being rudely awoken by those who do not care. I no longer drink coffee or smoke cigarettes, so on uptight mornings like this one- I am without a refuge for my rage, a helpless victim of my own bad mood.

I should of known better than to have breakfast with my wife. After twenty some years of suffering from these biological bad moods I should by now be well aware that when I am under their control- I need to be alienated from all people. I have seen the damage these bad moods have done to my family members (who also suffered from bad moods) from generation to generation. Fury runs through my pressured blood in the same way that a possessed person is animated by the vapors of the negative spirit that inhabits them. Any word that you say to me starts off an internal litany of judgment and condescension that I keep all bottled up in my head. I ask simple questions like “how did you sleep?” or “what are you doping today?” in order to avoid having to get too personal and to avoid having you ask me that one question that I hate most- “Is something wrong?” At breakfast this morning I did my best to hide my bad mood- instead I was barely able to talk and when words did come out of my mouth they were like crumpled up pieces of paper. I ate my food maliciously and ordered two extra sides of greasy ham to calm my need to rip the flesh off of another persons bones.

There is no doubt that a bad mood attracts other bad moods in the same way that a lint roller attracts lint. My father always used to tell me that when you are down the shit knows where to find you. My wife went from smiling at the beginning of breakfast to a defeated silence by the end. She had complained to me about the coffee and when the waitress asked her how the coffee was she said “fine.” My bad mood needed a target to shoot at and I could not resist this opportunity to let off some steam. “Why are you so afraid to say what you really feel,” I said. “What do you mean?” my wife innocently asked. “You don’t like the coffee and you were afraid to tell the waitress how you really felt. Why are you always so filled with self doubt?” Of course I paid for not only breakfast but also for this observation. I was met by her derision and disdain. “Shut it. Just shut it! I don’t want to hear it from you,” she said. And with that, breakfast ended.

My bad mood carried me to the car with a heavy gait. It felt as if my legs had lead in them. My chest was heavy and my vision was limited to whatever was in front of my nose. I could only smell the crap that emanated up from the dirty streets and the fog over head was a direct reflection of the fog in my head. I began to think about how much it sucks to be a victim of these pestilent bad mood spells. I am helpless against their weight, incapable of tearing off the peel and running free. Instead I turn in on my self and am a prisoner of the nebula of my own judgemental mind- unable to escape the wrath that is directed straight at me. I think about the job that I am stuck in, my years of failure and my lack of direction. I think about the books I will never publish, the paintings I will never sell and my cold home in the ghetto which is a punishment for my years of neglect and deflated ambition. I worry about money and condemn myself for spending so much of the small amount of money I do have. The litany goes on and on from money, career to focusing on my deepest fears and my getting more uncertain with the passing years. I start to feel hopeless and locked in and all I can do to find some respite from this inner narrative of pain is to sit down right here and write my bad mood out of me like an informal exorcision.

Of course now my wife is not talking to me and my neighbor is angry with me because I asked him if he would mind not starting his abomination so early in the morning. “But I have owned this car longer than you have lived here,” he replied. “What does that have to do with anything? I just need to sleep in on Saturday mornings and I really do not appreciate being awoken by the gas fumes coming from you car and the loud vomiting sounds of your engine. At least park on the dam street if you think you will be starting it early on Saturday mornings.” I spoke in a manner that was filled with a desire for revenge. He seemed to know that if he continued to make a case for his cars wellbeing over mine- that I could possibly become violent. He gradually backed away from me and said before smartly going away, “God man- you sure are singing the bitter blues.”

Wish You Were Here

Sometimes I miss you. It happens when I am watching kids that would be your age. It also happens when I hear the word abortion. My heart seems to fill up with sadness and mope around in my belly. It is like loosing a best friend. I know the hard truth, which is that you would be sitting besides me if I was ready for you when you decided to come. Instead, I was too immature and poor. I slept with my girlfriend without condoms, willingly came inside of her and planted the seed for your existence, which I knew could not make it out the front door. Women often tell me that they can see me with a daughter- but little do they know about you. You see, I know your spirit was feminine and fragrant- because long ago on the day of the abortion I had a vision and it was wearing a flowered dress that smelled like lime. There was long locks of hair and a dark smile that caused me to smile in the waiting room even though you were being sucked away from life through a medical tube. Now that I teach high school I am hunted by your image in the face of the students I teach. You would have been their age by now and for all I know- you may of been one of them.

I went through three abortions. There was not just you but two others. Two brothers or sisters that I was not ready to keep. I drank too much beer, read too much Edgar Allen Poe and suffered too much by my own hand for reasons that should have been easily overcome. Now I am a lonely man who could have been a family man, but when I am eating dinner by my self I occasionally hear the laughter and frivolity of the family that will never be. My wife is not aware of my duress- because my deep sadness is too strong to find a place inside her. She does not make the connection between my fear of sex ( which is not a personal offense towards her beauty) and my fear of loosing one more. I suppose I am old and ready enough now to reincarnate the image of you in a new born- but the fear of retribution keeps me trying to knock on heavens door. I’d rather try and talk with you than start a new. Deal with what I have done rather give birth to another one. Make peace with and mourn my three children that never lived- rather than go out and buy a brand new crib.

My students get a good majority of my soul, when I know all they deserve is my mind. In you are they, and in them I know you are. There are students whom I call my favorite and when I take them out to lunch or for a walk- it is you that I am talking to. The love that a father holds for his daughter goes into each and every gesture I make. My students often say that they feel loved by me but little do they know that it is you that I love in them. When I am walking alone I often think about you and find disobedient tears wondering down my face. My shoulders slump and my body becomes heavy when I consider your hand, legs and tummy that I will never hold in mind or body. I wonder who you would have been and what your face would of reminded me of. I no longer talk to the mother you could have had because the sharp edge of time has severed our bond. She once told me, when we were contemplating giving you the name “Ada”- that you would be a girl who would look just like me. Not soon after your departure- her guilt was so severe that she began wearing make up to hide the lines that began to form on her twenty one year old face.

Tonight, while eating at a burrito shop- I found myself staring at a man with his younger daughter. He talked to her with a proud smile in his eyes that reminded me of what love must look like in the heart. In these moments you sneak up on me and fill me with such grief that my appetite disappears and all I can do is walk away with my head down, eyes staring at the ground. I know that this is a sad letter to send and I am sorry to fill your mind with my grief but it really is important to me that you know that fifteen years after your passing I really do wish you where here.

The Sex Life Of A Hula Hooper

I have finally succeeded in my mission to learn how to keep it up for more than five minutes.  A hula hoop that is. When I first started hula hooping I was unable to keep it up for over a minute. I think this was because of my stress and tension. For years I have been unable to find a form of reputable exercise that not only strengthens my core but also allows for me to release a good majority of my tension. It has taken daily and consistent practice to be able to get top a point where I can keep it up for longer than five minutes. But now on the eve of one of the greatest elections in American history- I am proud to announce that not only is my waist more limber but my groin feels stronger than it has in decades. It is the newly developed muscles in my groin and my strengthened legs- that have allowed me to keep it up. The hula hoop that is.

For years I was unable to master the art of hula hooping. In fact I ridiculed the sport and all those whom I would notice hanging out in parks, twirling silly plastic rings around there fat free waists (a lot of people do this in California). Of course at that time I sported love handles and a well developed beer belly but my scorn was not a manifestation of jealousy- I just thought hula hooping was stupid. Over the past year I have been looking for newer ways to keep my body in shape without having to leave my home or join a gym. I have tried Yoga and improvisational dancing to old Michael Jackson records but neither of these exercises have I been able to perform with regularity. When a friend recommended to me to try hula hooping I laughed. Not only was my waist to stiff but I was not interested in looking like a fool. I commented to my friend on the stupidity of hula hooping but when she told me that it was an exercise invented and practiced by the Greeks- I began to think differently about it.

Now I twirl a circular candy cane looking hoop around my waist for thirty minutes a day. I do it when no one else is home because the one time I was caught by my wife and sister hula hooping they not only took a picture of me (posted above) but they also could not stop laughing for many minutes. I felt humiliated and embarrassed and so now I keep my exercising to myself. It has only been through daily hard work that I have reached the point of being able to keep it up for more than five minutes. In my life at the moment there is no greater thrill than listening to jazz music and twirling a plastic hoop around my waist.

In my perfunctory job as an English Teacher I spend the majority of my day either sitting or standing. There is little that I can do for exercise at work other than stand up and sit down in my chair, and repeat this ten times. I tend to try and stand for longer periods but my sedentary academic job has caused my bones to stiffen and my muscles to atrophy. Hula hooping, has become an exercise that I look forward to doing when I return home from work. I do it outside in the garden (even in the rain) since I was forbidden to do it in the house since I broke my wife’s favorite glass plate and figurative clay sculpture. Besides there just is not enough room in our small abode for a big guy like me to be twirling a hoop around his waist.

This evening while my wife and I where eating home made chili and talking about the various propositions that we were going to vote for tomorrow, I told her that I can now keep the hula hoop up for longer than five minutes at a time. I could detect a laugh and cynicism that wanted to come forth from her mouth but instead she responded with support and encouragement. “I’ll bet I can change my whole body if I hula hoop every day for the next few months,” I said. “You probably could, I don’t know,” she replied. “Well I am going to give it my best shot,” I responded. We continued to eat and talk about propositions and I thought about all the various hula hoop clubs that I would join and I also thought about getting my wife to get into hula hooping so that we could enjoy the exercise together. When I suggested this to her she said, “Yes, it has been a long time since I have seen you keep it up for more than five minutes.” “Ha, ha,” I said, pretending that her remark did not bother me. But it has stayed with me all night and made its way into my writing about hula hooping because I just do not understand why my wife has to bring our sex life into everything I do that gives me pleasure.

Letter To My Father (On Barack)

On another note- I have been getting involved with thinking a lot about non-violent communication. At school I am surrounded by violent communication all day and one of the things I seek to do is teach students how they can get their needs met by communicating non violently. Problem is that a lot of their influence is angry rap music and the rhetoric of anger that comes from parents, cops, actors, politicians and teachers. When I saw the VIDEO you sent me I was reminded of a way of communicating that does not turn ones thinking to the deeper question of what one needs- but stays on the superficial level of accusation and blame. This always leads towards separation and violence and the reason why I am voting for Barack is because he reflects my own intention as a teacher- to bring people together. This, I believe is what America and the world needs if we are going to survive. We need to come together, work together to make a better world. We don’t need to keep acting as separate individuals. This goes against the laws of nature because we are not separate individuals. It is my belief that the result of going against nature is why we are in the current situation of war, economic depression, division, anger, environmental deterioration and more. My main thesis is that consciousness is not experienced in the plural, but rather as a singular. There is only one thing in the universe which appears to be a series of pluralities. This is the illusion, maya- that we are separate. We are one people and I believe that we need to unify so that we can heal. If this makes me a socialist- so be it. I consider myself a humanist and if it takes mystical speculation to voice my deeper beliefs than I am willing to do so. I just saw that video you sent me and I was reminded of all the reasons why we as a nation are separated, divided and angry. Barack, for me, brings the medicine of hope to treat this life threatening ailment.

Love, Randall

Raining In California

It never rains in California anymore. If it does rain, as soon as you start to get comfortable- the rain stops. In my closet I have a rain coat, umbrellas and rain shoes that have not been worn or used in over two years. California is in the midst of a drought. I no longer take showers that last more than five minutes, which means that I no longer masturbate in the shower. For months now, I have been waiting for rain like one who awaits the homecoming of a long gone lover. It is the end of October, the winter chill has settled in but still the rain is absent from the fall scenery. There is still the summer sound of crickets outside. My soul is starting to ache in certain spots- because of this absence of rain.

One thing that I have never enjoyed about growing up in California is the absence of seasons. The weather never changes drastically but rather it comfortably slides through the seasons without anyone really noticing that winter, spring, summer or fall has just passed. I have noticed a slight fragrant change in the air as summer becomes fall or winter becomes spring- but this is the extent of it. I do not really need to buy new clothes to help me through the winter nor do I need to buy anything to get me through the heat of summer. The weather is pretty consistent around here and the only drastic change that a person needs to make with the seasons is buying loads of flee repellent in the summers. I often wonder if this lack of seasons has contributed to my inability to deal with the pressures of the world. I assume that living through real seasons make a person stronger…. so I attribute my lack of ambition to the lack of seasons.

The other day…I missed the rain so much that I decided to do something about it. When it rains I am at peace. I am like a child in the womb fully content with being in the moment. I will spend hours at a time not worrying about the futile stressors of my world while sitting in front of a window-watching the rain come down. Walking in the rain is one of the few mystical experiences that I can have without needing the intervention of an intoxicating substance. Rain for me is like having a lot of money, it makes me feel like everything is all right. I attribute my heightened states of anxiety not to the dwindling economy, global warming, the unjust war in Iraq or my health concerns but rather to a lack of rain. So I decided to make a concerted effort to become ambitious enough to visit a local medicine man who lives in a small apartment down the street from me.

I met Malidoma many years ago when I took a workshop on African Healing. It was coincidence that we lived in the same neighborhood so we maintained a small friendship over the years. Whenever I have health concerns or ontological questions I consult with him. His apartment is like a large shrine that decorates every wall. Malidoma has converted his one bedroom apartment in the middle of the city into an African tribal hut. Once in side you are transported in time and space. I went to Malidoma, the other day, to see if he could teach me a way to bring forth rain. He looked and me with his dark tar eyes and told me with an African accent- that I should burn sage, stretch out my arms and twirl around in as many circles as I could stand while repeating the word rain. When I was finished twirling around I should spit into the sky and allow the spit to land on my head. He laughed a bit as he told me this but he promised- “it always works.”

So for the past few days I have been doing this. I do it whenever I have a free moment. I stretch my arms out, twirl around in a circle and repeat RAIN – and then I spit into the sky. The only problem is that I have difficulty getting the spit to land on my head. When I told Malidoma about this he said “get all your students together and do it- then it will rain.”

So I did. Today with my high school English class I got all of my students to come outside. I told them about my practice and they all laughed. They called me “weird” and a “freak.” But I figured if I could get all 42 students to do this together, at least one was destined to get the spit to land on their heads. So after five minutes of persuading them we all began to twirl around under a warm fall blue sky and repeat the word RAIN. As I was twirling I could hear the kids laughter. I thought about being a kid myself. I thought about the few times I had played in the rain when I was younger. I remembered playing with my father in the rain. RAIN, RAIN, RAIN- we all repeated. I opened my dizzied eyes for a moment and noticed that we all looked liked whirling dervishes And then when I could take no more I yelled “ NOW STOP AND SPIT INTO THE SKY!!” At the same time we all spit into the sky. It was as if it was perfectly choreographed. There was laughter and lots of “eeewwws, that is disgusting!!!”- as the spit began to come down from the sky and land on our heads, but for a very brief second…. I could swear that it was raining in California.

Writing On The Body

I have been having a difficult time writing the past few months. I find that when I sit down to write not only is the page empty but so are my thoughts. Now this is an ideal state for a meditator- but for me, a man who considers himself an aspiring writer- this can be a catastrophe. I find the blank page intimidating, as if it is awaiting for me to say something profound. Nothing profound comes to my mind and my inspiration to write dwindles away like water down the drain. I am left feeling hopeless and despairing because for most of my life it has been my dream to write a large collection of novels, short stories and plays but I feel incapable of getting an interesting word upon the page. This is not a case of writer’s block that I am suffering from- instead it is something much more physical or physiological. When I sit down to write my body feels impatient, like it has more important things to take care of. This causes my mind to loose concentration and interest in the multiplicity of story ideas that I cart around in my head from day to day. Last week, when I told my therapist about my problem- he recommended that I write on the body.

The older I get the further away I feel like I am getting from literary success. By now I thought I would have had at least a novel or two published and be making a moderate income as a great writer. Instead the opposite is true. I teach high school English at an inner city school. I start writing novels and never get past the third chapter. I also have composed numerous short stories that I fail to re-write and collect into a short story collection. When my therapist asked me why I do not make an effort to succeed as a writer- all I could say was “because my body will not let me.”

I have always had a body that seems to dislike stillness. It always wants to move and go do something else. It has trouble sitting still and working on one thing for an extended period of time. My body is filled with an anxiety that keeps it moving so that sickness, paralysis or death will not catch up with it. It is almost as if my minds ability to control my body is absent and I have become a victim of my own physiological processes. A French philosopher once referred to this state of anxiety as “no exit.” The mind is held prisoner in a body that is always running away from entropy, he said. However, one fundamental law that all living organisms must obey is that there is no escaping entropy….no exit.

So I have tried different modalities to control my anxious body (hoping that it would settle down and let me write my masterpiece). I have taken mindfulness seminars, done meditation workshops and taken hundreds of Yoga classes. All to no avail. In fact it seems as if these introverted exercises have made my body even more rebellious. I have grown more anxious and more impatient with my inability to sit still and be at peace. It is almost as if my body is intentionally trying sabotage the stories that my mind wants to write.  I am convinced that my body does not want my mind to become a successful writer- so it refuses to sit still for considerable length of time. Why this is- is indeed a mystery to me. However, I am learning how to embrace the mystery. Literally.

So the past two days I have taken my therapists advice. Even though what I have been doing may threaten my marriage and my job security I feel as if I am slowly beginning to make an inch of literary progress. Maybe there is the slight, very slight possibility that I will be able to write a novel or a book of short stories and live my dream. Instead of staring at a blank page or judging the nature of my thoughts- I have begun to write on my body. I use a regular Bick pen and whenever a thought comes to mind instead of facing a blank piece of paper or having to sit still- I simply write it on my flesh. I have filled up my chest and left arm with a story idea that I have been incapable of writing for months. It is the story of a man who is a nobody but he is desperately trying to become a somebody. I can write this story while I am walking. I can write when I go to the bathroom. I can write on my arm when I am driving. I can even write while doing my yoga practice. When I have filled up my entire chest, legs and arms I will photograph the writing on my body and then take a much needed shower. If I can continue to do this for the entirety of my story it is possible that in a few months I will have written a full novel upon my body. I will then take the photographs of the text to a typist and pay them to write up the manuscript. When I told my therapist about this today, he seemed perplexed. Even though he had given me the original idea- he never thought I would actually write on my body. He claimed to have meant that I should “write upon the body of the stories that you want to write- summaries, outlines- not your actual body!!” When I tried to explain to him that a writer’s need to write is stronger than any force of nature- he suggested that we start meeting twice a week.

The English Teachjer Who Kant Spell

I lack the jean that allows an individual to spell. I have read several self help spellers guides and traveled to many different language therapists to work on my spelling skills- all to no avail. It seems as if the ability to perfect my spelling skills lies somewhere beyond the material realm. I have tried ushering in spirits and blessing for assistance from spiritual realms- but not even this has helped. To add stress to the fire I make my living by pretending to be a high school english Teacher during the day. I use the word pretending because I lack the nuts and bolts that hold together an english teacher. This may be why I am beginning to fall apart.

I was hired by the prniciple of my school who was incredibly enthuisiastic about my attitude towards edjucation and learning. I decided to apply to the job on a whim- a bet with the universe. After the interviewe I had no expectations about receiving the job nor did I mention, during the interview, my various spelling and grammar handicaps. Instead, I talked about my various intellectuall preoccupations and my deep belief the reading great literature can liberate opppressed minds. To this day I believe that I got the job because the principle was so impressed by my intellectual acumen that she (inccorecctly) presumed that I must be a master of spelling and grammar. The truth you may already now at this point. I can’t identitfy a pronoun from a preposition, I cant’ conjugate to save my life and correct spelling just aint happening for me. Despite the fact that I love talking about literature, poetry and creative writing, I have accepted that I will never add up to what an english Teacher is supposed to be.

The irony of my life is that I am making my living as a high school english Teacher. I show up at seven ocklock every morning and work until bed time five days a week. On the weekends I am stuck grading a large hill of papers and dreading the week to follow. Recently I have noticed that I have been avoiding writing on the chalk board because students have been brazen enough to begin pointing out my errors. “You’re an english Teacher and you cant even spell betrayle,” they shout or “how did you get this job if you don’t’ now what a verb is???” I have been spending more all nights wide awake terrified about my bluff being called. What if I lost my job- what would I do? For hours and hours this thought plays through my mind? I can go back to waiting tables or try to publish a novel? I think of ways that I could pay my rent if indeed I was fired. I also think about the humiliation that I would suffer if several other Teachers learned of my dis-abilities. “Can you believe it, he was a high school english Teacher who could not even spell,” they would gossip for weeks after I was fired. What if this story made it onto the evening news on television. Sometimes I get so worked up about all this stuff that I have to get out of bed and drink a beer so that I can calm my racing heart.

My Teacher evaluation is coming up. Students are telling me that their parents are beginning to wonder why the comments that I write on my students papers are misspelled. I keep thinking night after night what if a parent reports my spelling errors to the principle of my schhool. Maybe they already now about my inadequate spelling abilities and are waiting to talk to me about it at my evaluation? Granted, I work at an inner sity high school and attendance and discipline are more important than the ability to spell or write a complete sentence- but I now that it is only a matter of time until word gets around about my particular ineptitude. This fear of impending doom is causing me to drink more and sleep less. I mean what kind of person drinks a bottle of red wine a night and sleeps only six hours???? This kind of person has become me and eventually I now that I will have to defend my self and reputation when the truth comes out and my job is in jeopardy. I already have a master plan all figured out, just in case. When confronted- I will blame everything on my father.

The Animal Husband. Part One.

My cat and I have been together for fourteen years now. We met by accident. A lover of mine had adopted a new dog, and the cat that she owned did not get along with the dog. Dog or cat? The decision was easy since when we slept together (my lover and I) the cat snuggled up by my side all night long. It was love at first sight for both of us. The cat was a black cat and at that time black was my favorite color. Everything I wore was black. I dyed my hair black and I even wore black eye liner. I was in love with the color black and the only thing missing from my life was a black cat. The next morning when my lover asked me if I wanted to take the cat home with me, I immediately knew my answer- “I do,” I said. And just like that- I became an animal husband.

The first few years of being an animal husband were great. I decided to make my cat an indoor cat since I was agoraphobic. I named her Monk- because obviously she would be spending the rest of her life indoors. Together we spent our days curled up on a couch reading books or staring at various black insects on the ceiling. We ate all of our meals together and even bathed together. When I would take a shower Monk would jump right in without warning and rub up against my ankles and feet as if she was trying to get the dirt out from between my toes. At night we would sleep side by side in my single bed and after her dank kitty smell started to get to me I bought her an expensive floral kitty perfume for her third birthday. Life was good the first few years of being an animal husband but like all good things- everything changed when I was forced to get a job.

Monk was in her fourth year of life when I really remember noticing the shift. I had to be gone most nights since I got a job waiting tables at a rather expensive restaurant. My shift went from five o’clock until one a.m and I would often stay late after work drinking with my co-workers. I would get home around two a.m and I noticed that Monk would be sleeping on the couch and not pay any attention to me. This was peculiar behavior since it was a routine for the majority of our relationship that whenever I came home Monk would be waiting by the door for me. Now, I would walk in without a greeting, shower alone, put on my pajamas alone, and get into bed alone. Monk refused to sleep with me and as a result I started to spend more and more nights alone- pussyless.

I don’t know if Monk was becoming jealous because I was spending more time away from home or if she was really hurt because she felt neglected. Our ability to communicate was stuck in a quagmire and I often times felt like she was blaming me for things and emotions that were her own damn fault! In those days the only way that I could get her to forgive me was by bringing home a can of her favorite salmon and turkey soft food. The moment she heard the can being cracked she would jump out of her self imposed depression like cannonball- and run up against my ankles purring and meowing like a cat who had fully forgiven. We would spend the rest of the night together reading poetry out loud and petting and then go to sleep like an animal and a human who were newly in love. It was that easy then.

But like all relationships, it gets harder the longer you do it. It has only been during the course of the past two or three years that being an animal husband has been like suffering through a sentence in hell. Monk and I have been through a lot together (she has had to deal with my chronic anxiety and agoraphobia and I have had to spend tons of money dealing with her gum disease and chronic itch obsession), but it seems as if the past two or three years all we do is fight. Fight, fight, fight, fight. Whenever we are together something will happen that will cause us to hate each other. I don’t really know what the cause of all this anger and resentment is (other than a lack of communication) but I have a hunch that it has to do with her low self confidence. For a long time I have noticed that Monk lacks the familiar confidence that most other cats have. She gets scared easily and often sits on the couch in a state of depression without doing anything about it. She sulks and pities herself like a child. I know that Monk is getting older- but I have become frustrated with my cat because I don’t see her doing anything to change her negative behaviors. It is almost as if she has no control over her feline emotions. And because of this psychological disorder the man who has been nothing but a good husband to her, who has cleaned her kitty liter daily and never bought any other cat a can of soft food for the entire duration of our fourteen year relationship- is suffering.

Living day in and day out with the tension and constriction that is created from being involved in an unhealthy relationship is becoming too much. I have noticed that I have been drinking a lot more and I am starting to get chronic chest pains and palpitations. I also have breathing difficulties and have been contemplating suicide as a means of escape from our fucked up relationship. Every time we fight it is as if a heavy weight is being placed upon my chest and I am being suffocated from the inside out. I have dreams about taking Monk by her tail and repeatedly slamming her against the wall like my friends would do to cats in junior high. Sometimes when we fight I get so angry that I refuse to feed her. I will starve her for days and right when it seems as if she is to weak to even meow- guilt will overcome me and I will go out and buy her a large sized can of her favorite soft food. Our differences will be reconciled but the next day something else will come up and we will be back in the shit that we had barely climbed out of. I am at a point where I do not know what to do.

There are not a lot of resources available to an animal husband. It is not like there are marriage and family counselors that work with couples in which one partner is a human and the other is a cat. I have thought about taking Monk to the pound. I have also considered turning Monk into an outdoor cat which would give us a little more time apart. I know that one of thee most healing things in all relationships is space. I love my sweet cat- I desperately do, but for some odd reason we just do not get a long anymore. The way she scratches, itches, licks, meows and breaths bugs me. She has bad breath and vomits on my carpet and now in her older age she is beginning to become incontinent. She has peed upon one of my favorite jackets and on the leather couch that I spent two years saving up for. Our relationship is just no longer the ecstasy of what it was the first few years that we were together. Things are getting out of control and the stress has become intolerable for the both of us. I am afraid that if steps are not soon taken to rectify the problems in our relationship one of us will end up killing the other. I don’t want it to get that bad- so I just got to figure out what the hell I am going to do.

The Catastrophe Thinker

I realize that I always think in catastrophic terms. Whether I am thinking about my health, my marriage, the environment or my job- I think about these things in terms of catastrophe. But recently I have learned something very strange. Where once I thought that I was one of the most catastrophic thinkers around- I know can not keep up with the catastrophe that is taking place all around me. My mind is not agile enough to register the current political, economic and personal crisis that seems to be becoming more malignant with each passing day. I am trying hard, using all my might- to keep up intellectually with this growing nightmare but I am afraid to say that I do not think that even my pessimistic and catastrophic mind could of conjured up the current prevailing reality.

I have tried to learn about why the current economic crisis is taking place. I have listened to pod-casts, read a book and listened to numerous radio shows. I have gone and listened to various political theorists speak and even had a conversation with the radical cultural and feminist theorist Naomi Wolf. But still I do not get it. It is almost like finding out that you have a disease in a certain part of your body that you have never heard of or thought about before. The reality of the current economic collapse is that it is a result of microcosmic events that ordinary people have never heard of before. Things like corporate papers, which are the cause of this crisis have never before took residence in my mind. The only way that I can understand this current catastrophe is in terms of one word- greed. A small amount of people made much more money than they should have and everybody else turned their head. Whether this is a planned catastrophe on the part of the Republican party so that they can maintain control of the government and nationalize all the banks and citizens or it is just a coincidence that this catastrophe is taking place right around the time of an election, is for each individual to decide. But what I know for certain is that I am currently witnessing and experiencing one of the largest breakdowns or deconstructions of the American society, in which I live.

It is true that I have always been worried about my health, wealth and material situation. I would not be a true American if this was not the case. Is not that what America is all about- the freedom to have the time (leisure) and lifestyle that allows you to worry about things that have nothing to do with necessity and survival? Is not this the psychology behind the massive force that keeps all Americans moving towards this unattainable dream of prosperity? America produces and exports catastrophe thinkers like myself because capitalism has given us the time to worry, to see psychologists and pick apart all our self centered failures. Is this not the American way? Am I so unusual? Granted, in certain other countries where the focus is simply upon survival- there is not enough leisure time to worry and I am willing to bet that psychologists do not make a very good living in these societies. But in America, survival has always been something that can be purchased as long as you have a job. Now the catastrophe that most Americans are still unable to fathom is taking place. Leisure is crashing down, imploding upon itself and the lifestyle that so many Americans have indulged is being pulled out from under their feet so that a few greedy juggernauts can control the world. This is what happens in a democracy that has been privatized.

I am contemplating taking my wife to Arkansas and living in a trailer in the woods with two friends of ours. They were a successful young couple who lived in Washington D.C. As a result of this economic crash they lost almost everything and had to move out to a trailer in Arkansas that is owned by one of their fathers. What once was the fulfillment of the American dream (they lived in a beautiful condo and she taught Yoga while he worked as an Architect) has become the epitome of an Aristotelian tragedy. I get emails from them that are filled with laments but they are also filled with frightening warnings. My wife and I are now thinking that before the soldiers occupy the streets- surround and lock down the working class neighborhood in which we live (to prevent mass riots)- that we should make a run for it before it is to late.

Now, maybe I am being to much of a catastrophe thinker. But, everyone I talk to tells me that something huge is just out beyond the horizon. My father has lost millions in the stock market crash, several of my students at the high school where I teach have had to leave school because their homes have been foreclosed, my friend’s mother has had to move in with him because she has lost all her money, there is not as much food on the shelves at the market and businesses seem to be shutting down all around. Granted I am a pessimist and seem to be the first person to loose hope- but I would have to be blind to delude myself into thinking that there is not a very large monsoon heading right towards me. I seem to believe that it is now time to board up the windows, sand bag the cracks in the doors, buy stock piles of food and head to a land that is higher up and less populated.

I wish that I could be more positive. I always think of the words of Henry Miller who said “I am poor, homeless and hungry, but I am the happiest man alive.” I try to tell myself this when I am overwhelmed with the catastrophe that is occurring all around me. Despite the fact that martial law, government takeover, nationalization, depression, and economic collapse seem to be manifesting itself into an American nightmare- I am still waging a vigilant effort to tame my demons and quiet the catastrophe thinker within my head. This catastrophe thinker wants to panic, he wants to scream out, get people to awaken out of their sleep and start a revolution- do something to stop the massive amounts of injustice, corruption and greed. But I am still capable of hushing him, keeping him quiet by drinking beer, watching movies, going to museums, reading novels, writing this blog and working on some unfinished paintings. I try to keep myself busy, pacify myself- so that I do not focus too much on this horrifying collapse and end up getting myself stuck in a Detention Center (which are being set up all over America). I take myself and my wife out to dinner, I work long hours, I go to bed earlier, I do yoga and I try to glue back together pieces of that American dream that once seemed so true. I even try and tell myself every minute of every day “I am poor, homeless and hungry, but I am the happiest man alive,” even though it might not be true.

Cutting Finger Nails.

There are few unedited stories

beneath my finger nails that I

filed down

onto

a

piece

of

paper.

One story is about death and

all the multifaceted ways

I die

every

day.

Another is about love

and the many  different forms

this verb takes

every

day

I

live.

Fear, hate and desire all

make their way on the

page

unknown

yet

calcified

and

tough.

The final story (filed down from

beneath my finger nails)

is one that is yet to be told

a future yet done

incomplete

waiting

to

be.

Youjizz.

Youjizz because I am not doing it anymore. There is a war going on inside my very being. The fight is between two antithetical characters that exist within the confines of my over worked and under paid mind. One that sees masturbation as the only respite from the banalities of day to day reality and another who is enlightened enough to realize that I need to accept myself and my life as I and it is without needing to seek out self induced pleasure. Masturbation has been my medium way of finding release or peace in times of distress, which is the great majority of my time. But I have decided to go with my more enlightened self and surrender the cock to a discipline that is of Buddhist proportions. I am no longer willing to accept the quickly fleeting pleasure that comes with watching pornography. I struggle with feelings of sleeze every time I commit an act perjury against my more enlightened half and now that I am getting older I can no longer escape the physiological repercussions of regular masturbation.

It is true that masturbation causes me to become lethargic, morbid, autistic and perverted- but I have been asking myself lately if I really need to continue feeling this way. There is a certain semblance of liberation that I feel when I log into Youjizz and see my fantasies manifested on the digital page. All the women that I have longed for since high school are there for my visual taking. There is a repertoire of sin to indulge my dirty mind in and I am like a kid lost in a theme park as I peruse the hundreds of pornographic pages of Youjizz. But last night as I shut up my sex box (laptop) and went to sleep with a feeling of dismay (because I once again released my sperm into the sock that I quickly take of my foot), the thought “Youjizz, cause I don’t want to anymore”- ran through my mind. Granted, after every act of masturbation I say this is it, the last time- but last night my determination felt matured.

I am not a helpless victim. I can run, lift weights, due push ups or meditation when I feel the urge to visit Youjizz. I am not a helpless spectator but my primal urges are so colonized by the fantastical images on Youjizz that I am considering hypnosis and therapy to rid them from my mind for good. I have reached the point of no return. I am like a Pavlovian dog. When I sit down to my sex box I immediately get an erection- because my sex life is centered around the computer (this is a conditioned response for myself and probably millions of men). I spent a lot of time in bed, showers, cars and parks having sex with women but now that I am a married man, with issues, I have settle for the sexual universe of on-line scorn, I mean porn.

So like I said Youjizz cause I ain’t gonna do it no more. I wish bets could be taken or support group could be started for me- because this is a lonely battle- a crusade that is going on in the silence of my own physiology. The odds of defeat are great. The images on Youjizz are so desirable and rapturous and wonderful that the pull towards them is almost gravity defying when I am upon my computer. My hand wants to reach out even now and pull up the Youjizz web address. Just thinking about it has stimulated what hormones I have left. But I will not. I will stay firm assert my will and listen to Buddhist lectures on tape. I will be victorious despite that fact that the odds are stacked against me. I will turn my mind around and find visceral stimulation in the image of my beautiful wife rather than the dreamy sex kittens juggling the jizz of several men. These obscenities and abject portrayals of women are all too offensive to a soul such as mine, which longs to be free from such subjugating beautiful and orgasmic images. My crusade will be a holly one, in which my victory WILL represent a victory for all men who love naked women so much that they have become a helpless victim of Youjizz.

The Fraterist.

I like to get up close to people. Real close. Smell their skin and shared intimacy. It may not always be what the other person desires, me up close to them, but it is not about them. It is me. Always about me. This egotistical disease, been passed down in my lineage from generation to generation. It was all about my father, grandfather and so on. All about the men and their erect penis’s. Not that I agree with this patriarchy, but I am biologically predisposed. I happen to enjoy feminists, I like to get up real close to them, but it is still about me. The erection is stronger than the sword, mightier than the will to do good.

There is something empowering, exhilarating about getting up close to someone whom you should not. Aeschylus talked about this when close enough to his sport to feel the departing spirit from the dying flesh. Ahab was also never to forget his dance with the whale. There is something almost supernatural about getting to close to the one you should not. It is a kind of voyeurism. A perversion which lacks orgasm but is filled with electrical excitement. There is always the erection. It is a natural reaction. Symbiotic and a symbol of transgression. When I notice the stranger that I want to get really close to- my erection is what points me in the right direction. My mind and body work together to free my desire from the confines of flesh. Even though I am met with disdain from the person I am trying to get close with, it is not the reaction that I am concerned with but rather it is the chase I covet.

I walk the city streets. Whenever I have the time. It is the way I blow off steam. I don’t enjoy cardiovascular exercise because of the intensive stress to the body. So I walk. I search with excitement for the one whom I want to get close with. I identify and then I walk past them and take a deep inhalation. It is the smell or scent that is the trigger. If my nose delights and my heart is stimulated to rapidly beat- then I get close. I slowly, gently maneuver my self up against the stranger and stand there connected. Symbiotic. A state akin to bliss. Orgasmic. My erection is pulsating with glee. And then it is over. There is nothing surprising about the strangers confusion or violation. A natural reaction. They try to make sense of what is happening or they erupt violently. I walk away as calmly as I came and go about my way without a word exchanged.

How close you can get to a stranger without them knowing you are there. In the Orient this is an art form that is thousands of years old. Was once a training meditation for Zen monks of the Zegati sect. They were all eventually put to death because of the great offense and terror they caused the people. I have heard that the art of being a fraterist is making a comeback in contemporary Japanese society. I have read a few essays by prominent authors- in which they discuss fraterists. They are always described as eccentric individuals who lack connection with others. They long to be close in a world in which they feel out of touch. The fraterist is normally highly educated, civilized, well read and a threat to no one but themselves. A victim of desire.

This is comforting to me since mine is a lonely sport. The feelings of confusion, elation or longing can be shared with no one. My wife or colleagues would not understand my passion. I would be considered deviant-unfit for society. It is always the most civilized passions that are incapable of being understood. How could I expect to be understood about the elation that warms my body as I smell the small hairs upon a strangers neck or rest my hip against theirs. This would not be possible. Condemnation would rise up. Sirens would go off and I would be confined inn a rubber room. Spinal tapped. I have seen this happen before.

Don’t look for me because you will not see. I am like the wind. Calming. I am close to you when you are unaware. I am not a threat but rather a lover of the personal spaces of the other. The smells the sensations and the erotic stimulation- these are my assets. Without them I am broke- a reader without a book. I am a nicely dressed man who does not like to play by the rules. My anarchy is ancient- a custom. I am not the man you would expect to be offending you. If you see me you feel safe. It is only when I touch you with my presence that confusion sets in. By the time you respond or react- I am gone. On my way. Walking through the city.

The Caricature Artist

It has come to my attention that I have become a caricature of myself. I have always had a subtle inclination about this truth but recently this has become all to apparent. I know that being a caricature of ones self is all the rage these days. Every one does it. It’s constantly sold on television and has become a pre-requisite towards being a member of society and holding down a decent job. I may not have to wear a tangible, material uniform but my caricature is enough of a disguise. It covers the real me like a blanket and rarely allows my authentic self to shine through. However, I have been a caricature of myself for so long that I am not even sure I would recognize my authentic self if I passed by it on the street. It would not be incorrect to suggest that I have made this caricature of myself slightly resemble who I think that I may be. This is where the creativity comes into play- molding oneself into a mere image of who they really are.

Usually this image is a grotesque or compromised expression of our “truer” self. Certainly the man that I see at work or in the mirror when I am getting dressed does not bare much resemblance to the man whom I often feel like I am. In fact the two could not be further apart. There is a feeling of estrangement that I get when I catch an image of myself in a passing window or upon a video screen. When I dress in a suit or am not sure how to dress at all, I feel lost in the cult of myself- and am clueless about this thing or idea I often heard talked about- “authentic being.”

For many years I took pride in my work as a caricature artist. I had different hair styles every month and wore clothes that I felt expressed a particular mood that I was in. My facial expressions and body language supported this mood and I went through my day comfortably numb to the fact that I was only being a caricature of me. Now, I have begun to become more frustrated with the caricatures that I create. I do not know if this dissatisfaction is because I am becoming older and look less hip in a certain style of dress or if because I have become so condition by the the society in which I live that I have simply lost who I really may be. Or maybe I have grown into an apathetic thirty something year old man. I have been fighting the forces of Pavlovian conditioning for so long, and my failure to bring forth a tangible victory has caused me to resign myself to other, more secure ways of being. I realize that this is a bleak perspective- but there is a reason why caricature artists are some of the most unfulfilled and melancholic people alive.

Recently I have been so baffled by who I am that I have decided to be nobody at all. I have resigned myself to my work as an inner city high school teacher, stuck the paint brushes and canvas’s back into storage and signed up for evening classes at a local college where I disdainfully intend to get a Teaching Credential. None of this is like the caricature that I have worked so hard to create for the past three decades. I went through such inspired stages of being Punk Rock, Gothic, GQ/Intellectual, and then a mid life crisis Rock Star stage. My caricatures were well designed fabrications and enjoyable to look at. I fooled myself and others that the appearance I wore was really me and I seemed to be fine with this illusion until I realized that I wanted to be somebody else other than me. Now, I no longer look in the mirror when I dress- other than maybe a quick peak to see if I got every thing right. I have no intention towards the caricature that I want to create because I am less concerned with who I am trying to be. What happens after so many years of trying to discover who you really are is that you become the person that you least wanted to be.

But if I was not a dreamer I would not be a writer. Recently in my dreams images of myself appear that seem to be more cohesive and calm. In my dreams I am an older man who seems to be less concerned with his own caricature and more preoccupied with the work he is doing or the life he is living. The two (work and life) are no longer separate and at war. He is happy with things the way that they are. His apathy has become a form of security and he does not care that the sky is falling or that the human species is self destructing. He is no longer pre-occupied with saving humanity from herself or making great art that will influence generations of painters. He is simply himself. Unconcerned and comfortable. I am horrified by this premonition of a future me- but at the same time I am some what relieved by the fact that he is not a caricature of a self that he is pretending to be. Being a caricature artist demands a lot from a person. It is a daily, hourly job requiring that the individual becomes a martyr to his or her own needs. Somehow, the absence or acceptance of this martyrdom gives me something to look forward to.

For now my dream is me and I am still figuring out who the hell I want to be. I would be lying if I said I draw caricatures no more. I am drawing caricatures every day. I live in a world where I am surrounded by nothing but caricatures. It is a zooropa of caricatures. I have recently noticed that I am pre-occupied with finding the perfect caricature. One that will become my masterpiece. This particular caricature will be my final work- a testament to a life well lived. Every day I am searching my soul for this particular caricature and I am trying to make it fit. There is a great deal of resistance from the part of me that wants to be free and unseen- but it is only a matter of time before this side of me will withdraw and remit. I often wonder if this masterpiece is the man, the future image of me, who often haunts my dreams. His apathy fills me up with dread but his calm security entices me with its peace of mind. I have started to draw this image in the way I wear my pants or hold my posture. Line by line, I am noticing how I am slowly morphing into a subtle image of this man. The lines that I now draw seem straighter, almost rigid- less filled with the abstract ambiguities of time a space. It is only a matter of time before I see if this man shall become me, but for now- I am still hard at work creating caricatures of who I want to be.

Payback

Want to hear a strange story? I am a high school Teacher. Yes, a high school Teacher. How? Good question. I am afraid that I lack an answer. This fact is as much a mystery to me as is the nature of existence. I can not figure it out. How did I end up in this position? I am not the right guy for the job. In high school I disdained Teachers. I made them cry or contributed to their high blood pressure. I hated anything academic and the only enjoyment I got out of high school was breaking the rules and the benches on the school playground. My father had to donate a large sum of money to the school so that I could graduate after my fifth year (I know what you are thinking- yes, high school is only supposed to be four years). My grades were so low, that it seemed as if I had tried to fail. The fact of the matter was that I hated high school because I had not a clue why I was there. I was lost or stranded with no idea how or when I would get out. Stuck because other people forced me to do something I did not want to do. I still feel like that sometimes today.

All around me students excelled in high school. I got caught up in weed and booze while my peers seemed to enjoy the perks of studying hard and doing what they where told. I fought with my father on a daily basis and swore that I would burn down my house and my high school on an almost weekly basis. No Teachers took interest in me and I took no interest in them. I floundered through my classes like a fish swimming against the stream. I dreamed of a day when I would be a professional Tennis Player or Performer and gave little attention to the fact that I was on the verge of dropping out of high school.

So how have I ended up where I am? I am confused. Baffled. I believe that everything happens for specific reasons, but still- I, me… am grading papers and teaching students how to write, read and excel academically. This is straight out of the Twilight Zone. I am talking about grammar (which confuses me) and the joys of learning- to a classroom of over thirty students. I issue detentions and demand respect from those who break the rules. Now, don’t get me wrong- there is nothing more that I like than teaching a gang member or a teenager from a poor family about how to become a writer, revolutionary or graduate. Listening to students explain their dreams to me is like sipping a fine wine- I forget about all my problems and listen deeply to theirs. But come on, how has that happened to me?

I have this neighbor. He spends his entire day in his back yard building things and then tearing them down. There is trash everywhere and overgrown tomato plants. Old desks, chairs, book shelves are piled up high on top of one another and sit beneath my bedroom window. He lives off of a government stipend and thinks that the world revolves around his back yard. Sometimes I think that he is senile or the incarnation of Buddha. He does not drink or smoke but he also talks to himself and does not remember anything anyone says. I often see him when I return home from a long day at school. He is usually building a fence or pulling plants out of the ground that he planted the day before. He always asks me the same question and makes the same remarks, “where you coming from?” I say, “work.” “What do you do?” he asks me every time. Frustrated I say once again, “I teach high school.” “You do?” he always says. “I do,” I always reply. “Must be payback,” he says.

Life has a strange way of working itself out. Ever hear that saying “If you wanna make God laugh tell him your plans?” Well, try it. It works. He laughs and turns you into what you never thought you would be. It is strange how this phenomena occurs. Nietzsche referred to it as the eternal return. I think of it more like justice. Divine justice. Pay back for all the Teachers I crippled and wounded, for all the time I wasted, for all I could of been, for all the apathy that I showed up to school with and for all the failed expectations I filled my parents with. Ya, this I can begin to understand. Makes sense when you really think it over. “Payback… it’s a bitch,” my neighbor always says to me as he walks back into his third world yard. And as I stand there waiting for him to say, “have a good night,” like he always does…..everything, even me being a high school Teacher- makes perfect sense.

Clown Available For Weekends

As a teen I took several circus classes. They were held on the weekends and I would learn the art of clowning. Juggling, skipping, tumbling, miming, hobbling and magic tricks were all apart of the course load. I had been interested in clowns ever since I was a young boy but going to circus school on the weekends was not my decision. I had been causing a lot of trouble around the house by pretending to be a clown so my father decided that if I was going to act like a clown I should learn to behave like one.

I never would have imagined that the few months of clown training almost twenty years ago would rescue me as an adult. I did not even take the training seriously. I got stoned with my friends behind the circus tent and spent more time staring at the girls than I did listening to the ring master. But somehow I have retained the fundamentals of clowning. I can transform myself into a circus clown in a matter of moments and do all kinds of absurd and slightly unskilled clowning tricks.

My wife had the idea that I make my clowning skills available to others on the weekends. Since the failing economy has become a huge elephant in my room, and my job as a high school Teacher does not pay enough for me to live a modest and honorable lifestyle- I needed to find other ways to make a buck. So marketing myself as a clown for hire on the weekends did not sound like such a bad idea. The only problem was that I did not have enough money to buy a new clown suit so I had to use the one that I wore many years before as a younger man. Somehow the fact that it did not fit and was really tight around the belly and hips, played into the absurdity of being a clown. But I could not help the fact that I felt like a fool.

I put an add up on Craigslist for a “Clown Available For Weekends.” In my advertisement I said that I could do miming, juggling and general entertainment tricks. I listed the name of the circus school that I attended and said that my fee was $40.00 an hour. For a few weeks I received no replies to my add. I waited patiently and continued to over work myself as a Teacher with piles of papers to grade and student parent meetings to attend. Just as bills were beginning to go unpaid for over a month I received two phone calls from people interested in hiring me as a clown.

The first call was from a Google representative who wanted to hire me for an event that was being held in Mill Valley. It was an evening staff party for all San Fransisco bay area Google representatives and they wanted for it to be a circus theme. The woman whom I talked to on the phone said that they would pay me two hundred bucks to dress up like a clown and stand like a mime for four hours at the front entrance of the event. I accepted without hesitation and at the event I was able to hand my “Clowning” card to a few Google representatives who stuck crispy dollar bills in my tip pouch. The Google organization has more money than the middle east has oil or the Napa valley has wine and the only reason that I took that demeaning job was because I thought that it was a good opportunity to network.

The second phone call that I received was for a job offer to work as a clown at a birthday party. It was an upper class family that lived in Palo Alto and they wanted to hire me to entertain at their child’s second birthday bash. I was nervous about taking the job because I had a premonition that I would scare most children. I knew that my clown suit was a little awkward looking on my body (especially if I got an erection) and the cheap make-up that I had to use caused my face to look a little haunting. I said yes (because I was offered one hundred and fifty bucks for three hours of work) despite the fact that I knew that I might appear to look like a frightening version of Ronald McDonald to all of the kids. However, I desperately needed the cash and as it turned out- things did not go as badly as I thought. A few infants seemed horrified by my appearance but the over all mood at the party was one of amusement, fascination and laughter.

Even though there is a part of me that is still humiliated that I am a Teacher with a graduate degree in English Literature who has to work as a clown on the weekends, I still am able to enjoy the absurdity of what I am doing. In the past two summer months I have had clowning jobs almost every weekend and the extra money that I am earning has allowed my to slowly creep out of debt, buy a new clown suit and enjoy a few more nice dinners with my wife a week. I do not tell anyone in my professional or personal life what I do for extra money on the weekends, and I have asked my wife to keep my clowning antics between her and I- but I know that it is only a mater of time before word gets out that I am working as a clown on the weekends. I can see it now in the headlines of my local city newspaper “EDUCATION FALLS TO ALL TIME LOW, TEACHER HAS TO WORK WEEKENDS AS CLOWN.”

My Second Anniversary

Today is my wife and I second wedding anniversary. We are going into San Fransisco for dinner to celebrate the fact that we have not yet killed each other. I told her that as a gift I would take her to a restaurant of her choice. Today she is the queen. I have been saving all month for this evening. Today I bought her roses and a Belgium beer and now we are leaving for dinner. Of course, she picked the most expensive restaurant in the entire city.

The Stranger

1.

The other evening I found myself in a quagmire. An uncomfortable quagmire where I began to sweat and smell like the stranger that resides within myself. Sometimes events have a way of playing themselves out beyond my ability to comprehend. I was at a dinner party that was thrown by a friend of a friend’s friend. My wife and I were invited to his home for and evening of drinking from his historic wine collection that brought forth multiple bottles of red wine that were each valued at over a $1,000 bucks. We drank from them with a biblical delight and felt our minds turn towards ease as soon as the red medicine entered our blood stream. I was on my seventh glass of heavily fermented red wine when I felt outgoing enough to walk around the large finely decorated home and meander with the dozens of other guests that I did not know. With red wine glass in hand I walked through the various sitting rooms and living rooms smiling at people that I would never know. Then I was greeted by a woman that I immediately remembered knowing a long long time ago.

“Don’t I know you from some place?” she asked me with a knowing look of curiosity upon her face. I immediately scanned the room to see if my wife was anywhere in sight. When I saw that the coast was clear I looked back at the woman who stood before me waiting for a response. She was just as beautiful as I remembered her being seven years before. A combination of an eastern European gypsy and a sophisticated Jewish princes is how she appeared. Her long brown hair and olive skin made you want to reach out and touch her. “No, you do not look familiar to me,” a response which I will always regret. “I can swear that we have met before, I even remember where,” she persisted. “Well, I do have a twin brother who has been known to meet many more people than I,” I said in a desperate attempt to find a way out. “You have a twin brother?” she confirmed looking a little sceptical. “I do….he looks exactly like me,” I replied telling the first blatant lie I have told in quite a long time. “My name is Karina,” she said sticking out her hand and introducing herself to the man she had already met many years before.

2.

It was a cold and rainy night and I needed a drink. I was alone and horny and I thought that making a trip to the Ruby Room, a popular bar in town, would not be a waste of time. It was already midnight but I knew that I was not ready for sleep. The bar was filled with cigarette smoke and the eccentric sounds produced by a female DJ spinning records in the back. A few people lingered on the dance floor and most late night loners sat at the bar. I joined them and ordered a bloody Mary with a twist. It was strange, because I was so stuck in my head that I did not notice the beautiful girl that sat beside me. It was Karina. To make a long story short I engaged in intellectual conversation with her and her friend and we bought each other drinks. The three of us calmly danced on the linoleum dance floor and Karina and I decided to leave the bar together and go for a drive into San Fransisco.

It was obvious that the two of us where stinking with a desire for sex. Why else would we be at a bar past midnight? In our own ravenous ways we wanted each other- but were to afraid, to estranged- to reach out and grab the first kiss. I did not want her lips as much as I wanted the nudity of her flesh and at that point in my life I knew no better way to get to the root of a woman’s body than to travel to a strip club. At that hour of the early morning there was only one seedy strip cub that would stay open until 4 a.m. This club was infamous for having some attractive women who would still sell their bodies even though the majority of client tell were drunk men. Karina and I paid our twenty dollars to get in and sat in some chairs in front of a stage with a woman dancing nude upon it. She was an attractive Asian woman with a butterfly tattoo on her butt and a dragon around her waist. Karina took my hand in hers and gently started sliding our hands towards my pulsating crotch which was in desperate need of attention. She came slowly towards my ear and whispered in it “I’ll pay to watch the two of you get it on.”

Karina, the Asian stripper and I- all went into a dark back room that smelled like cumm and plastic. There was a single red light that illuminated the black leather couches and paper towel dispensers on the wall. Karina gave the Asian lady two hundred dollars which she had taken out of an ATM. My mind was still spinning in tomato juice and vodka but when Karina took a seat and said to go ahead and begin I gave myself over to an experience that would only happen once in my life. The Asian stripper undressed me and herself and began by licking my entire body while she put a rubber over my penis. Then Karina began to play with herself and the Asian stripper gave me a blow job that made me feel high. Karina gave the stripper directions as she fondled her breasts and played pervertedly with her vagina. I played with the Asian stripper and together the three of us were all getting off to the sounds of each others longing.

After Karina and I had an orgasm we zipped our self back up and made our way out from the den of iniquity. It was almost four in the morning and the city was asleep. The two of us were still high from the release of sexual desire. I could tell that some shame ran across both of our faces but deep down the two of us did not care because we had each secretly planned upon never seeing one another again. When I ran into Karina seven years later at the dinner party I was as taken off guard as a man who comes across a wild lion in the middle of the city. I was now married and more respectable- and to happen upon a living memory from my deviant past made me as uncomfortable as if I was wearing all wool sweater in mid summer.

3.

“Nice to meet you Karina,” I said reaching out my hand and shaking hers. “How did you meet my brother?” I lamely asked trying to remain as innocuous as possible. “Oh I’d rather not say,” she replied giving the impression that she had done something bad. “Yep, that sounds like my brother,” I said wanting to make her absolutely sure that he was not me. “What do you mean she asked?” surprised by my assumption. “My brother is a crazy guy who gets into all kinds of scandalous situations with the ladies.” Her face turned red and I don’t know if I made it more or less obvious that he was me by making this remark. “Are you sure you are not him?” she asked in a tone that had made me suggest that she had called my bluff. “I would have to be a psychopath to be pretending to be someone who I am not,” was all I could say. “That is true,” she said and I again looked around the room to make sure my wife was no place to be found.

“What is your brother up to these days?” Karina asked as she took a sip of her red wine. “Oh, he is teaching high school and an inner city high school in Richmond,” I said. Her eyes opened wide and she replied “that is so strange because I also teach high school in Richmond!” I was so shocked by this strange turn of life events that all I could do was ask her what school she taught at and it turns out that the high school where she teaches is two blocks away from the smaller high school where I or my twin brother teach. “That is so strange,” I tried to diplomatically suggest while at the same time I tried to hide my surprise. “What subject does your brother teach?” she asked. “English,” I said already knowing that her response would be, “I teach English as well!” I continued to make small talk with Karina about the strange nature of coincidence and all the forces at play in the universe that keep our lives strangely intertwined. I tried to act as objectively as possible- not letting on that a part of my desperate drunken self wanted a second round with Karina. I used all my acting powers to portray an image of a man who was too virtuous to be that twin brother who Karina had transgressed with seven years before.

“Are you sure you are not him?” Karina said to me one final time before we separated. All I could do was laugh as if to suggest that she was being ridiculous. I promised her that I would let my brother know that we had met and that I would pass on the information that she was teaching at a high school not far from his. “Well… it was nice to meet you,” Karina said with a strange smile upon her face- taking my hand in hers. For a moment I thought that I felt her hand moving closer to my crotch- but then she let go and walked away.

The Voices Inside My Head

There are so many different voices inside my head, that I have decided to give each one of them a name. I was told today that if I was able to give these voices a name- my thoughts would have less power over me. My inner demons would no longer control me in the same way that they have for the great majority of my life and by naming my inner voices I will begin to win the battle for self control. A man in my current position has little to loose by taking on such a trivial exercise and no matter how cheesy or ridiculous I feel like this move to control myself may be- I am more than willing to give it a try.

One of the more prominent and controlling voices in my head is Hank. Hank is a son of a bitch. He is a bit of a slob and it seems as if all he wants to do is get drunk, go to strip clubs and drive around for endless hours searching for prostitutes. Hank loves women and immediately objectifies them. He wants to do all kinds of perverted things with them and becomes so preoccupied with these perversions that he can think of nothing less. Hank thinks he is very handsome and loves masturbation, pornography and hand jobs. He is willing to gamble away all of his money and relationships on slot machines and whores. Hank loves to read novels, write and pretend that he is someone who he is not. He enjoys hanging out in Asian massage parlors and listening to jazz. Hank is impulsive, angry, seductive and cunning- and if he does not get what he wants he falls into a depression that seeks to punish everyone else around. Good old Hank.

Then there is Eddie. Eddie is a rock star and a cultural icon. He is dark and mysterious and wants people to acknowledge him for the great human being that he is. He is a social and political activist who wants to make music that will start revolutions and empower the powerless to get off their ass and exercise their rights. He is shy and at times a loner but he sees a bit of himself in many great rock icons both alive and dead. Eddie loves to rock out and move his body in seductive ways. He wears his hair long with Levis blue jeans, punk rock t-shirts and an army jacket. Eddie likes to drink beer and wine, smoke an occasional cigarette and dance around in his living room- pretending that he is on a stage in front of thousands of adoring fans. He thinks that working a day job is beneath him and his greater purpose is to be Eddie. Eddie is definitely tooooo cool for school. A true rock God.

I don’t know this voice very well but he is still present in my head. For lack of a better name I will call him Richard. Richard wants to be rich. Whether it be through writing novels, making paintings or being an Entrepreneur- Richard desperately wants to be economically successful at something. Richard tries to be content with the things that he has but he is always longing for nice clothes, a BMW, a modern architecture two bedroom house, two dogs, a mistress and enough money in the bank to register himself at a millionaires club, have a nice wine cellar and never have to work for anyone else again. Richard envies those who have riches and fame and, like most Americans, holds on to the chronic dream that some day he will be one of them. In the meantime Richard tries hard to make people think that he has more money than he really does and comes from a wealthier family than he really does. Richard writes his father emails that say things like “I am unhappy at my job because I am not being payed what I am worth. I really want to make a lot of money so that I can join a country club and afford nice things.” Richard wants to make his father proud by accumulating material possessions. He wants to have children but he is ashamed of what he has not accomplished- but tries to convince himself that he has done enough. Richard is a real mensch.

Lastly there is Randy. Randy is a teenager stuck in an older man’s body. He exists in a perpetual state of fear, anxiety and panic. He fears that the end of his life is always near. Randy feels like a stranger in the world and is yet to figure out what he is going to do with his life. He is gullible and at times naive and is always looking for a way out. He is afraid to fly, drive over a bridge and be to far away from his home. Randy is a hypochondriac who is terrified of loosing control, a neurotic egomaniac who is deeply affected by his own problems. Randy is always broke, unsuccessful, negative and restless.He is loving but dis-honest, insecure and self conscious. Thoughts of impending doom, chronic anxiety, health problems, fear of intimacy and the end of the world scenarios walk with him wherever he goes. He desperately struggles to figure out ways that he can flee from every situation. Randy is a procrastinator, frozen by fear and addicted to fiction. A jack of all trades and a specialist of nothing. Randy should take Paxil.

These are the central voices that rule the inner narrative within my head. There are other voices like  Lance who longs to be spiritual, vegetarian and meditate every day and Henry who wants to become a red neck, buy shot guns, grow a beer belly and live in a trailer in the country. Now I know that in Buddhism it is said that the voices inside our heads are just projections of our ego. They are illusions, impermanent- and who we really are is immortal and way beyond the idea that we have of ourselves. However, the voices that I listed above are the ones that control my every waking moment. Some are there more than others but none of them am I yet able to turn off like a radio or television set. Each day I struggle to be free from these mental flees, and someday when I finally find a way………………………………..I am afraid, it is then that I will have nothing left to say. I will be peace.

The DJ And The Whore

Every Monday night I used to DJ at a hole in the wall club in downtown Oakland. I would set up my turn table in a dingy red light room and play dark ambient new wave records until 2 a.m. The staff at the club would keep my glass filled with cheap Italian red wine and in return I would draw in a crowd of half a dozen new wavers. For me, I did not mind the lack of a crowd because I was there mainly to listen to my records and get drunk on red wine. I would sit at my turn table and play record after record and wait for the crowd to show.

One Monday evening not too long ago there was a terrible hail storm in downtown Oakland. The streets were filled with dusty rain water and barley any cars were out on the roads. I set up my equipment like I normally did but I was not expecting much of a crowd that evening. It was the bartender and myself and together under a storm of hail we listened to the darkest new wave music I could play. Song after song reminded us of a youth long gone and together we drank red wine and passed the time.

As I was putting another new wave record upon the turn table I noticed a woman, around my age in a tight black dress spinning around on the dance floor. I don’t know from where she came but after watching her effortlessly float around on the dance floor I recognized her as a prostitute I had often seen working the streets. It seemed to me like she was under a spell as she twirled around on the dance floor like a Sufi deep in a mystical prayer. I noticed some semblance of youth that was still left upon her hard working body and I surmised that when she was younger she must of been a devotee to these same sounds. The way she danced reminded me of how I would dance in new wave clubs to bands like The Cure or Flock Of Seagulls. Flinging my hands in a wave like motion and barley moving my shy and under age lower body. Dancing like this was all the rage back in the mid eighties and sometimes I still see people dancing like this to this day.

The bartender and I had nothing better to do but watch her dance for hours. I played song after song hoping that she would not stop because she was making me nostalgic for a time long gone. I remembered myself wearing all black and trying to do my hair like Robert Smith. I remembered the numerous women that I had made out with while listening to Siouxsie And The Banshees and smoking cloves. Now I was twenty five years older and a forlorn DJ without a crowd- and she was a hooker with nowhere else to go.

At two a.m. when it was time to close I told her that I was going to play the final song of the night. “That is enough nostalgia for me tonight, I got to go back to work,” she said wiping the sweat from her fore head. She picked up her long black trench coat from the dance floor and thanked me with the silent movement of her burnt out lips. I nodded my head in acknowledgement and took a sip of my fourth glass of red wine. I asked the bartender if it was still hailing out and he said “I have been stuck in a daze the past few hours watching that chick dance- I don’t even know what day it is.” I went to the front door to check on the hail which had turned to rain and from the corner of my eye I saw the hooker standing still on the street corner, crying- and getting drenched by the rain.

The Cut Out Kid.

Sometimes I wonder if I am cut out for this world. I sit quietly in school board meetings without a thing to say. I am disinterested in the classes that I need to take in order to get my teaching credential. I am bored by bureaucratic or political talk and I have little interest in the professionalism that every one seems to demand from me. Often times I find myself in situations where I say to myself, what the hell am I doing here? The answer is usually- there is nothing else you could do so make the best of it. I am weary of all people who take themselves as seriously as I do- and I know nothing more that I want to do with my life than, read, write, paint , love, sit in the sun and masturbate. Sometimes I wonder if I am cut out for this world.

As a kid I loved to do cut outs. I would cut out pictures of Micheal Jackson, Madonna, Howard Jones, Boris Becker, Ronald Reagan and others and tape them all over the walls of my bedroom. I would position them in strange ways- some standing upside down and others on their backs and sides. My bedroom walls were filled with the multiplicity of conversations between all these various cut outs. I would see Madonna talking to a cut out of Ronald Regan and imagine the conversations that they would have. “Hey Ronny you should loosen up a bit,” Madonna would say and Ronny would reply “like a virgin?” Then Micheal Jackson would get involved and say “hey Ronny don’t tease Madonna..maybe you should just beat it,” and on and on the conversations would go for hours. My parents called me the cut out kid because I would spend entire afternoons locked up in my bedroom making cut outs to put on my wall and at night I would fall asleep to their various interactions. Deep down- even as a kid, I knew I was doing this to create a world of my own, a safer place- since I knew that I would never find my place in the real world.

Now as an adult I try to stay away from doing cut outs. It’s too infectious. Instead it is as if I have become the cut out and my bedroom wall has become the world in which I live. The strange thing is that I can not seem to find a space upon this wall in which I feel like I can fit. Mostly I feel like I am standing in the wrong place or occupying the wrong position- but rarely do I feel as comfortable as the Boris Becker or Sting cut outs upon my wall seemed to look. I long for this sense of comfort and well being- the kind of confident glare that I see in the eyes of my favorite Teachers, Writers, Artists and Musicians. I long to posses that feeling of accomplishment that fills one up with a kind of satiated satisfaction. I keep telling myself that in time I will find my way- but for the time being, when I am stuck in traffic or in boring meetings or loud classrooms- I go through these extreme stages feeling like a cut out who can not find his right place, in this perplexing world.

Panic Attacks And Beer

I had another panic attack today. I normally live with a perpetual feeling of unease and voices in my head that seem to be dead set upon my demise. I think I balance out the weight of my insanity rather sanely but sometimes the voices of impending doom and the unease get the best of me. I have diligently battled this tempestual condition for most of my life. As I age I am becoming more convinced that it is the stain of a mental illness that cohabitates with my mind. I am beset with tragic thoughts most of my day and an undulating, tremor like anxiety has been with me since I was born. Beer (which I am currently downing) is the only substance that seems to set my mind at ease and after today’s attack all I could do to reconcile my horror was drink.

I am coming to depend upon beer more and more to deal with my anxiety. For many years I induced a constant state of somnolence and weight gain by taking Paxil (psychiatric medication) along with smoking ravenous amounts of weed. I stole enlightening fragments from the sun by spending the majority of my days reading philosophy and hanging out in strip clubs. However- my mental illness refused to diminish. It has merely taken on different forms and angles, redressing itself like a Sphinx or a yokel who decides it is time for a fashion change. My wife is at the point where she is so alarmed by my perpetual state of fear and trembling that she is insisting that I seek out treatment and find a way to live a normal life uninhibited by constant fear.

Like a drunkard who drinks too much wine my negative thoughts consume me on a daily basis. The terror is not of my own making but comes from several voices that sound of in my head when they are least welcome. These voices are as hard to get rid of as my bad back and it seems that with each passing day they climb that much farther into my subconscious. It has gotten to the point where I am unable to feel comfortable doing any activity that involves getting my heart rate up or involves being confined (flying, driving, bridges, etc.,). Some may suggest that what I am is Agoraphobic or obsessive compulsive but neither of these clinical diagnosis works for me. I am a man haunted by my own thoughts of mortality and trapped by my mortal body. I look at other people with the envy of a sinner sentenced to an eternity in hell. I envy their effortlessness, their complete absence of a thought about their own mortality. I long for a day when I can go for a run or a bike ride and feel free, but for now- the only way out of my anxiety and into the experience of joy and fearlessness seems to be through beer. I take beer with me wherever I go like a Shepperd his flock or a Preacher his bible- and I am rarely comfortable without a can of beer by my side.

I am well aware that living with this Faustian monster in my head is no way to spend ones days upon earth. I am also aware the my condition is exasperated by the very beer that I have come to depend upon for relief. When one is stuck in a coal mine what do they do? Try to break free with all their might or sit calm and wait for assistance to come? Unfortunately the way my brain is wired is to immediately try to break free, kicking and screaming, and find some salvation for my life which feels like it is in jeopardy. A panic attack is no fine wine, rather it is a rancid milk that leaves one ravaged and tethered. Rather than sitting calm and waiting for help to come- my brain triggers a flight response that desperately searches for the nearest liquor store so that I can drink my way out from fear.

To Be Continued.

To Dress For Success

I am almost forty years of age, graying- and I still need my father’s help to buy new clothes. I do not know if this is something that I should be openly confessing but for me writing honestly is the way that I deal with the realities of my life. I was in the Gap this afternoon, accompanying a friend who needed to buy some new pants. While she tried them on I browsed around in the men’s section and realized that I could really use some new clothes. My daily wardrobe consists of jeans and t-shirts with an occasionally worn black leather jacket. My shoes are old enough to be eligible for social security and the majority of socks that I wear are inflicted with holes. The last time I shopped was many years ago when my father gave me a check for $500 and said go get your self some new clothes. The mistake that I made then was that I spent a hundred dollars of that money buying clothes at a used clothing shop while the other $400 went towards paying my rent and getting an Asian erotic massage with a hand job that I no longer remember.

Gun shots go off almost every night outside of my home. An eighteen year old pregnant woman was gunned down last night three blocks away. I am living in the wild wild west and my clothes can prove it. As a younger man I wore top of the line clothes. I shopped at Banana Republic for all of my attire because not only were the clothes comfortable, but they fit me like they were made especially for my physique. I was young then and still had unlimited potential, so I could understand why my father insisted on paying for my clothing bills. Some of the better times that the two of us ever had together were on shopping sprees for me. I was getting new clothes and he was getting to dress his son for the success I would never become. In either case, we were both winners. I got new clothes and he got to dream. Now all of the clothes are faded and no longer fit, and besides- in the neighborhood that I live no one dresses like that.

I begin teaching high school in a few days and I thought it would be nice to show up to school not wearing last years clothes. The Teachers that I work around are so under paid that the idea of buying new clothes is so far fetched that I see tears in their eyes whenever we talk about shopping. I know if I showed up for school with a new outfit I would be the envy of not only my class but everyone else in the school. I would be a symbol of hope for my fellow Teachers who have been sentenced and condemned to wearing the same outfits for at least the past five years. America is one of the only countries in the world where Teachers can’t afford to dress well.

As I looked at the fall clothes line that hung on the racks in the Gap I imagined myself dressed in them. New jeans, new pants and socks and shirts and jackets. I saw myself fitted in all of them, standing infront of my classroom looking like the well dressed man that I imagined I would be when I was young. Granted now I am old enough and wise enough to know that what you wear is only a minimal measure of the person inside and that being concerned with fashion is a never ending burden on not only your ego but also your bank account- but deep down inside of me I truly enjoy dressing well. Not only does it satisfy my own expectations for myself, but it makes me feel like I am finally my fathers son. I thought, for a moment, about buying a new pair of $50 dollar jeans but I sunk back in resignation realizing that this would be too much of an economic stretch. Instead I would return home, like all prodigal sons do, and call my dad and ask him if he would not mind sticking a $500 dollar check in the mail for me, his almost 40 year old son, who is ready for the first time in his life, to dress for success.

Flee Bag

There are flees coming out of my ears. Literally. They bounce around upon my shoulder and manage to land on my scalp or my lap. If it was not for my wife who just had to have three cats- I would be free from this torment. But instead my body is riddled with flees and my house has become flee motel. I am in a state of perpetual itch, with strange sensation hopping around on my ankles and a constant gnawing upon my flesh. Is this what Barack Obama means when he says he wants to help those who struggle? Does he mean common people like me who are ridden with flees but too poor to go to the veterinarian and get some kind of medical attention? I never thought I would live in an America where people like me could be covered in so many flees.

I have tried everything to free me from this affliction. My wife who does not seem to be a magnet for flees washes the sheets every day and mops the floor with Listerine. I am eating tones of garlic and brewers yeast because I hear that this is a natural way to repel flees from human flesh. These remedies are not working. If you saw my face you would see at least two flees and laugh. The only thing that does any good is drinking so much wine that I forget about the little critters that are eating me alive. When I am drunk enough I am able to sleep the whole night through without waking up every hour because I feel like dozens of flees have descended upon my face.

My fate is an unusual one. I grew up in an economic situation where there were never flees allowed in my house and if ever any would show up the exterminator would be called in for three days in a row until the rugs where flee free. Pets were seldom allowed in my house and if ever we had a pedigree cat he or she was certain to be bathed by the maid once a day. Having come from a sanitary and affluent environment such as the one I grew up in- to having flees crawling up my shirt and into my large nostrils or out from my ears twenty four hours a day, is a big step down the status ladder that no man or woman wants to take.

Since I am low on cash, my wife offered to buy me a flee repellent collar for humans. It is white and has a strange layer of powder all around it. The moment I looked at it in the store I started to sneeze and get dizzy. I noticed that by just touching the collar dead flees began to fall from my head, but I could not bring myself to let my wife pay the $120.00 cost of the collar. Instead I think that Barack Obama should put into his health care plan a policy that covers Teachers who are infected with flees.

There are only a few more weeks left of flee season. I am hoping that by eating a certain diet, taking several showers a day, drinking a lot of wine and sleeping in a jump suit with a facial mask on- that I can keep the tormenting affects of flee infestation down to a minimum. I have considered getting rid of our three precious flee bag cats in the middle of the night when my wife was asleep but this act would only burden me with more guilt. I have resigned myself to the fact that I need to accept my discomfort and make the best of my life- but even as I sit here writting this, flees are falling out of my hair and jumping on to the key board. I am worried that next week, when I start my teaching job- flees will follow me all the way to school and crawl out of my nose or ears when I am in the middle of class- or worse, in the middle of a teacher Parent conference.

Cereal Without The Milk.

What has been going on with me lately? I can’t tell if it is the oppressive heat or some kind of chemical strike within my brain. I am used to being lethargic at this point in my life but the kind of forgetfulness that has made itself a permanent fixture in my life- is driving me crazy. If I become any more forgetful I am afraid that the repetitive nightmare that I always had as a child where I would show up at school in the nude will come true. I have started taking various memory enhancement supplements but so far they do not seem to be working because tonight I went to the market to buy cereal and I forgot the milk.

In Dante’s classic work the The Divine Comedy, the stream of Lethe flows to the centre of the earth from its surface, but its headwaters are located in the Earthly Paradise found at the top of the mountain of Purgatory. In high school my English Teacher always used to tell me that if I did not stop smoking grass that I was going to fall into the stream of Lethe and end up in the center of the earth where all the sinners go. At that time I had no idea that Lethe was the Greek term for forgetfulness. Nor did I realize that I would later forget that in Samuel Beckett’s radio play Embers, the main character Henry describes conversing with his dead wife: “that’s what hell will be like, small chat to the babbling of Lethe about the good old days when we ate cereal without the milk and wished we were dead.”

I often forget my keys, where I parked my car and that I am a married man- but lately I have been forgetting more obvious things. I will travel to the post office to mail a letter and come home with a frozen yogurt and the letter still in my pocket. I will start reading a book and immediately forget what it was all about. There are even certain days that I forget what my wife looks like. I am yet to forget the more permanent fixtures in my life like my address and my cat’s name- but I am wondering if I should start considering some kind of medical care to rule out any auspicious happenings within my mind. Normally, I would be in a state of red flag hypochondriac alert, but my forgetfulness has been with me for as long as I can remember which is not long at all.

I often wonder if my high school English Teacher jinxed me when she threatened me to an eternity in the underworld for enjoying the youthful pleasures of being high on the mountain. Sometimes I even wonder if I have not already forgotten this Earthly Paradise and been condemned to an eternity in an Inferno where the sinner is doomed to forget one thing after the next. All kinds of plausible scenarios have percolated around in my brain. Whatever the case may be- tomorrow morning I have to wake up and eat my flax seed cereal without the milk. If I remember.

The Writer

I am a Writer and I have to write about what I need to write about. If I try to hide what I need to write about- and write about something else, well then- I am not doing my job. I am often hunted by my stories (which are nothing more than my past experiences colored in) and if I do not exorcise them by writing about them – I am doomed to repeat them. Whether my experience involves infidelity, deceit, fear of failure, self doubt, victimization, arrogance, self obsession or self flagellation- I must put it down on the page with the utmost certainty that speaking the truth is what writing is for.

The only thing that I expect my readers to demand of me is the truth. It is my job to come forth and claim the story even though I know that most people (including myself) I write about will not approve. I would be lying if I said that I am never tempted to fictionalizing endings, middles and beginnings. Sometimes I do. But for me life is fiction and like Oscar Wilde said, “the Writer of fiction just makes ordinary life a little bit more interesting for the rest of us.”

Guilt, pressure, isolation, backaches, alcohol addiction and death threats aside- being a Writer does have its plus sides. Through the process of writing I often find things out about myself that I did not know. Even though telling the truth is what compels me to write, so does telling lies. In the stories that I make up about myself there is often more truth than in the stories that I do not fictionalize. Within the make believe I find layered aspects of the person that I try hard not to be. My shadow comes out into the light of day and for a short period of time, I am familiar with who I really am. There is some emotional distance between myself and the story that I am trying to tell- and it is within the space of this distance that I can see every aspect of me.

Does a Writer owe it to his family and friends to keep quite if he/she finds out things that are unsavory and uncanny? I am not interested in writing simply to assuage my guilt. Instead, I would like to loose it. It is the unsavory and the uncanny that create the lyrical intensity within my mind that only an experimental opera, novel or film could begin to approach. If I was to keep quiet, than what would I have to say? I am merely reporting back all the absurdities that I see within me and you. This is why the whole process of being a writer is long and twisting and sometimes it reminds me of wondering around the Kafkaesque streets of Barcelona where I was always in awe and lost and not a single person spoke my language.

The Plop Artist

I am yet to be able to sell a single one of my paintings. For over twenty years I have been painting diligently with fervent dreams of artistic success. Unfortunately, I seem to be the only one left who believes that this success is still possible. People see my paintings and they do not understand what I am doing. They think I am untrained and naive. An unenthusiastic “interesting,” is the most often used descriptive response to my work. I have left my paintings on sidewalks to see if anyone would steal them- but the paintings just sit there. Getting galleries, restaurants, museums or any other establishment to hang my art upon their walls is like pulling teeth. Nobody seems to want to see my art except me, myself and I.

The other evening when I was talking to my wife about my decades old desire to earn a living as a Painter, we had another fight. She is frustrated by my inability to see the reality of my situation. “You have been painting for over twenty years and can not get shows. No one has shown any interest your work for years! I love you and I like your art but come on, when is it time to get real real?- you are yet to sell a single painting!” she replied. “This does not mean I will never sell a painting. I mean look at van Gogh or…. (I was unable to come up with another name), they could not sell a single painting in their life time and now their work is worth millions,” I replied like a man defending his property. “Who is they?” my wife rhetorically replied. “You only referenced van Gogh, that is only one out of thousands. Are you equating yourself to van Gogh? -because to be honest with you honey- you are no van Gogh.”

I beg to differ. I think that my talent as a Painter is equal if not greater than any Painter that has ever lived. It may be a latent and unskilled talent but this does not invalidate it. My ability to portray a world that does not exist any place other than in my head- is unrivaled by any other artist I have ever seen. I do not believe that there is anything quite like my art in the world. My value as a Painter is greatly underestimated and unappreciated. So what, gallery owners and museums do not respond to my submissions. Does this mean that I am helpless? What I know for certain is that if I do not find a way soon to make the world realize my artistic value- than I am afraid that my life will be relegated to a nine to five job, salary, health benefits, certifications, and a mortgage that I can barley afford. I will have become a mere image of what I had dreamed myself to be and my painting studio will be cleaned out to make room for the baby and its crib. Shit.

I can tell no one who knows me about being a Plop Artist. If my wife finds out that I am taking my paintings and hanging them upon walls illegally- I know that she will not only loose respect for me but she will become infuriated. She wants a comfortable life where there are no concerns about her husbands arrest. She takes comfort in believing that I am a law abiding Anarchist who has never been in jail. If she found out that I was jeopardizing her domestic dreams by illegally hanging my paintings on museum, gallery and corporate office walls (without permission) I know it would not only destroy her illusion of me but also end my marriage. But this is only if I am caught. If on the other hand, I am discovered, and someone wants to buy one of my paintings or provide me with artistic representation- than not only my career as a Painter but also my dreams and my marriage will be salvaged. My despair will float away like ripples in a stream and I will be entered into Art History books. I am willing to take the risk.

I always check the garbage first. The following day, after plopping my painting upon a wall, if my painting is not yet in the garbage than I know that it is either still hanging on the wall or someone has kept it. I have hundreds of paintings in my cob web ridden painting studio- so giving a few away for free is the sacrifice that I have to make to get my name out into the world. I often leave my business card with my website address besides the painting that I have just plopped down- and it has just occurred to me that this is not such a good idea since it could lead to my arrest. “Never leave a paper trail,” my grandfather used to say to me. Shit.

The other day I hung one of my paintings in the San Fransisco Modern Art Museum right besides Paul Klee’s “The Tightrope Walker.” There was no security in the room at the time and there was a small open space upon the wall which I could not resist. I took the painting out from under my long black coat and stuck a tack into the wall upon which I hung my painting. It was a little out of place but I desperately wanted to hang one my paintings right besides Paul Klee. Just as I was straightening the painting out, a group of what looked like Japanese students walked into the room. I quickly backed away from where I was standing and waited to see if they noticed my painting. They did not. They walked right past it without even a subtle remark.

My heart sank when I was putting one of my paintings on the wall of the TransAmerica building. I stuck the tack in the wall and put my painting up right when a security guard said to me “sir, you are not allowed to handle the art.” “Sorry officer, I just accidentally ran into the painting on my way out to lunch and I was trying to straighten it out,” I replied. “Just please step away from the art sir,” he said and I continued on my way.

At this moment in San Fransisco I have art hanging in several galleries, two museums, a few corporate office buildings and in some restaurant and bar bathrooms. If you are in San Fransisco and you go to the Museum of Modern Art, Hang Gallery or the TransAmerica building- you will see my work (if it has not yet been taken down). I have been plopping for almost a month now and I am determined to make a name for myself before the school year starts and I have to go back to my day job as a high school English Teacher. “When are you going to take the certification test and get your Teaching credential?” my wife keeps asking me. She wants me to secure my career as a high school Teacher so that we can begin to plan having a family and maybe even buy a house. “I will do these things soon, soon,” I tell her with the intention of putting it off as long as I can hold out. Maybe I am trying to avoid the inevitable, maybe there is no hope for success in my artistic career. Maybe I am a 37 year old burn out. But I only have one life to live and I am determined to live and dream. I will keep plopping my paintings on walls all over this city until I either get caught or discovered by somebody who recognizes the artistic genius that I know I am. In the meantime, I still have not sold a single painting.

My Love Affair With Booze

When I first met booze I was 15 years old and wondering around in my father’s liquor cabinet. I was immediately attracted to the shapes of the bottles and the intense aroma that emanated from them. My childhood was filled with unbearable burdens of grief and isolation so when I sipped from one of the oval bottles and felt the loosing of all my spiritual knots- I feel in love. This may have been the only time in my life that I have experienced falling in love as an epiphany, a sudden realization of all the ways my lover could set me free.

By the time I was 16 I was in a committed relationship with booze. I saw booze almost every day. We went every where together and could not stand being apart. I always knew where to find booze when it was not around. I slept almost every night under the sweet intoxication of booze’s effect upon me. What was once a lonely and intolerable hole in my heart- had suddenly become filled with booze.

My love affair with booze consisted mostly of white wine. There was no greater pleasure for me than being alone and downing an entire bottle of white wine and then taking a warm shower while listening to The Smiths or lying in the grass while smoking a cigarette.

Often times my love affair with booze would turn sour. I would awake around five a.m ravaged by the effects of giving too much of myself over to my love. I suffered the consequences of surrendering ones own individuality to the beloved. I would vomit in the early morning, like a man suffering the terrible pangs of a love gone bad. I would get down on my knees and pray that my suffering end. Once the vomiting would stop I would slowly wonder back to bed and swear that I would never see my love again.

My mother and father realized that something was up when my father noticed that a large portion of his white wine collection was missing from his wine cellar. I had drank the majority of his wine, but I also would share it with friends during lunch breaks and after school. My few friends and I all shared a mad love towards booze because it allowed us a respite from going through the banality, insecurity and parental pressure of being a teenager. When under the influence of booze, I was like a kite that had broken away from the string that had kept me from flying free.

Often times when I was drunk I would tip cows over while they slept (Cow Tipping) or throw rocks at ghosts. I would take off my pants in wide open fields and masturbate under the night sky. My friend had a pool table in his garage which we would gather around for hours. We would sneak the wine into our mouths and play pool without a care in the world. That is until my father showed up and took me away.

My attachment to my love was so great that I had to be locked up so that I would not revisit booze again. For four months I struggled through an alcoholic rehabilitation program with a hole in my heart that could no longer be filled up with booze. Slowly the insecurity, banality and parental pressures of being a teenager returned and my longing to see my love increased. I sat through alcoholic rehabilitation classes and four hour long compassion groups seven days a week for months until I turned seventeen and was set free back into the custody of my parents.

One day I ran into booze in the back of my school. It had changed since the last time I saw it. It turned red and it looked aged. I felt sorry for it as my friends drank it and made faces like it was the most awful thing that they had ever tasted. “Pretty bad?” I asked. “We don’t drink it for the taste- we like how it fucks up our head,” one of my friends replied. When he offered me the bottle I felt put off by the booze. I no longer felt the urge to be intoxicated by it. I had enough insight to remember what it was like having my head and heart all fucked up, and I was in no hurry to get back into that love affair.

Global Warming Man, Part 2

Global Warming Man

I realize that all life on earth is in rapid decline. Everything from the amoeba that swim at the bottom of the Antarctic ice caps to the hawks which soar above the redwood trees in back of my house- are facing the threat of inevitable extinction. Extinction was a term that I never considered until I read Thomas Bernhard’s classic autobiography entitled “Extinction.” There was a line in the book that has stayed with me until this day, “I am my own extinction, I do it to myself and everybody else as well,” he writes. I can’t help but think of this in relation to the epidemic of global warming that I am now faced with. I know that each and every one of my actions directly affects not only myself but also every other living organism on planet earth. I am connected to all things in ways that I can not fathom with my limited and usually fatigued mental faculties. For every action of mine I know there are equal and/or opposite reactions in space and time. Yet, I can’t seem to change my ways.

Recycling, composting, driving less, eating less red meat and using less electricity are all ways that each and every individual can directly combat and possibly reverse global warming. This is a known fact that many people, including my wife- are turning into a way of life. I envy these people who seek to be healers of the planet upon which we live and somehow are determined to save human beings from becoming extinct. I, on the other hand, seem to be incapable of joining them in their noble quest to turn back the hands of time. In my mind recycling is a futile act, composting is a pain in the ass, driving less is an inconvenience, eating less red meat is just not possible and using less electricity is out of the question.

Electricity- I am afraid of the dark and when I am at home (asleep or awake) I need all of the lights on.

Red Meat- Red meat is the most nutritious food on earth. My health suffers if I do not consume at least two servings of red meat a day- I grow tired, weak, and forlorn.

Driving- One of the few ways that I am able to relax and find some semblance of serenity in my life is to drive my car around the ghetto for hours listening to Coltrane, Monk and Mingus on the radio.

Composting- When I have left over food on my plate I do not want to go outside into the cold and throw it away into a composting bucket that is filled with flies which get into my eyes, mouth and nose- I’d rather just wash my scraps down the drain or put them in the garbage can.

Recycling- As long as there are millions of polluting cars on the road, bombs with depleted uranium being dropped, factories burning toxic fuels, airplanes burning oil in the skies and ships burning oil into the sea- I for the life of me can not perceive how recycling my paper or glass is going to make a slight dent upon saving the environment. As far as I am concerned recycling is a conspiracy- it is a futile act that allows individuals to feel empowered and feel as if they are doing something good to save the environment when in reality “the sky is falling.”

My relationship with my wife has suffered because I am not willing to make certain changes in my lifestyle. She is an adamant composter, recycler, bike rider (instead of driving), vegetarian and lover of the dark. On her car she has a large sticker of “Mother Earth” and everything she buys has to not only be sustainably made and organic- but also involved in free trade process so that no workers are being exploited as a result of her transaction. At times her “conscious” habits drive me to the brink of insanity. I find myself filled with a particular kind of rage that I can only compare to the rage a person must feel when they are being made a fool of. My perpetual frustration has made me less willing to participate in composting my food or recycling my waste and whenever my wife finds banana peels, orange peels, glass or plastic bottles in the garbage can- her fury can be felt from a mile away. Recently our environmental differences have become so extreme that she has said a few times that if I do not start composting my food waste and recycling my glass and plastic bottles that I will have to move out. In the meantime, she told me, that she had no choice but to report me to the local Global Warming Man.

The Global Warming Man is a city official that comes around to individual households and businesses and shows people ways that they can create a more sustainable environment. They teach people how to compost, recycle, use less electricity and water and engage in various other eco-friendly practices. There is also a short lecture on the topic of global warming and the ways in which every species is interconnected. My wife told me that reporting me to the Global Warming Man was her final attempt at salvaging our marriage. If I did not meet with him for the two hours that he is going to spend in our house this Friday, that I would have to look for another place to live. She can no longer handle my blatant disregard towards not only the environment but also for myself and my own survival on planet earth. I was infuriated by what I thought was an extreme measure to get me to conform to her ways. Why did she have to report her own husband to a city official? For me it was the ultimate betrayal until I slowly (after many conversations) began to realize that I was going to loose not only my wife and home if I did not meet with The Global Warming Man- but possibly also the earth upon which I live.

Your Bathroom Smells Like A Sarcophagus

I am a tall man. On warm days my height can extend six feet seven inches. I often notice that I have more difficulty breathing than others and I think this has something to do with the altitude. My breathing difficulties are enhanced when I am in certain environments- especially bathrooms. It is my belief that the way a persons bathroom looks and smells is a direct reflection upon their inner state of being. I try and stay away from people and restaurants that have unkept and stinky bathrooms. For me a bathroom in disarray is a red flag- a direct and obvious sign that something is not right in that persons life. If I am in a particular kind of bathroom and my breathing difficulties are stimulated- I leave the environment at once and never return. I have left many restaurant’s, friends and acquaintance’s homes and jobs for this very reason. There is nothing that threatens my sense of well being anymore than a bathroom in some state of disarray. This is why I am so surprised that last night a certain prostitute that I invited over to my house said- “Your bathroom smells like a sarcophagus.”

I am always careful to keep my bathroom in a state of cleanliness. My wife refuses to scrub the toilet or tub so every month or two I get down on my hands and knees and do so. Since I am unusually tall, and the toilet in my bathroom is quite low to the ground, I often times miss the toilet and end up getting piss on the bathroom tiles. Sometimes I wipe it up- but usually in the middle of the night I am too tired to care. My wife often burns incense in the bathroom to mask an uncomfortable smell but I never considered that this could be the result of my bad aim. When the prostitute whom I had over briefly told me that she was not interested in doing anything sexual with me because the smell of my bathroom turned her off- I was shocked. My own strategy was being turned on me. This is how I always reacted and now it was being done to me!

As I tried to explain to her that I normally keep my bathroom in the best of condition because I deeply believe that the condition of a persons bathroom is a direct reflection of their soul- she looked at me and said “well then your soul stinks and your crotch probably smells worse (which is just not true).” She escorted herself to the door and left me alone in my underwear to contemplate the riddle that had just happened to me. How could my bathroom have fallen into a state of such degeneration with out myself or my wife noticing it? Are all of the breathing difficulties that I have been having lately a result of my bathroom? How does my bathroom smell like a sarcophagus and I do not even know it? What is happening to my life, my marriage and my mind? I have grown even taller in my discomfort about the nature of my reality. All I could do to contain my anxiety was to grab a sponge and a can of bleach and start cleaning my bathroom in my underwear. I worked hard for hours to achieve a state of equanimity and when my wife came home late that evening, surprised about finding me on my hands and knees in the bathroom- all I could do was look at her and say “how did all of this happen to me?”

The Smoker, Part 1

I should smoke a lot more than I do. I want to emphasize, A LOT MORE, because I do not smoke at all. Instead I take deep inhalations of second hand smoke whenever I happen upon cigarettes and I even at times find myself seeking out smokers so that I can stand around them. The irony of this is that I can not stand cigarettes. I have never been much of a smoker nor do I have any deep desire to smoke. I simply like the idea of smoking and all that second hand smoke has to offer. There is something ethereal and contemplative about smoking. Something that emits an energy of insouciance and contentment. I often long for these emotional responses but seldom find them. Instead I exist in a perpetual state of anxiety where the absence of happiness, fulfilment and purpose sends me into a dark trance where often I will remain for days. I often wonder if smoking will offer me the pre-packaged benefits of the happiness I long to find, but my guess is that the second hand smoke is as good as it gets. Like unhappiness, melancholy, masturbation or depression, smoking is a wicked addiction that is almost impossible to break without the assistance of a pill, patch or circumcision.

Heat Wave

I just went for a twenty minute walk and almost had to pick my flesh off of the sidewalk. I don’t know if heat stimulates an erection but my penis was wide awake for the entirety of my walk. I heard some one yell at me that I was crazy for walking because it was over a hundred degrees. Perspiration poured over my for-head like rain drops and I could see my heart beat through my sweat drenched t-shirt. Thoughts of impending doom twirled through my head like race cars and all I wanted to do was be back home in the safety of my blog where I could write about my near death encounter and tell the entire world that I am now going to masturbate to celebrate a life lived!

Absurdistry Lives!

I have decided not to do away with Absurdistry. I am much too attached to Absurdistry. Instead I will maintain two blogs. One will be more perverse and overtly indecent while the other, Rhinoceros Journal, will be less offensive. Why I am maintaining two blogs, I don’t know. Maybe I have nothing better to do. Maybe I long for fame. Whatever the case- it is my hope that both blogs feed each other and create an organic synergy that offers a unique literary experience that can be found nowhere else. This may be idealistic and deluded but it is my hope to challenge the repressive ideals and moral constructs of a society that seeks to marginalize the larger part of its citizenship. In America, Absurdistry is a perfect weapon for me to do this. So like Paul says, I shall rage on.

Damn Job Postings.

I have been looking at job postings for as long as I can remember. I thought that by now, at the age of 37, I would be set in my career, famous and in no need of job postings. I have been wrong about many things in my unfulfilling lifetime- but never have I been more wrong about anything than other than this. I look at various job postings every day, not because I am entertaining myself with all the various ways that human beings have to martyr themselves to make a living. No, I am looking at job listings because I have to. I am always either jobless and in need of a job or desperately wanting to quit the job I have and in search of a new job. For me jobs are like a seesaw- I can never stay put.

I knew from an early age that the only real job I ever wanted to have was that of a great Writer. This was how I would make my living in life and all the time I spent looking through help wanted sections in news papers as a teenager was only a temporary imposition. The pain of having to fill out applications and submit myself to banal and interrogative interviews was only a temporary step along the path of literary greatness. Besides, I was young- and youth unto itself was reason enough for my need to find work in job postings. I knew that as I grew older and more established, job postings would be as irrelivent to my life as the job that I worked one summer making pizzas at Domino’s.

For the past two months I have been checking various job postings every day. I have sent out hundreds of resumes and gone to several demeaning interviews. I have even submitted myself to the marginalizing ethics of job hunting by shaving my beard and cutting my long Nazarethian hair. All to find the perfect position that will hold me over until I publish my first novel which is yet to be written. I have applied to all kinds of positions in a fit of desperation. I am like a man who is watching a furious river of water speed forth in the distance right towards him. My bank account is almost in a negative balance, my rent was due two days ago and the gas tank in my car is as empty as my savings accounts. Once again, I am finding myself on the floor by mid-afternoon begging the fates for more glory.

Today I applied for positions as a Special Education Teacher, A Swing Shift Bartender, a Wine Merchant, a Waiter, a Tutor, an Assistant Editor for a Jewish magazine and a High School Art Instructor. None of these jobs are what I want to be doing for a living (I want to be a Writer!), but I know of no other way for me to make money other than to sell my sperm or knock up elderly widows. Very few resumes that I send out are answered in kind, but I hold no grudges about being discarded- written off. I simply apply to the next tolerable position that I find and hope that, somehow, the fates will bring me the money.

The fact that I still spend my days searching through job postings scrambles my mind. I don’t know whether I should be depressed, apathetic or suicidal. If you would of told me when I was eighteen that I would still be searching help wanted sections in newspapers for a job when I was 37 I would of either made sure that I went to medical school or started smoking crack. What kept me straight and hopeful all through out my teenage years was the deep belief in a hidden greatness that lingered inside of me, which would someday bring me fame and fortune. This reality is yet to manifest in my life and may never, but I still have the deep lingering belief in my own greatness and the hope that one day it will get me, at least, a decent job- so that I will never have to look at another damn job posting.

Arrested By A Meter Maid.

I disdain all forms of authority. I am as attracted to people in positions of power as I am to burnt rubber. When ever I am around people in positions of authority I have a tendency to act out in juvenile ways. I want to make them aware of how much I loathe them by derogatory hand gestures, facial expressions or slanderous words. I find these acts as hard to resist as a person with Turrets must find twitching. My therapist calls my need to deride people in positions of authority a “negative social sickness,” but I think it is simply a sign of an aware intelligence. You see, people in positions of authority are not be trusted because all power corrupts. It turns them into sub-humans who are searching for ways to mold the human species into a mere image of themselves. I think it is a sign of intelligence to know when to put Narcissists in their right place.

And this is why I gave the mighty fuck finger to the meter maid. She was ticketing my innocent car and while I argued with her to cut me some slack my disdain for authority started to boil up in me like carbonated water. I tried to contain my disdain but when I gave her the finger and told her that she was a sickness I had lost control. “You are threatening an officer of the city…and I would recommend that you take your ticket and have a nice day,” she said to me standing tall and looking like a dog in heat. I took the ticket and ripped it up in front of her face only to find that one of the ripped portions of the ticket hit her in the left eye as I let it go in the wind. “That’s it- I am using my authority to place you under arrest,” she said pulling hand cuffs out of a small leather pouch.

I did not know that meter maids could arrest civilians. As she threatened me with more trouble from the law if I did not submit- I felt like I was being attacked by dwarfs or having a morphine relapse. I had trouble comprehending what was going on- like the rules of logic had just been reversed on me. I am going to be arrested by a meter maid? I thought to myself as my confused body allowed her to push me up against the hood of my car while reading me my rights. A crowd of pedestrians had gathered around and I could hear some of them laughing as this over weight meter maid in tight wool shorts had me spread eagle and hand cuffed behind my back. “This is absurd, this is ridiculous,” I kept screaming out- I have done nothing wrong other than tell you want I think of you. This is my first amendment right as an American!!” “You assaulted an officer of the city by almost blinding me with the ticket I issued you,” she said with a kind of slang as she lead me over towards her meter maid ticket mobile. “That was an accident,” I protested, but I knew that I had offended her on a deep level with my insults. She was not going to let me go because she could only forgive through the revenge that she was now getting. My protests at that point were in vein.

There were only two front seats in her meter maid buggy which was small and ran on three wheels. I am a big man and she was a fat lady and how we were going to fit inside was a mystery to me. I was terrified by the prospect of having to sit so close to her! “We can’t both fit,” I anxiously said as she tried to force me to sit in the front passenger side seat. I resisted a bit but she told me that she would charge me with resisting arrest as well if I did not sit down. I was convinced that when the fat meter maid got into the buggy that I would have a panic attack. I felt unsafe and violated. She finally forced me all the way in with the hand cuffs on behind my back. She walked around to the drivers side and as she slowly squeezed here way in she said “I don’t want to hear a dam word out your mouth.” I could feel her warm flesh against my left arm. I was having trouble breathing. As we drove away I could still hear the laughter of the large crowd that had gathered to witness my public humiliation.

With a bail of $400.00 I am now a free man and the laughing stock of my town. I can see it now- Man Arrested By Meter Maid on the front page of the morning chronicle. There will be news reporters waiting for me at my front door when I awake in the afternoon. They will ask me questions and I will explain my side of the story. I will tell the whole world how I was set up and violated by this tyrannical meter maid who was hell bent on humiliating me in public. I will tell the world how she is an angry lady because of all her failed diets. Revenge will be mine, as well as good publicity for this blog which I will be sure to mention.

Girlfriend In A Comma

I, am terrible, at grammar. Terrible is, an understatement. I, am an abomination, when it comes to grammar. Ask me, what a pronoun is, and I will have a difficult time, coming up with an answer. The irony, is that my day job is as a high school English Teacher (now don’t get me wrong- I am good at my job, I just am incapable of grasping grammar). Most, of my students know more about grammar than I do. They, laugh at all my grammatical errors, like when I wrote, were are you going on the board. Sometimes, I have to ask them for answers, to questions that other students raise. I, am bored by grammar. Whenever, I say the word, noun or verb, I immediately begin to fall, asleep. I avoid grammar like a holly man/woman avoids sin. I, am constantly looking for clever ways, to keep hidden my disdain, for the institution of grammar. Sometimes, I will blurt out, “grammar is the death of the soul” or “grammar inhibits creativity,” but, all in all, I have done a good job at keeping the truth about my relationship with grammar, from my students and the administration (granted I am putting my job in jeopardy by writing this-but hey- I am just another fool with radical views) . A student once asked me, “what am I supposed to do with a comma,” and I said, “just think of it as a girlfriend.” I, have no idea what I meant by this.

I, have been listening to The Smiths, a lot lately. When I was in high school, many years ago, I had an English Teacher, who also despised grammar. Like myself, he was able to make studying grammar interesting, for all of his students, because he was just as bored by it as his students were. I, in particular was beyond bored with grammar- I despised it. I, would listen to my Walkman all through out the class, and I, would often get stoned before English, so I did not have to feel the pain. I hated grammar so much, that I refused to talk about it. “Just think of a comma as a girlfriend,” he once said to my reticent English class, who were incapable of grasping the concept, of the comma. I had no idea what he meant by this- but, ever since that day, I have always thought of the comma, as my girlfriend.

Girl Friend In a Coma, is one of my favorite Smiths songs. This particular song, puts me to sleep at night. It just so happened, that when I told my student to think of the comma, as his girlfriend, that I had been thinking about The Smiths, instead of sentence structure, and correct comma placement. He, looked at me, like I was talking nonsense. I was. How does one explain nonsense? “Just trust me,” I told him. After all, it has worked for me. Now, I am an English Teacher, and I still have no idea, what to do, with all these, dam commas.

The Booky.

There are more books that I want to read than I can stand to think about. A mass graveyard of books waiting for me to resurrect them. I am so over whelmed by the amount of books that I want and need to read-that I have difficulty reading through one book from cover to cover. Half way through a book, I suffer such anticipatory anxiety by the thought of what book I will read next- that I loose interest in the book I am reading. Occasionally a work of fiction (which is all I read) will take a hold of me and I will complete the book (below I will cite the twenty books that have done this to me). In these rare and holly circumstances the book becomes an altar, a ritual and a prayer that I carry with me through out the day. I take the book with me wherever I go, like a doctor carrying his medicine bag. When I am finished reading the book a sadness comes over me because I know have to leave a part of me behind. There is a small death, a short grieving process and then like a true Booky I set off to the bookstore in search of another book.

I resent work because it keeps me away from my true work- which is reading. I have always said that the worst job to have in a capitalist society is that of a reader (this is why some of the most unhappy people are those who think that their happiness depends upon time that they get to spend reading). You spend a lot of time working/reading but are not payed for the work you do (this is why most Bookies are well educated and poor). And make no mistake, reading good literature is work- it requires complete attention, dedication and time.

As a Booky I also resent anything that resembles responsibility because it swallows up time that could be spent between the pages of a book (this is why a lot of Bookies avoid having children and friends). A true Booky shares an apartment, where the rent is to high (I say apartment because a true bookie could not afford a house), filled with half read and unread books and a stack of books by a reading chair that they are currently attempting to read (but will most likely never finish). As a Booky I spend a lot of time wishing that checks made out to me, would just show up in my mailbox. This way I could avoid the dreaded thing often referred to as “the job.” I also spend a good amount of time in bookstores but I do not always walk out with a book in hand. The book that I buy must be thought about, contemplated- because it has to be intriguing enough to take me away from the book that I am currently reading. Being a Booky is not without its downsides, life is hard for a Booky- but a true Booky spends the majority of their time lost within the pages of a book so that they do not have to think about the downsides.

I am fortunate to live in the San Fransisco Bay Area because there are a plethora of independent bookstores that I can meander around in. For me, the act of entering a bookstore is what I imagine entering a Church or a Mosque would be like for some. It is like entering a realm of endless possibilities. What I may stumble upon could forever change my perception of life- and this possibility is the high that keeps me in a kind of dedicated, hyper aroused pursuit.

My two favorite bookstores- City Lights in San Fransisco (stomping ground of Beat Writers and Poets which is owned by Lawrence Ferlinghetti) and Moe’s in Berkeley are universes unto themselves (that have swallowed the large majority of my income). Every time I enter these bookstores I am carried away into a different time and space. I am possessed by a holly ghost. My worries and fears leave me. The burdens of my life let me go. I am at one with myself and as excited to find a new book as a beggar is to find God. I sometimes catch myself drooling over my chin as I search the isles of books looking for a title that will change my life. I spend hours in the endless, solitary investigations (this is why no one who knows me will go into a bookstore with me) until my back and neck hurts and it is time to go home.

Most often I walk out of the bookstore empty handed, dismayed by my inability to find a book worth reading. In these situations a small depression comes over me and I usually end up drinking too much booze to wash away the despair. But every once in a small while I will find the book. On these rare life affirming occasions it is a customary ritual for me to leave the bookstore with a new book in hand and go to the nearest liquor store where I purchase a cigar. I then find a comfortable lit spot to sit someplace along the street and smoke my cigar like a man who just been given second shot at life.

Twenty Books That Have Taken Hold Of Me From Cover To Cover (in no special order):

1- The Trial/Franz Kafka

2- The Looser/Thomas Bernhard

3- Ulysses/James Joyce

4- Women/Charles Burkowski

5- The Stranger/ Albert Camus

6- The Dharma Bums/Jack Kerouac

7- The Noodle Maker/ Ma Jian

8- Hard Boiled Wonder Land And The End Of The World/ Haruki Murakami

9- Crime And Punishment/Brothers Karamazov/ Fyodor Dostoyevsky

1o- To The Light House/ Virginia Wolf

11- The Key/ Junichiro Tanizaki

12- The Satanic Versus/ Salman Rushdie

13- The Diving Bell And The Butterfly/ Jean- Dominique Bauby

14- Dance, Dance, Dance/ Haruki Murakami

15- Siddhartha/ Herman Hesse

16- Too Loud A Solitude/ Bohumil Hrabal

17- Journey To The End Of Night/ Louis-Ferdinand Celine

18- The Death Of Ivan Illiych/ Leo Tolstoy

19- The New York Trilogy/ Paul Auster

20- The Woodcutters/ Thomas Bernhard

oh and

21) Three Novels- Malloy/ Malone Dies/ The Unnamable/ Samuel Beckett

Miracle Man.

My wife is in bed crying. I can hear her tears running across the hard wood floors.

We fought so hard this evening that I thought the house was going to come down.

I became so infuriated that I threw paintings off the wall.

I killed the sunflowers we bought together yesterday.

She threw violent words at my spirit.

I am a madman whose worries and fears are breaking her down.

My lack of motivation is making her insane.

I worry about my heart.

I worry about ending up a failed artist like my grandfather.

I worry about everything, even the toxins in the paint on the bedroom wall.

She tells me that I am always so negative about the world, the environment, my health, my job, my future, my cat, my home, my art and my wife.

It breaks her heart to see me so sad. She is afraid that I will stop going outside.

That I will stop trying to live my dreams. That I will die.

Her tears are beginning to flood our small apartment. She is wailing in bed.

What in your life or about yourself is no longer serving you and causing your unhappiness? What do you need to let go of?

I keep asking myself this but I do not know the answers.

I am no miracle man.

No More Awards, Please!!!!

I need your help. I have just learned that I was nominated for yet another demeaning award. Yet again I have been nominated for “Blog Least Commented Upon.” I do not know if this is meant to be an insult or a compliment. I must say it would not be a lie to suggest that readers rarely comment upon my blog- but do they have to rub it in! Who are these people, these award committees? Do they not have better things to do with their time than bug and degrade struggling bloggers? In those rare moments that I do receive a comment I am aroused like a dog at mealtime. I am excited to think that somebody cares. But now…….. now I have been nominated for an award that I wish not to receive. This is where you, my intelligent reader, comes in.

Two months ago my blog was rated as MATURE by the WordPress management. After realizing that my readership was plummeting like a rock in the sea-I fought back telling WordPress that I thought that this was an unjust rating and they made an agreement with me. They said that if I can stop writing about prostitution, strippers, masturbation, erotic massages, pornography, hand jobs, cum/orgasms, youporn.com, perverted vices, and posting pictures of naked women for three months than they would take away my MATURE rating. This is going to be difficult to do but I need my readers. Now that my blog is rated MATURE I am cut off from various forms of blogging publicity and marketing, including the WordPress Forum- and well this punishment has lead to me having a blog that seems neglected and rarely read. Fine I can live with this….but not another award, please!!!!!!

If I have one reader out there in cyberspace (other than my wife) who enjoys reading my writing on a regular basis- well that is good enough reason for me to write. But like I said, I do not want to receive another demeaning and humiliating award……and it is looking like I am going to get it (I have only had three (intelligent) comments in the past week)! So the favor that I am asking of you is that if you have read gotten anything of value from reading this blog…well would you mind leaving a comment? Actually you do not even need to leave a comment- just write “Hi” or “I don’t give a crap” or “No more awards for Absurdistry!!!” Something to let this award committee (and myself) know that I am not a good candidate to receive their stinking award. I am just asking for a small mark, a foot step stating that- you were here. A small sign of appreciation. It is my hope that if I can garner together at least five or six comments this may…. it just may disqualify me. I will have my dignity intact and continue maintain this blog with not only a clean conscience but a feeling of victory over the powers that be (which is rare for me)!

Thank You.

The Art Of Me Is To Make Mistakes.

I am a man made out of mistakes. More than anyone else I know I seem to make mistakes. My current life is the addition of many mistakes, an abomination of mistakes. Greasy mistake upon greasy mistake is what I have become. A fried mistake cooked in trans fat and dumped in a plastic container. I am not complaining or crying -because making mistakes has become my art form (along with doing NOTHING, which I will write about at a later time). The art of making mistakes is a refined craft that took me years to cook up. Each and every fuck up, day in and day out, has become the string upon which I have woven together my life. I have no idea how I do this and this is why I am my own creative experiment. Call it folly, call it what you will (I have been called all kinds), but the Master of mistakes is what I have become. I have learned to love mistakes.

I do not want to make it sound like I intentionally make mistakes. I don’t do it on purpose- it is simply the way in which my mind navigates through the world of adult responsibility. It is no fault of my own that I have stumbled upon this art form. I have a genetic predisposition to making mistakes. My parents obviously gave birth to me so it must run in the family. My mothers father made so many mistakes that he spent the last twelve years of his life refusing to come out of his bedroom. “I have piled up my mistakes so high that I can not get out,” he would say. Some people talk too much, work too much and others cry or get angry all the time- I make mistakes. Quite often. However I refuse to become trapped by my mistakes like my grandfather did- instead I have turned making mistakes into an art form.

The only thing in my life that is not a mistake is my wife. She happens to be the best decision I have ever made. Cooked just right and tasting of perfection. I hit the nail on the head with her. She has taught me to understand what it feels like to get it right. It is a nice feeling not to fuck up. It’s confidence raising and satisfying. I could get used to feeling like this- however making mistakes has been so ingrained in my membranes that it will never come out. I am stuck. Alone. I have tried meditation, hypnotism, acupuncture, head massage, vitamin therapy, psychoanalysis and yoga- all of which have been ineffective. It is an inherited behavior that I seem unable to quit or stop. Making mistakes is my never ending story. I am out of control.

I learn very little from the mistakes that I make. I repeat them in the same way that most senile people repeat themselves. I realize that if one does not learn from their past mistakes then they are doomed to repeat them again and again. Intellectually I am aware of this truth however I find it impossible to stop making mistakes. I have become a 37 year old prolific artist of making mistakes. I would even call myself a prodigy. Whether it be in the form of: drinking too much beer, running red lights, masturbating to frequently, not paying bills, eating food that I know will make me sick, putting holes in the walls, forgetting to feed my cat, leaving my car doors unlocked, looking at other women, saying the wrong things at the wrong time, lying, shop lifting, rear ending another car, dropping out of school, not completing things that I start, spending all my money, breaking glasses, shrinking clothes in the dryer, getting fired from my job, having terrible credit, exposing myself on this blog, refusing to vote, avoiding the dentist, running over squirrels, not recycling, scratching the hardwood floors, flipping off a police officer, being broke- the art of me is to make mistakes. I suppose it is what makes me human. All to human.

Fighting Against Gravity

Standing up and sitting down is not supposed to be this difficult. When I stand the pressure against my head makes me feel like falling to the ground. My legs are taut and there is a strange vibration in my shoulders. When I sit down there is a similar pressure exerted upon the bulb of my head. It is as if a divine hand is trying to press me deep into the ground beneath my feet. When I do stand up and the dizziness has passed I am able to walk quite normally however I am often weary that I will trip or fall. In public I am often mistaken as being drunk and or demented because I find it difficult to walk in a straight line and I often trip. When I get to dizzy- I push myself into a corner where I lean my shoulders against a wall for stability. Sometimes standing on my head is helpful- but when I do this in public I notice that I scare people.

I have battled against gravity most of my life. Ever since I was a teenager I have been aware of an impossible weight that has burdened not only my soul but also my physical body. When I was seventeen I lost a beloved girlfriend because she decided that I was a freak. I would stay in bed for weeks afraid of this pressure that was always causing me to dissociate from my environments. When I walked around I would often have to use the stolidity of walls to garner the equilibrium that I needed to carry on. I was much younger then and I did not realize that gravity was the cause of my ennui. I thought that it was some kind of brain tumor that was causing my physiological disturbances and I was certain that death was just around the corner.

For years I have practiced counting each step. I am hypervigilant about each step I take- noticing every degree and angle that I place my feet in. Fighting against gravity involves the utilization of certain mental capabilities that most of us take for granted. I can not walk and talk on a cell phone or listen to an ipod. Instead I have to be alert and exert effort against the gravitational forces that seek to destroy me. For the past few months the pressure of gravity hanging itself upon me has caused me multiple sleepless nights in which I spend the majority of the night doing laps around my refrigerator. When I have the mental acumen I will lean my head against the kitchen wall and while standing, I will read a book. I will spend hours reading in this position until the ringing in my ears grows to loud or the pain in my neck becomes intolerable.

There is a Gravitational Equilibrium Center a few hour drive from my home that my wife wants me to visit. You stay at the facility for a week and spend eight hours a day in a Gravitational Flow Device that is supposed to balance out the bodies electromagnetic field and reverse the negative symptoms of gravitational pull. I had a brief email exchange with a middle aged woman who suffered from a similar ailment as I. Nausea, dizziness, palpitations, tremendous pressure and chest constriction were a daily part of her life. She told me that the Gravitational Flow Device changed her life. Now she lives on earth rather than feeling like she is battling to stay above the earth. I have thought about going but I have become so used to fighting against gravity that I am afraid of what I would become if I did not have to fight this battle. I mean, what would I do with myself if I did not have to count every footstep? How would I remember that I was alive if every time I sat up or sat down I did not have to feel tremendous pressure? In a way fighting against gravity is a blessing- without the struggle I might be normal.

Last night my wife found me at three in the morning standing on my head while reading Tolstoy’s short story “The Death Of Ivan lliych.” She looked at me like the freak that I am and said “I don’t understand how you can live like this?” before she went back to sleep. All day today while I was suffering through various fits of dizziness and dissociation I thought about her rhetorical question. Why do I want to continually struggle against gravity? Why not go and spend a week in the gravitational Flow device and become normal? The only answer that I have been able to come up with that I can fully accept as legitimate is- I have become attached to my “dis-ease.” Fighting against gravity gives me meaning, it defines who I am and it gives me a reason to get up in the morning. I have taken on the weight if the world- and this makes me feel like I have a purpose.

Inside My Mind

Dinner With My Wife (and sister).

The Bank Teller

Let me tell you somethings. Did you know that every time we inhale, we absorb oxygen expelled into the atmosphere as a waste product by the earths plant life? Every time we exhale, we expel carbon dioxide as a waste product into the atmosphere where it can eventually be absorbed by the same plant life? Did you know this? Let me also tell you that no matter where you live upon our beautiful earth you are breathing in trace amounts of depleted uranium from the bombs that the U.S are using in Iraq. Did you know that over twenty thousand children die a day from starvation? How about the fact that a plane never went into the Pentagon? Did you know that 9-11 and the war in Iraq (which has terminated the lives of over one million Iraqis) are a result of what is called War Games? Let me also tell you that Lao Tzu, the Chinese mystic believed that if we can somehow expand our narrow image of ourselves and live from our wholeness, then many of our problems will simply disappear on their own.

This is why I took the job as a Bank Teller. It allows me the opportunity to tell strangers things that they would otherwise never know. Costumers come into the bank where I work and think that they are only coming in to deposit or withdraw money. They are usually impatient and in a hurry- stuck in what Lao Tzu would call “Narrowness.” Rather than just taking their money or giving them their money I like to tell them things- expand their consciousness. It is one way that I can make an active contribution to my community and to the human race as a whole. Did you know that writing poetry and reading poetry helps you maintain dignity, it will help you to be better suited to defend yourself in the world? I said this to a middle aged women the other day who seemed aggravated and in a hurry. I could tell that her life had become a collection of material pursuits and failed dreams and I could see the frustration in her eyes. “I have always wanted to read poetry but I never have the time,” she said to me with a glimmer of hope between her eyes. “Well, you might want to make time.” Today she returned to the bank with a book of T.S Elliot poems in her hands and she seemed refreshed. “I am making the time,” she said to me with a smile as I withdrew cash for her.

Often times people come into my bank to find out about bank balances, interests rates, mortgage payments, and fees. I give them the information they want but I usually prefice it with information that I want to tell. I have a sense of urgency within me that drives me to say something. Did you know that Spirulina, dried prunes, beef liver and beer are excellent sources of copper? I said to one man who looked to me to be suffering from a copper deficiency. Because of global warming and soil erosion, human beings are no longer getting a proper amount of this valuable mineral in their diets. The lack of copper in our diets may be responsible for the majority of contemporary diseases. The next day this man came back to the bank to show me the bottle of copper supplements he bought. It is by demanding dignity and respect that you gain it, I told another costumer who was being passive aggressive with me and refused to tell me how she was really feeling. Something was triggered in her when I said this and she straightened up her posture and left my bank looking more confident.

The managers at my bank are on my back. They have accused me of spending to much time with my costumers and not moving the line at a quick enough speed. Did you know that capitalism is used to exploit workers by making them maximize profits in the quickest amount of time? “I did not,” one of the managers said to me with a look of stupefaction upon his white collard face. Yes, capitalism exhausts the worker for the betterment of the organization that they work for. This is what drives capitalism. Use the worker to maximize profits for the company. When the worker gets worn out or dies- just fill the vacancy with another worker. There will always be workers because in capitalistic societies only the very few get to enjoy the wealth of other peoples labor, I explained. “Look, you are one of our best Bank Tellers but you need to stop spending so much time chatting with your costumers so that we can maintain our banks reputation for giving expedient service.” Then he walked away without waiting for my reply.

Did you know that I am going to get fired from my position as a Bank Teller? I am expecting it any day now. At the staff meeting yesterday the bank handed out a list of strategies for normalizing behavior in bank employees. One of these strategies was to replace words with a smile to speed up the line. “Smile more and speak less.” I am not a very good employee because I do not like bosses. I don’t like being subjected to their expectations. Did you know that a real culture functions to limit greed. Our culture functions to increase it , because we are repeatedly told, it’s profitable to do so, though the majority of profits go only to a few people, I said to every one present at the meeting. People who go to work for corporations essentially abandon their integrity as individuals in order to serve the corporation, I added to the consternation of the managers. “Okay that is enough just keep smiling and maximizing profits and that is all,” the head manager said and then ended our staff meeting. If you have lost the capacity to be outraged by what is outrageous, you’re dead. Somebody ought to come and haul you off, I said on our way out from the meeting. Like I said, I have a sense of urgency- I have to say something.

Did you know that we pity Muslim women for wearing veils, yet almost every face in this country is veiled by suspicion and fear? You can’t walk down a city street an get anybody to look at you. People’s countenances are undercover operations in America. Oh, and let me also tell you the most important thing I tell costumers at my bank. That love is not abstract and cannot lead to abstract action. Love is the catalyst for concrete action, which is taking responsibility for what we do here and now. Love is not just a feeling. It’s an instruction: love one another. That’s hard to do. It does not mean to sit at home and have fond feelings. You’ve got to treat people as if you love them , whether you do or not. I know that I am holding up the line, and that I am going to loose my job as a Bank Teller- but I have to tell these things……….

Meditation Is For Loosers.

I used to meditate every day. In fact now that I do not meditate every day- a certain guilt lingers in my gut. I feel like I am missing something. But I find it difficult to assume the lotus posture from day to day. Instead I get caught up in the silent fury of the day and try to spend as little time as I can erasing my thoughts. The other day a millionaire friend of mine said to me “don’t worry, meditation is for loosers.” I thought about what he said with intense consideration. I wondered if I was looser. “If you need to sit in silence and get all the thoughts out of your head….then you should live with cats and dogs,” he said to me when we were discussing meditation. “We are living in tough times, maybe the end of time as we know it…and as far as I am concerned when the plane is falling out of the sky I want to be around people who are going to work hard, brilliantly to bring the plane back into flight rather than people who are just going to sit there with their backs straight, clear their minds and focus on breathing. Meditation is for people who can’t handle the heat or the stress of their own mind…as far as I am concerned they are loosers,” he said before excusing himself from the room to make a gin and tonic.

Maybe meditation is for loosers. The minds of men and women, which become so compounded by unruly thoughts, needs to be controlled. But do we really need to assume some Asain posture and focus on our breath until the mind stops jabbering back and forth. Can’t we just find some activity that we love doing, some book that we love reading, or some worth while form of activism and pre-occupy ourselves with doing these things rather than turning off and going into a state of vegetation. A meditation teacher of mine once said that in a time of crisis meditation was one of the more pro-active things a human could do. I always thought that this was a nice way to rationalize away his inactivity….his looserness.

The world is in a state of degeneration. Every species is in decline. The human animal is destroying itself quickly. The sea is turning black. It makes sense to think “why not slow down and meditate. If everyone in the world did this we could avoid global warming, wars would end and things would return to a state of balance.” Maybe so, but like my millionaire friend said, “when the plane is going down I want to be around people who are doing something.”

Yesterday I saw a sign that said “Meditate For Global Warming Inside.” I went into the room which was filled with all different kinds of people meditating. Hundreds of human beings sitting silently together sharing the same silent air. Incense was burning and there was a Tibetan man in Buddhist garb sitting on a throne in the front of the room directing the meditation. A women waved me over towards an empty cushion upon which I sat and assumed the lotus position. After a few moments of settling my restless mind I focused on my breath and began to relax. As I shut my eyes the woman besides me whispered into my ears, “imagine the possibilities.”

After twenty minutes of sitting silently in meditation I could take it no more. I kept hearing my millionaire friends voice saying “meditation is for loosers.” I kept thinking about all the things I could be doing with this time. I could be finishing the book that has taken me weeks to read. I could be making art work, I could be walking in the woods, I could be paying bills, I could be doing all the things I am constantly putting off- but instead I am sitting here doing nothing. The Tibetan in the front of the room said “be mindful of our restless minds. Don’t allow our thoughts to carry us away. Stay here now and be nobody. Emptiness. A vessel of the divine.” I did not want to be a vessel of the divine. I wanted to be a vessel of myself- so with rage in my gut I stood up and said much louder that I expected to “meditation is for loosers.” The whole room of silent, peace loving meditator’s turned around. Some looked shocked others looked enraged. As I turned around and walked out I had heard someone yell at me “you are the looser!”

Maybe I am a looser. I am almost forty years of age and I am yet to have any idea what I am going to do with my life. I still take money from my parents and my credit is horrible. Depression often sneaks up on me like an entity that wants to steal my soul. I spend a lot of time staring and blank walls mystified by the fact that I am in the prime of my life yet I have little ambition. The desire to make money and succeed is as strong in me as it is in a slug. I’d rather spend my days playing my trumpet than working away my life. It is possible that I am a looser. My millionaire friend is always impressed by my ability to do nothing. When I tell him that my strategy to prevent global warming from destroying humanity is to make as little money as possible and to stay at home as much as I can, he sneers at me in disbelief. He like most people does not understand my form of activism. “You should just spend your days in meditation,” he says to me. I know what he really means. He is saying to me, “you are a lost cause, a looser who can not save the world and this is why you should meditate.” We are at the edge of the roof, maybe it is not such a bad idea to just sit down and be still.

The Man Who Fell On Earth.

I must find a certain way out. To open up a sub atomic black hole that will absorb the planet earth and reveal a map for me to find my way back home. If I could create a thinly little pint size device that could bathe the earth in sub atomic particles maybe I could not only reveal the great secrets of your universe- the fabric of your cosmos, but I could also be back in the comforts of my bed by midnight. We live in such an elegant universe, but space and time are constantly trying to take me over- to envelope me in a three dimensional bubble. Newton, Einstein and Theoretical Physics make me feel like my perceptions are constantly changing, imbalanced. I like knowing that there are definite answers to things and my facility for common sense is getting blacked out and all hell is braking loose. There is no longer an absolute space but instead everything is moving at different rates, the universality of space is shattered and a shard of time has been stuck in my side. I feel like I am a trapped animal slowly bleeding to death.

I feel as if I am not moving relative to everyone else in time and space. There are paradoxes every where because the concept of time and space is not absolute. These paradoxes puzzle me. They restrict my breathing and make me anxious. I look at a situation and I am confused by the solutions which are no longer relative. It is like comparing apples and oranges that are separated from one another in space. Where did the symmetry go? Why have I lost my balance? How can I turn time around and create a universe where less time has elapsed? A universe in which I am younger and back in the comforts of my home? I am lost in time and can not comprehend why time moves forward. Dizziness sets in and I become perplexed. My legs grow weak and my mind scrambles to find answers to questions. I am depressed and everything becomes strange. This morning I saw a broken egg jump out of the pan and back into its egg shell! On earth we are familiar with events going one way in time and not the other- but lately I have been watching things happen in reverse order. No longer is there a symmetry in time. Things are not supposed to happen like this on earth and in my head.

The basic laws of Physics are beginning to puzzle me. For so many years I studied them and was certain that I understood. Now I must look all the way back to the beginning, the big bang- which imprinted a direction on time- a disorder that I can not seem to fix. I have often been told that a drive to disorder is why events always go one direction in time and not in reverse. Now, I and every one else I see and love is being driven crazy by this reverse order. Life on earth is in a state of degeneration and I am desperately searching for a way out.

Our current understanding of the world is a result of misread mathematics. Entropy and disorder always increases into the future- no matter how hard you work, how much money you make or how healthy you are. This is fact…we are all moving towards eventual decay. However, why is it that every time I cup an egg in my hand I feel like I am reflecting upon a feature of the entire universe. Electrons are dancing in my chest, I can feel the uncertainty of everything that humans confuse as matter. I know that there are features of the micro-world that I will never know with absolute certainty. When I am lying in bed I try and see inside of darkness but my attempts are usually futile. I ache with this need to know yet I have to make peace with the knowledge that I may never know where an electron is or how fast it is moving. The definite value of these particles I will always be uncertain about because in this earth bound reality, everything is an illusion. Including a way out.

When I look at my cat I can notice that my cat exists both simultaneously as alive and dead. I am troubled by this because the cat is neither here nor there. I can not find my cat in one stable environment. This is another earth bound paradox without resolution. The subtleties allude humans. Someplace in my motel room there is a wave function in which there are many possible worlds coexisting simultaneously. The cat is both half alive and half dead in each of these spaces. All around me there are these multiple universes in which in one universe the cat is alive and in the other universe the cat is dead!! Such an infinite number of universes inside of a Motel Six room. Sometimes I wonder if I am going to wake up and realize that I never existed in this world, that one quantum event will separate me from a world in which I existed. Instead I will be living in another universe, right beside this universe, in which I, Elvis Presley and my dead cat are still alive.

If I can unite The Theory Of The Very Big with The Theory Of The Very Small than I can determine exactly where things are in all these parallel universes. Maybe I can make electrons jitter and create a liberating hole that will free me from this universe. If the finest ingredient in the universe is a small filament of energy with a non zero size, than maybe I can find this ingredient and create a device that will allow me to measure everything in time and space. But for know I can not measure dimensions beyond length, width and height. I feel as if my consciousness is shrinking. Like I had an erection which is now going limp.

I am always searching for answers. Without these answers I know that I will be trapped here for an eternity. I spend my days in a desperate search. A frantic search. Like an obsessive compulsive searching for particles of dust in the carpet. Is it possible that the extra dimensions are so tiny that there is very little room for me to crawl into them- because I am to big? Or is it because of the way that I see? Is it possible that light is trapped in our third dimension and because it is trapped the light can not access other dimensions? Maybe gravity is my only hope. Maybe I can find a way for gravity to move into these other dimensions and let me know that they are there. The dispersion of gravity will create an inverse cube that will allow me to see into the subatomic level. I will be able to make gravity spread out and disperse. When gravity disperses into other dimensions, it will be like unlocking a door. I will be able to put on my finest suit and walk through this opened door- a free man, no longer confined by my job, time and space.

The Driver

Eating Alone, Again.

Nude Heroic Archer Warrior

It is difficult being broke. It seems as if I have been broke for an eternity. A perpetual state of brokenness. It hurts and it takes a toll upon my body and mind. This summer I have experienced nothing but time. Since I am a high school Teacher I have two months off and I am now going into my second month. All of the money I had saved up to get me through the summer is now gone. Parking tickets, car repairs, lavish meals, veterinarian bills and my own habitual inability to save has brought my bank account to a negative stand still.

There is still a month and a half to go until I receive a pay check. What I am going to do for money in the meantime has been my recent preoccupation. I am kept up at nights with worry and I have noticed that I have been drinking more. I have been using drunkenness as a way to silence my frenetic mind into some semblance of peace. It would also not be a lie to mention that I have been using beer as sleeping medication. Anything to silence the thoughts of impending doom and financial woe. It is all more than I can take. Never could I have imagined that being broke in America would be so painful.

Every morning when I awake I write a short story and then I meditate. When I am done doing this I go on-line and see if I can not find a legal way to make some sort of temporary income. I have considered illegal means, but decided that if I was caught I would destroy my professional reputation and never again find work as a reputable high school Teacher of high standing (literally, because I am 6 foot 5 inches). This morning I found a job listing for a Nude Heroic Archer Warrior. The only thing one needed to get the job was a decent figure and a willingness to pose in the nude with a bow and arrow. For one day of work the pay is $500.

I immediately sent the photographer a picture of myself and a note saying that I would be willing to do this job as long as no one else would be present and that there would be minimum syndication of the photograph. He immediately wrote back telling me that he thought I was decent enough looking to serve as his model and that it would only be himself and his wife in the room and that the photograph would only be for his portfolio. I scheduled a time to work with him for tomorrow and he has requested that I shower and shave before showing up.

When I told my wife about the job as a Nude Heroic Archer Warrior she looked at me in a state of shock. I had never seen her eyes open so wide and speak silent words. I felt awkward by the thick silence between us but then she let out a blistering laugh. She fell to the floor in a seizure of laughter when she realized that I was serious. “I thought I married a Teacher not a nude model?” she asked me when she was done with her laughing fit. “Listen baby, I am broke. My bank account is in a negative balance. I can’t find any temporary work so I need to take what I can get. If it means posing in the nude for 500 bucks so be it.” She stood in deliberation for a moment looking over my body like she could not believe that I had what it took to be a male model. Before walking away in disbelief she said “only in America do Teachers have to stoop so low to survive- you better hope none of your student get a hold of a photo of their Teacher posing in the nude with a bow and arrow.” I thanked her for her understanding and went into our bedroom. I stripped down into the nude and looked at my body in the mirror. All I could think was that I was going to look like a complete fool but man has got to eat.

The Stationary Novelist

It seems like forever that I have been trying to write a novel. For as long as I can remember it seems as if I have been saying “I am working on a novel.” For decades I have wanted to write a novel that would start a revolution of the mind and alter the way a generation thinks. All through out the day I am writing the pages of my novel in my head but very little seems to turn up on paper. I read the literary giants in the hopes that their words will inspire me towards the discipline that I hear that it takes to write a novel. Above my desk I have quotes by Henry Miller, Jack Kerouac and James Joyce about the act of writing a novel. Yet there are hundreds of unfinished novels in my head and for the past year I have spent more time petting my cat than I have spent writing my novel. It is like giving birth to a child that refuses to come out. I have been in labor for decades.

The other day I had a literary agent show some interest in my writing. He had read my blog and sent me an email to inquire if I had written a novel or book of short stories that was yet to be published. When I told him that I had been working on a novel entitled “The Fantastic Life Of Nobody Particular” for many years- he grew excited and asked me to send him the manuscript. When I told him that it was only a ten page manuscript he wrote back saying, “you have been working on a novel for a few years and only have ten pages finished? Maybe you should make more of a disciplined effort to write. You have a gift as I Writer. Very seldom do I find writers of your caliber who are unpublished. Why don’t you send me your manuscript when it is finished, even though I am assuming that by then we will both be very old men.” And that was that- I never heard from him again.

I start writing novels or stories and then I loose interest. As quickly as it came it goes away. Writing becomes like work and I have a tendency to procrastinate when it comes to work. I harbor deep indignation towards work because I feel like it is a punishment for sins that I never comitted. I am more like a cat. I like to drift, sleep and eat. When it comes to work- I almost feel insulted. Writing a novel is tremendous work, it is almost more work than building a city. How one man like me will ever be able to build a city…is an enigma to me. Maybe I just have to accept the fact that I am a stationary novelist. A novelist who will never write a novel. A ghost novelist who dreams up elaborate scenarios that will never be seen by the human eye. Sometimes I think that the sooner I make peace with this reality the sooner the weight of expectation will be lifted from my back and the easier it will be to live my life. The sky is falling anyways- do  human beings really need another novelist or novel to distract them from the reality in which they live? I suppose this is a question every stationary novelist has to answer for him or her self.

A Meditation And A Hallucination.

The Power Of U2.

I have had a neighbor that I have been at war with for almost a year. Ever since he moved into the small one bedroom apartment right next door to me- I have been upset. Upset by his bad music. Whenever he is home he blasts his music on his deep base stereo. He opens his widow wide so that the sounds can travel out into the ears of surrounding people. When I say the music is horrible I am being kind. It is the kind of music that aggravates every aspect of brain chemistry and makes you wonder if humans beings are loosing their sense of good taste. Yes, we are bombarded by bad music all day. Advertisements, radio stations, internet and many other sources fill our ears with music that is meant to kill our souls and take away any ability to tell good music from bad music- but I wish my neighbor did not have to be a victim of this trend. My only choice was to declare war. I needed to teach him a lesson.

In the past I would yell “turn that crap down!!” or “thanks for all the bad music asshole!!” I was angry because often I would be sitting on my deck reading quietly with birds chirping in my ears. Then he would suddenly blast his bad music disturbing my peace and quiet. I have been guilty of throwing rocks and eggs at his window but all this has done is created more war between us. Once he even threatened to kill me. To which I responded “you would be doing me a favor asshole.”

Then one Sunday after being woken up by him blasting his music I decided to get revenge. My heart was rapidly beating and I was shaking all over. That morning I had wanted to have sex with my wife- but instead I was sick with anger. My wife was also infuriated. “That’s it,” I said- “I am going to get the fucker.”

I took my very large stereo and I brought it outside. I hooked it up under his window and used long extension cords to connect it up to power. Then I took the CD “War” by U2 and played it full blast. I put it on repeat and went back to bed.

About twenty minutes later I came outside to see what was going on and I noticed that my neighbor was sitting on his deck in a chair. He was not playing his own music- but rather listening to the music I was playing on the stereo. He had tears in his eyes and when he saw me he said “this is one of the best fucking albums of all time.” All of my anger and irratation went away at that moment. I could not of agreed more with him that “War” was one of the better albums of all time. I suddenly felt a connection with the neighbor I had felt hate towards for so long. I said “I love this album,” to which he responded “so do I man.” I went inside and grabbed two beers and a chair. The rest of the morning and early afternoon we both sat together in silence, drinking our beer and listening to “War” over and over again. Since that day he has never again played his music loud.

Clamming Up!

I made clams for dinner. When I was at the market I decided to buy seven innocent looking little-rock clams. I would take them home and cook them up into a nutritious meal. I new that clams were high in copper and lately I have been feeling like I need to eat more copper. It would be healthy, simple and hassle free.

I had never cooked clams before. I recalled what my father once told me years ago about cooking clams. “Wash, scrub, brine and boil until the little suckers snap right open!” When I began preparations cooking the clams I noticed that one of the clams suddenly opened and then shut. I was startled because I had forgotten that clams are living creatures until they are killed by the boiling water. Suddenly eating clams for dinner seemed a little less appetizing to me.

There is almost no boundary between my sensitivity to the mystery of life and my phobic terror of it. In my greatest moments of pleasure I always feel that at any second something can go terribly wrong. I was excited about the idea of eating clams for dinner until I realized that they were alive. I live in a culture where I am very removed from the process of having to kill the food I eat. Suddenly, I was the one who had to do the killing- and this felt strange. As I washed the clams under cold running water I could swear that I felt them moving inside their tightly clamped shells. My initial reaction to this sensation was to drop the clam into the sink like one does when they are suddenly repulsed by something (in Hebrew the same word is used to connote both “awe” and “fear”). I became so discouraged about the idea of cooking/killing the clams that I wanted to take them and set them free in the river beside my house. But I had spent eleven dollars on them- and that felt like to much money to just throw away.

I added a small amount of white wine and lemon juice to a pot. I put the pot on the stove and turned on the burner. I could feel my heart beating in my neck as I imagined myself suffering a terrible sickness or worse, dying from eating the clams. I recalled the horror stories that I had heard about various people who had become stricken with terrible sicknesses after eating clams. I added some butter to the broth which was beginning to boil.

With one hand shaking and my head filled with uncontrollable thoughts of impending doom- I added the clams one by one to the boiling broth. In the back round I could hear a Beatles song playing on my radio. “Hey!! you got to hide your love away,” the lyrics said. I covered the pot with a lid and went to the sink and obsessively washed my hands which I was concerned were covered in a deadly bacteria that I had once read about people contracting from touching clams. As I washed my hands I could swear that I heard the dying screams of clams. Sounded like a high pitched cry. I opened the lid to the boiling pot and noticed that all the little suckers had snapped open their shells except one. This one hung on to life, unwilling to surrender. I meditated upon the clam for a moment as I waited for it to snap open its shell. It did not. It remained shut unwilling to let go and be at peace. This clam reminded me a lot of myself.

I put the clams in a bowl along with the broth and squeezed fresh lemon on top. I set my dinner table for one and put salt and pepper beside my spoon and fork. The smell of clams reminded me of my youth. I sat down at the dinner table with my bowl of steaming clams and with my fork I grabbed one of the clams out from its shell. I held it up to my nose to make sure it did not have a rancid smell. It smelled like the sea in winter time so I put the clam into my mouth and chewed. And chewed. And chewed. And chewed. And then swallowed. It was delicious but I was nervous. Negative thoughts ran laps around the inside of my mind. What if the clam that I had just swallowed was bad? What if I get sick? I started to have visions of myself dying alone on my living room hardwood floor. My body began to shake like one who has crossed the point of no return. I took a sedative pill and drank a beer straight down. In times of anxiety- beer is the only substance that can calm me down.

I was frustrated because I could not eat the clams in peace. I wanted to enjoy my meal which smelled so good. Instead, I was in panic and already beginning to feel nauseous. My nervous system was turned upside down and would not allow me to sit still. Was I feeling guilty because I killed clams? Was I uncomfortable about cooking clams because I knew nothing about how to do it? Why was I clamming up? I searched for clues to my anxiety but I was able to come up with only one answer. Ditch the clams. I stood up from my dinner table and took the bowl of clams outside with me. I looked up at the moon which was full and then walked over to my neighbors house. I poured the bowl of eleven dollar clams into my neighbors cat food dish. She has seven cats and I figured that at least the cats could enjoy them. I ended up eating raw carrots and nuts for dinner and then going to bed early.

True Love Waits?

Before the age of twelve I was already sticking my small penis inside various objects with holes in them. Toilet paper rolls, hoses, wine bottles, ketchup bottles and the onion bagels my mother would bring home every Sunday morning. I fashioned my own holes out of hamburger meat from the freezer, potatoes and the watermelons that my father grew in our backyard. By the age of fifteen I was a fiend who utilized everything that I could get my hands on for sexual gratification. I gave myself blow jobs with my sisters hair dryer. I stole my mothers diaphragm and stuck it up my rear end. I masturbated habitually to my fathers pornography magazines and I wondered when the time would come that I would have the opportunity to act out my fantasies on a member of the opposite sex.

When I was sixteen I tried to sneak into strip clubs with a fake ID but was rejected every time. I tried to convince a prostitute to let me stick my penis in her for fifteen dollars but she refused because she did not want to live with the guilt that she had corrupted a minor. I continued to have sex with holes and even found a way to place my penis inside of my bathroom sink drain. Desperation is the mother of all ingenuity.

When I was seventeen I had a babysitter who dressed me up like Tarzan. She stripped me down naked and tied one of my fathers belts around my waist. She then covered my crotch with a small kitchen cloth and my butt was covered with one of my fathers dress socks- both hanging from the belt. I wore my mothers tennis head band over my long hair and put my sisters red lipstick on. She would then chase me all over the house until she would tackle me on the ground and order me to “scream like the little jungle pervert you are” over and over as she tickled me relentlessly. Sometimes the cloth that covered my crotch would come off and reveal the erection that I would get when she was sitting on top of me. Her only response to this natural human phenomena was “look.. little Tarzan’s pee pee wants to say hi.” I was humiliated and immediately covered myself back up. She was never sexual with me but was rather what I would call a tease. After we were finished with our games I would sit outside on the front door steps with her and watch her smoke and blow smoke rings with big holes. I always fantasized about sticking my penis inside one of those hole but I never was able to ask her if I could.

It was not until I was eighteen that I was finally able to stick my penis inside a member of the opposite sex. I remember my mother lecturing me upon the virtues of waiting for true love until I gave away my virginity. In fact a lot of people that I knew at that time were talking about waiting until they found true love, the person that they were going to marry before they had sex. I never judged them for this decision that they seemed committed to upholding but for me the idea was insane. I was not concerned about true love, nor did I care about giving away my virginity. I wanted to fuck and if I did not do so soon I was going to be a danger to myself, my family and society. I had already started contemplating ways to stick my penis inside the beautiful white horse that lived down the street from my house. I contemplated having sex with cats and cows. When I orgasmed my semen shot ten feet into the distance because of all the pent up pressure. No, I was not concerned with true love, I needed to get laid. Like I said to my mother on my way out the front door the night that I would have sex for the first time….”mom, true love can wait.”

Sometimes It’s Fun To Get Lost

It’s like jumping over time. Tricking space. Being lost is the most immediate way to be free. This is why I try doing it as much as possible in this modern world where every one pretends to be found. I prefer not knowing where I am. Not knowing which way to go. Even when I know where I am I pretend that I am without a clue. Being lost for me is a form of salvation- a way to escape from the narrow confines of day to day life. A way to turn things on mute. When I am lost I am stuck in wonder. There is no wrong that I can do and I am free from all the critical judgements of my mind. Being lost for me is a form of therapy, a way to understand myself outside of time and space.

Certain individuals always say to me that they are worried because I always seem lost. “How are you going to maintain a normal job or have a family if you are always lost?” I am often asked. My employers look at me with concern because they are unsure where they can find me. It fills people with trepidation when you spend a lot of time being lost. They feel like they don’t know where to find you and this jeopardizes their own sense of safety and control. I am often faced with questions in the form of condemnations about being lost. “You are so forgetful you know?” or “When are you going to take responsibility?” I often times know that these judgements being expressed towards me are the pontifications of someone feeling out of control. But my intention in getting lost is not to make people anxious or worried, rather I get lost because it is fun.

It is hard to have fun when you get older. Fun can be worn out just like a pair of jeans. We need to drink more or eat more in order to feel the same pleasure that we did when younger. But one form of fun that has never thawed out for me is forgetting where I am. I have been doing it for years and the older I get the better I become at being lost. I relate this kind of fun to the pleasure an enlightened person must have being enlightened. When I am at lost I am free from the responsibilities and familiarities that dictate the course of my normal life. I no longer have to pretend and I enjoy the knowledge that no one around me knows who I am. Nothing seems to matter to me when I am lost other than the moment which I occupy with complete mindfulness. It is almost as if being lost for me is a meditation. An opportunity to set my perpetual thoughts aside and remain focused on the knowledge that I am finally free.

My Sister The Slut

My sister is a 37 year old slut. I have not always been aware of this- but recently it has caught my attention that this is the case. On several occasions I have spent time with her in parks on nice sunny afternoons. We lay out a blanket and I am always surprised because she suddenly takes of her clothes and wears a very skimpy bikini. I am surprised because we usually spend time together in popular parks where there are men all around playing bongo drums, doing yoga, playing frisbee or just hanging out “surfing for chicks.” I myself have always been a bit uncomfortable hanging out with my sister when she is wearing a bikini. I see more of her than I want to and I am also unsettled by the amount of men that become fixated upon her bare body. Often, I would just chalk her modesty up to a desire to receive a tan- but lately I have realized that there is more behind her bikini wearing motivations.

My sister is a medical doctor and spends most of her weekdays dressed in nice suits usually covered by the traditional white Doctors smock. She is an attractive lady with long brown hair and golden brown gypsy skin. She is well educated and has a tendency to drink and smoke a little too much. She lives alone in a lavish city apartment with her cat who is on heart medication. My sister is often going on dates with strange men who she meets on-line and in the park.

My sister recently told me that she has met at least twenty men in the park that we like to go to, over the past two months. When I asked her how many of these men she has gone on dates with she told me “all.” I was shocked since I have always considered my sister a rather conservative sexually repressed professional. When she told me that her idea of a date was getting a bottle of red wine, some weed and staying in and watching a movie- I knew something strange was going on. My sister was seducing these men and then having her way with them in the privacy of her own bed.

I do not know why I am surprised that my sister is a slut. I come from a family that has a long lineage of sexual perversion. My grandparents and parents were swingers. I myself was addicted to prostitution and pornography for many years. Now that I am married my sex life has become more non existent but I am able to maintain some sexual relevance by a masturbation habit that never gets boring. After all the afternoons spent sitting with my sister in parks it never occurred to me that she to was acting out her deep and genetically acquired sexual perversions. I was naive not to see the motivations behind her bikini and body oil. I was also naive to distrust my own feelings of discomfort that I felt when ever she was dressed in a bikini.

I recently found out that on warm sunny days my sister goes to a particular park in the city and sits in the sun wearing nothing but her bikini. She smokes cigarettes and does all the paper work that has accumulated from her day job as a doctor. Her office has become the park and she is always trying to get me to meet her there when I am done with work. But recently I have been staying away. I do not want to face my discomfort around the fact that my sister is wearing a bikini because she is trying to hook and reel in men like a fisherman awaiting some stupid fish to bite the bait. I do not want to face the fact that my sister is a slut and possibly using me as bait to capture the jealous attention of other men. After all I am an usually handsome man and the two of us together have often been mistaken for super models. So I am staying away from her and the park for a time. I am trying to make due with this knew realization about my sister and find out if there is some sort of way that I can convince her that she is traveling down to wrong path.

The Bush Lover

I am a serious lover of vagina. Not in a misogynistic way but rather I adore vagina. At times it is almost as if vagina and I are kindred spirits. Lately I have been contemplating where this odd bond comes from. I have been trying to re-live my mothers relationship with her own vagina and my fathers relations with my mother’s vagina. Nothing imparticular stands out in my mind other than a few muddied memories.

When I was born my mother told me that my head was stuck between the lips of her vagina and the outside world. It took hours to get me through what by then had become and enlarged mass of pulsating tissue. Doctors had to work diligently to get me through my mother’s vagina and then said that I demonstrated unusual resistance for an infant my size. My birth was not traumatic but rather more like the experience of getting out of bed when you desperately want to stay in it. All day long you long for a time later that day when you can return.

My mother always used to laugh about how when she would try and breast feed me I would immediately head down into the vicinity of her crotch. I did not want to be kept away and when she would return my suckling head to her breast I would break out in terrible cries. When my mom would rest with me in a chair or on the couch I would always keep my head planted in between her legs. “It is as if you wanted to go back in to where you had come from,” my mother often tells me when I talk to her about my love of vagina’s.

My therapist helped me to see how vagina’s for me are a symbol of returning to the womb. The womb for me was a pleasant place, a place of warmth and safety. The world for me is a place of fear and chronic anxiety intermixed with moments of over whelming beauty and heart felt emotion. At times it all feels like to much….and it is during these times that I most heavily long for vagina.

I don’t necessarily like the taste of vagina nor do I enjoy the act of licking around in it with my tongue. Most of the time when I am in close proximity to my wife’s vagina I will delicately use my fingers to gently pull apart the flesh and see if there is a big enough hole there for me to slip back in through. The hole is seldom big enough to fit anything larger than a bottle cork into so I usually end up resting my head upon the warmth of her naked crotch.

I often stare at other women’s vagina’s before I even look at them in the face. This is a habit that I believe I developed at birth. I am not looking at the vagina like a pervert would but rather every time I look at the area where the vagina is located I am filled with a warmth that I am at a loss to describe. It is like a feeling that one gets when they are returning home after years and years away. Sometimes I will sit on a park bench that is close to my home and spend the entire day watching vagina’s pass by. I am a 36 year old married man and I am still searching around in the bush.

When I was a younger man my friends and I all referred to vagina’s as “bush.” “Hey man did you get some bush last night?” we would always ask one another and of course the answers were almost always “well, almost but she didn’t want to put out.” I on the other hand was fortunate. One of my first girlfriends in high school loved to let me travel around in her bush. Her name was Emily Jolly and by the time she was 15 she had already been around the bases a few times. One of my friends informed me that she had also hit several grand slams (orgies).

By the age of 15 I was already obsessed with vagina’s. My school locker was filled with cut out photographs of vagina’s. When Emily Jolly told me that I could “mess with her bush” when we had not even kissed yet I became overwhelmed with a mixture of excitement and terrible anxiety. After a few weeks of waiting to get the nerve up I finally asked her if I could “see it.” We snuck behind the gym and there she lifted up her skirt and showed me what was the most magnificent thing I had ever seen. Her vagina was huge, and was covered with so much hair and vibrant pulsation that I knew it was the place I was supposed to be.

I tried several times to fit my head into her vagina but I was never able to climb all the way in. Emily loved it when I would fit my hole fist inside her- but when I proceeded to try and fit the top of my head into her she said it hurt to much. I grew jealous of my fist and often asked it what it was like inside. After the fourth or fifth time of trying to get inside her I gave up and slowly there after our relationship began to fall apart.

My wife has always been generous with my pre-occupation with vagina. She allows no jealousy to creep in when I look at other women’s vagina’s and she lets me rest my head upon her vagina for as long as I need. Some days my desire to be inside the vagina is so strong that I will cry about never ever again being able to get back in again. My tears lubricate my wife’s vagina as I lament over and over that I feel like a man who has been cruelly locked out from the very place he belongs. My wife pats my head and tells me to not worry, that every thing will be all right, but I know the truth- I know that I am a stranger in this land.

My Idea Of Fun

“I am worried that you are not having enough fun in your life,” my wife said to me. “I have had too much fun in my life and now I am having fun not having fun,” I replied. She looked at me like one does when they know that you are lying to yourself. I considered what I had just said to her and then realized that I did not know what I was talking about. “When you go out and have fun, it sustains you into the future. It makes your life a little easier to handle.. a little more enjoyable to live,” my wife said. ” I have fun staying home and reading, writing or watching a movie. I don’t feel the need to go out to have fun,” I replied- but then I thought about what I said. “Am I really having fun staying in all the time, do I really even remember what it feels like to have fun?” I asked myself. “I think you are afraid of fun,” my wife said as she kissed me and left for another evening out with friends that I once again elected myself out of.

I have been staying home a lot lately. My wife goes out and has fun quite often but I stay in. I make up excuses and tell my wife that I have work to do. In reality I am avoiding the world. All through out my twenties and early thirties I indulged in the world. I went out night after night and indulged in what people like to commonly refer to as fun. I socialized, drank too much, smoked weed and went off on insane adventures that lasted until the sun came up. When I turned thirty I decided that friends were a waste of time and I began having fun alone. I spent my weekends and a few weekday evenings and afternoons in various strip clubs where I knew no one and no one knew me. In the darkness I somehow felt complete in my solitude and as I watched naked women dance for me upon a red lit stage- I was the happiest man alive. I would end my evening in massage parlors where I received shiatsu and a hand job- and then return home early the next morning and sleep until noon. This was my idea of fun.

Now that I am married I have lost touch with a feeling of fun. No longer can I hang out in strip clubs and massage parlors without ending up with a twelve pound suitcase filled with guilt and shame. It ain’t worth it. I hate keeping secrets from my wife so I have broken up with my idea of fun. I have few friends that I enjoy spending time with and solitude has become my favorite form of company. Last weekend when my wife and I went on a dinner date with another couple I felt like a man who was wasting his time. I drank too much so that I could force my self to have fun. All I really wanted was to be at home swimming around in the pages of a book.

“You are becoming reclusive and a curmudgeon,” my wife told me the other day. “Why because I don’t like to have fun?” I asked. “You don’t like to do anything,” she said. “That is not true!” I protested quickly. ” “Though doth protest too much…when was the last time that you had fun?” she asked. “I had fun last night being at home alone watching a movie and doing some writing,” I said. But then I thought about what I said. Was I really having fun being home night after night watching movies, writing and reading? Or has doing these things become my idea of fun because I have forgotten how to have fun? Have I given up on fun because I know that it only lasts for a brief period of time before you are right back where you were before that fun began? Fun drops you off right where it left you- stuck in the middle of your life (and usually with a hang over). Is this why I have given up on fun?

And then I realized that my idea of fun was no fun at all. I have become discouraged with fun, I have lost hope in fun. After decades of having fun I am still stuck in the realities of my life. I got tired of the fun ending. No matter how much fun I had the night before my life was still awaiting me in the morning. By refusing fun, I have learned how to stay present in my life. This way I am not disappointed, I am not let down. Fun for me is kind of like a lover who is always making you feel bad in the end. After years and years of this maddening relationship I have broken the cycle. I have left fun for the reality of my life. I have left fun for quiet evenings at home- a relationship that I feel is more dependable and certainly more consistent. “That’s my idea of fun,” I told my wife as I tried to describe why I was no longer interested in having fun.  “Well do not forget,” my wife replied, “tomorrow night is your sister’s birthday and we are going to go out illuminate ourselves out from this funk you live in and have some damn fun!”

A Blogger In Chains

I know that there are chains. I can feel them and here them and at times I can taste them. There seems not another living soul but me who can notice these chains- but I will not allow their limited perception to make me mad. I know that the chains are there and not a single soul can change my mind. No spiritual guru or psychotherapist can convince me that there is no shackle wrapped around my ankles and no chains dragging behind my feet. They are there and this is an unarguable fact- but what can be done about this “condition” is certainly up for discussion.

I only confess this “condition” of mine because I have notice that I share it with my fellow human kind. Every place I go and upon every one I know I can see these shackles and chains dangling from wrists, ankles and sometimes neck. The individual who is wrapped in chains seems seldom to realize that they are walking around with a great weight. Rather they stay distracted by preoccupations that seems to anesthetize any feeling of physical bondage. Is not this the role of modern technological gadgets (television, ipods, computers, cars and on and on), to make us numb? I am uncertain what is to be done, because when I talk about my chains with colleagues over coffee- I receive nothing but a blank stare that seems to suggest that I may be crazy. The more time I spend at work or thinking about the world- the more I can feel the weight of my chains.

I am not the first to mention this “condition.” The French religious philosopher Pascal did so as well. He wrote “we live between the weight of shackles, seldom aware that they restrict not only our physical bodies but also our spiritual aspirations.” I have visited with many spiritual counselors and healers in regards to my “condition.” I have been counseled by the best and the answer is always the same. “Yes, we live in chains- but it is the physical body which is contained. We can choose to be free in our thought by not getting attached to anything, by remaining free from thought.” How can I not think? This is the question that I always ask. I love thinking and trying to understand the nature of existence is what I do for a living (unpaid). I have worked hard to develop the quality of thoughts that I have- even if they often cause me a great deal of suffering. I have refined my thoughts by reading and writing religiously. Thought is the one great enjoyment that I indulge in every day. How I am supposed to live without thoughts when thought is the one thing that makes me feel civilized?

“Do not attach to your thoughts. Do not identify with your thoughts- just let them pass away into the universe. Everything is impermanent…even your shackles and chains,” one spiritual guru told me when I went out to his farm for an hour session. I spent over a hundred dollars to be counselled in how to break free from my thoughts. “It is your thought that creates the chains and it is your thoughts that can set you free,” were his final words to me. Granted, when I left the farm I felt lighter- less inconvenienced by my chains. I was out of the city, in nature and for the first time in a while I felt as if I could breathe. I was confused by what I was told by the spiritual guru- but I ascertained a glimmer of hope that I could be free. The moment I walked through the front door of my home and saw a credit card bill, phone bill, and insurance bill awaiting me upon my table- the great weight returned. I felt the chains slowly wrapping themselves around my wrists and ankles like a serpent. They worked their way up towards my neck and threatened to cut off my oxygen. As I walked towards the bathroom I kept on telling myself “do not think about it, do not think!!”- but my attempts were futile because the loud sound of the chains dragging along on the hardwood hallway floor convinced me that they are real.

The Birthday From Hell.

I’ll be honest- my birthday sucked. It was not anything in particular that took place but rather an over all mood. Their was languor or torpor in the air- the kind of feeling that you get when you are in the room with a group of people that you would rather not be around. Even though my entire family gathered together, I felt under appreciated, un- loved, uncomfortable and annoyed. My family is a group of people who suffer deeply. My 97 year old grandfather drank a good amount of red wine and kept telling me that no matter how “crummy” my father was- he loved me. My father tried to smile as he stuck expensive pasta in his mouth but I could see through that smile as if I was staring through glass. He does not like me, nor does he care for my wife- but he gave me $500.00 for my birthday. It is as if he is saying “go buy your self something nice so that I don’t have to feel bad.” He buys off most things in his life- including his son.

All through dinner I felt tense and suffered from chest pain. I dropped my pizza in my lap and drank much to much red wine. My mother kept making sure that my wife was going to take me home and put me to bed. I swore that I was not drunk and that I would go home and do meditation to recover from my birthday, which was filled with a pain so deep that I feel like I could scream. My mother and my wife did the best they can to smile and look appeased but no body talked to me about my life but rather it seemed as if we were all pretending that we live in a pretty world where appearance counts for every thing.

I do not know what I am going to do. If I could explain with words the feelings that I have within me I would have mastered the art of writing. But I am no master. On the outside the birthday was beautiful. Wine and cheese at my house with the family before dinner. My grandparents, parents, sister and wife all present. Then off to the restaurant for a six o’clock reservation where I met friends who would join us for a beautiful feast. We are alive and this is what matters most- I kept telling myself- but deep down I felt like I was stuck in the birthday from hell. Like I was on a ride that no body wanted to be on. I stuffed my face to take away my sorrow but I tried my hardest to smile, say cheers with every sip of wine and make sure the entire gathering was enjoying their time. Now I am home where I will now take a shower in my tears.

If You Build It They Will Come (i hope)

I am glad to see that 43 living human being visited my blog today. Even though the biggest blogs have hundreds of thousands of visitors a day I am content in knowing that a few, a select few are reading what some consider to be the writings of a mad man. It is not often that I am told this but it is less often that I am told I am sane. It is my belief that I oscillate between sanity and insanity. My faith is entirely constructed upon the meanings which can be extracted from this strange nether world in which I reside. I have faith that over time, maybe many many years- others will come to my blog in search of a space that is beyond common sense or rationality. My convictions tell me that I am no fool, no ordinary mortal- and that what I have to say may change the minds of more than a select conservative few. Maybe I am intoxicated by too strong a belief in the words (rhetoric) that I write, but I know that some day I may be seen by the many as one of the sanest, more frequently read and studied bloggers on planet earth (i hope).

The Sex Life Of A Blogger

Since I have been blogging for the past six months I have noticed that something very strange has happened to my sex life. It has vanished. Prior to blogging I was certainly not blessed with a prolific sex life- but it was alive. I was able to recall what sex felt like and I never went more than a week without some kind of sexual encounter. I was interested in sex and sought it out almost on a daily basis. I thought about it and imagined various pornographic scenarios in the back stages of my mind. It would be fair to say that I was a rather normal guy who suffered the same affliction as most other men- I was obsessed with sex. But since I began blogging, something has happened. My lust has dissipated like mist in the early afternoon. My sex life has vanished and there is no trace of it to be found.

I have done some research on this ailment that I have been suffering from and what I have found has not been encouraging. Spending long hours blogging can induce what is referred to as Mortotonia, which is a depletion of the sexual hormones in the brain. Also another interesting bit of information that I have run up against time and time again is that blogging can make an individual anti-social and introverted, which has a tendency to depress ones over all sexual drive. All of this makes sense to me but I still can’t understand why I have absolutely no interest in sex. I used to love pornography and now I am repulsed by it. Semen which never bothered me before is now as disgusting to me as  chronic eczema. I am so uninterested in women that my wife is beginning to wonder if I may be gay.

I have spent the past few weeks trying to tell my wife that my lack of interest in sex is nothing personal against her. Her concern about the possibility that I am gay is as ridiculous as her feeling that I am no longer attracted to her. “You are a beautiful woman, whom I am terribly in love with,” I tell her over and over but the minute I reject her attempts to make love to me she bursts out in tears and lamentations. How is it that I am to explain that the reason for my lack of sex drive is because of my habitual blogging habits? Blogging has destroyed my sexual appetites but she would never believe this, she would only think that I have lost what little sense I have left. But the truth is that blogging has destroyed my sexual interests. It has reduced my sensual experience down to the feeling of the key board against my finger tips. The only way I seem to feel aroused any more is when I receive comments for the posts that I have written or when my blog stats display that more than a hundred people have viewed my writings that day. My whole life in fact has been reshaped by my need to blog. Various friendships I once had have diminished and I am no longer interested in the social engagements that were once such fun for me. Sometimes I wonder if my wife was not far from the truth when she yelled at me the other day that “I have become as lifeless as a blog.” I have been thinking about this lately and I wonder if it could be true?

What Is The Sound Of One Hand Clapping?

I finally figured out the answer to the question, “what is the sound of one hand clapping?” I have been told that this question stems from an ancient Zen Koan and has been contemplated for centuries. No one as of yet has discovered the appropriate answer and this includes millions of monks who have been sitting in meditation for hours a day doing nothing but trying to imagine what the sound could be. This question has been researched, studied and investigated until all possible answers have been exhausted. And I, an ordinary mortal who is stuck in between the heavy suitcases of an ordinary existence has happened upon the answer. Like a disorganized deck of cards- fate has a funny way of orchestrating itself into a steady rhythm. Why things are the way they are- I am the last to be able to give a logical explanation. All that I know is that I am a tired man who is still searching for his dreams in a rented apartment which is cold and filled with half read underlined books. Answers seldom come my way but when they do I want to share them with the world. “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” a homeless man said to me today hoping to seduce coins from my shallow pockets. “Who cares,” I said as I cynically made my way past him with a stare of blank disregard. “Who cares,” “who cares?” I repeated to myself as if I had just discovered an ancient riddle. I stopped in my tracks  and turned with a smile of discovery upon my face to listen to the homeless man who was shouting over and over…” you got the answer, you got the mother fucking answer!!!”

The Storyteller

The difficult thing about being a Storyteller is finding the time to write. In our post industrial technocratic society man, woman and child are subjected to a fate similar to the wrath of God against Adam and Eve. We must work by the sweat of our brow, labor away all of our vital energy so that we can afford to maintain a semblance of dignity and pride. It is an unusual condition to be wedged between because most have become so habituated to this way of being (working) that they see no alternative. They have learned to love the hand that enslaves them and decry a life without hard work ( a classic case of conditioning). After all we know that the majority of hard workers are working hard only so that they do not have to be left with the time to take a deep look into themselves. They find their identity within their work because what is deep within them is devoid of substance. This is a catch 22 situation. You work hard and you loose your self but without hard work you loose your house. This is the great modern modern dilema- how to find the time to live your life.

Since, I have been working full time as a Teacher I have found little time to write. I long for the days when I posted upon my blog every day and read with great anticipation the comments that followed in return. I was telling my stories and people around the world were responding to what was told. As a Storyteller who has been burdened with the naging desire to write, tell stories and be heard (psychologists tell me this is because my parents did not listen or pay attention to me)- the outlet of a blog has been heaven sent. But now because of the curse of “working by the sweat of our brow”, I have had to labor away all of the hours of my day and night educating young minds about how to avoid getting stuck in this consuming rat race. We talk about ways to make a fortune before the age of twenty so that they can buy an island and live far away from this synthetic life-denying culture that us humanoids have created. We find critical solutions for problems of “work-addiction” and plan strategies for ways that I can escape from this society and join a race of people who live more in harmony with life rather than the preoccupation of working.

You may wonder how this has anything to do with being a Storyteller, and I would respond that it has everything to do with being a Storyteller. In societies that are consumed with progress and work the first species to become exiled our expendable are the Storytellers. The workers or citizens of these corporate republics do not want to be reminded of their servitude, their complete dependency upon forces outside of themselves. This is why Plato exiled poets from his Republic. “The poets will allow the people to see the many ways that the established government must manipulate the citizens into the cave and away from the light of humanity,” he said. This is what the Storyteller does- he/she makes people more human.

But I no longer have the time to write or spin stories in my head. I have been drinking more and sleeping less. All of my usual creative outlets have been plugged up by work. Time seems to have shortened. By the time I am ready to read and write my eyes refuse to remain open and willing to follow the words which exhaustion has caused me to read and write backwards. This is the world that I have found myself within, and yes it is the very dynamic that seeks to exile the Storyteller from the very body it resides within. Sometimes late at night when I am lying in bed, I can feel my body shaking and becoming tense. I grow restless and have difficulty staying still. It takes me hours to fall asleep and I know that these systemic sensations are the result of my inner Storyteller trying to escape from my body so that it can go some place else where it will have the peace, light and time to tell its many tales.

The End.

The Prophet

I have been down so long that it looks like up for me. In fact, I have decided only to look up from here on out. I am in no way deciding to become an optimist but I am making the choice to focus upon the salmon rather than the bones. After all- looking down only cultivates a feeling of impending doom that will nag at your bones until they are broken.

The myth about looking up is that all things become filled with sun and shine. This is untrue. The sun and shine are there but so is the universe and the darkness beyond. You see, this is the job of the prophet- to see beyond the sun and sky and into the depths of eternity. This is not an easy undertaking for a man such as myself who is easily blinded by the sun and preoccupied with a fear of the dark. But it is within this darkness, which sits just beyond the sun, that I look into every day with a full commitment towards revealing a truth that most ordinary mortals are to blind to see.

You may not need a prophet to inform you that these are troubling times in which we now exist. So troubling in fact that Therapists and Psychiatrists are being trained on how to deal with a very new form of anxiety called “eco-anxiety.” This is a form of anxiety that has become more chronic in the past few years with the rising information about global warming, toxins in food, toxins in the home and toxins in the air. I admit that I to may be suffering from this avant-garde form of anxiety. My life has been made more nervous by all the daily decisions that I have had to make in order to remain healthy. Even though I am a prophet I still have to be careful that my meat does not contain antibiotics and hormones, that the water I drink has been filtered, that I eat only organic food so as to reduce my exposure to pesticides and that the environment in which I live does not contain toxic materials. Granted, I am rarely able to do these things consistently so I end up with chronic anxiety because I know that the world in which I am living is making myself and everyone else sick.

Maybe this is the most difficult aspect of being a prophet- “the knowing.” Knowing so much that you always have to be on-guard about what you eat, drink, wear and breathe. In prophet circles this is referred to the as the curse of “knowing too much.” Many wonderfully gifted prophets that I have associated with have lost their mystical/metaphysical talents because they have “known to much” and as a result developed panic attacks. In order to cope with the oppressive burden of panic disorder they have elected to go onto medication and I believe it is common knowledge that all modern day psycho pharmaceutical drugs destroy the prophet’s ability to prophesize. The prophecy is enough to burden any ordinary prophet and the immense amount of personal spiritual work that I have to do in order to bare the weight of prophecy swallows up most of my time.

There was a time when I was a social creature. I spent a lot of time hanging out in bars and spending my entire days sitting in cafes. I had several girlfriends at a time and I enjoyed several sexual rendezvous a day. Now that I am older and a little less confused I rarely leave the house during the evening and during the day I am preoccupied with the work of prophecy. I have very few friends, because when I get around them I only feel aggravated by their inability to “see past the sun.” Or maybe it would be more correct to say that I am jealous of them, envious because they have no idea what is going on. They just don’t know.

I, on the other hand, know all to well. I connect the dots between earthquakes in China, floods in Burma, tsunamis in Indonesia, floods in New Orleans, rising food, living and gas prices, widening gaps between rich and poor, toxic air and food, wars, genocides and chronic battles for domination and power all happening in different parts of the world at the same time. This knowledge makes me wonder if I may not be a prime candidate to be diagnosed as suffering from “eco-anxiety.” After all I do wear a respirator when I ride my bike (to protect against gas fumes), I take two-dozen supplements a day and drink green algae drinks all through out the afternoon so as to stimulate detoxification of my vessel (body). Some think that I am over reacting and some call me paranoid- but because I am a prophet I know that they think this because “they just don’t know.” Some day soon I think I will let the whole world know what I see when I look up. Then we will all be able to be anxious together and I wont have to feel so alone.

Lost: The Pervert In Room #8

Oh, the pervert in room #8. How I miss him. Where did he go? It seems that he has wondered off and can not be found. The last that I saw of the perverted deviant he was hiding under mattresses and watching prostitutes work their magic with their clients. He would lye there with his pants down while unknowingly above him men paid women to manifest their wildest fantasies in the privacy of a transient motel room. He was without fear and would put him self in the position of greatest risk to fulfill his own personal perversions. I have been looking for the pervert in room #8 for weeks but have not been able to find him. I so admire his tenacity, courage and acumen with regards to finding that which he desires most. I think that we can all agree that most of us repress our most powerful desires- but the pervert in room #8 was one of the only men that I have ever met who actually sets sail in search of lust. I admire him for this, and it is from him that I have learned some of the greatest lessons about life, living and hiding under mattresses while hookers are hard at work (to learn more please see the story “The Pervert In Room #8). Please let me know if you know where to find him.

A Lost Angel

( I am drunk) Do you know what it is like to be riddle with anxiety- stuck in a darkened room? You can see outwards but within it is blurry and riddled with fear. Smoke lingers between the palpitating curtains and there are sounds of restricted breathing and muted yells. Flowers glow in the corners; windowns are covered with exhaust and I am neither here nor there wondering how and when I am going to get out. On the outside I look calm and ready to suggest a walk or a drink, but on the inside I am clamoring, stricken with a constricted terror. The reality of the situation is as difficult to perceive as truth or energy- but it is as tactile as salt and water. I fall away into a blue state where the room becomes dull- unequal to any other experience. What do things like reputation and money matter when you are upon the edge of panic? Superficiality is stripped away like rust when confronted with your mortality. I smoke a cigarette and contemplate driving down the freeway or stopping off in a lonely topless bar. Until then, I am stuck here and trying to figure out what to do with all this madness.

An Invitation To A Beheading.

I used to love sitting alone in a chair and reading a good book. Nothing brought me greater pleasure. I would read a novel a day while enjoying the background sounds of birds chirping and cats meowing. Nothing was as effective in diminishing my stress and anxiety as a good book. No matter how bad the conditions of the world or my life- the printed words on a page could lift me out from my psychological squalor and re-plant me in a space of wonderment. I look back upon these times with utter envy. I even become emotionally enraged towards the man I was in my twenties. I am not only jealous of the large chunks of time that he had to drift of into the pursuit of knowledge but I am furious that it has all gone away.

Now I cannot read a book without having to get up and do something after twenty minutes. I become aggravated, nervous and I am distracted by these demons that seem to be hovering over me and disrupting my concentration. My thoughts begin to race and I struggle to stay focused upon what ever story or non-fiction work I have chosen to read. But no sooner than I can get past a few pages is there the loud voices of little demons that whisper scary things into my ears and poke sharp objects into my chest making me fearful what might happen next. I try to tune them out and push them away with positive visualizations or a smile- but they are ferocious and do not easily relent.

I know nothing good lasts forever, but there are still so many books left that I want to read. I want to return to that time when I could read peacefully for hours, day upon day- without the little brats whispering in my ear: “is your heart beating irregularly?” or “shouldn’t you be doing something more constructive.” Some times these little demons keep shouting things at me like “watch out, watch out- your head might explode!!” or “run, run, run for your life…death is coming, ha ha!!” My own inner monologue is not loud enough to silence these intruding voices and rather than continuing to read I give up and go do something else.

I have not been able to read a book from front to back for months. These little intrusive demons are getting the best of me. They also sneak into my head when I go for walks and drive my car. If I am not constantly reciting a mantra in my mind or singing a song- they will sneak into my silence and cause me great anxiety and grief. The little demons are wearing me down, forcing me to drink more wine and taking me away from the one thing that has always been of great importance to me- my intellectual life.

Without my practice of diligent daily reading my intellectual acumen has become as watered down as a cheap cocktail. I have not been able to think or write upon the great themes of philosophical dialectics or cultural theory like I had once planned upon doing. I have not been able to write great novels that compare with the best of works by Tolstoy, Kafka or Bernhard. I have not been able to go into my career as an honorable college professor who specializes in Ontology and Samuel Beckett. Rather- to defend myself against these little demons and attempt to save my own life I have had to go towards the New Age. I have had to practice meditation, do Yoga, recite mantras and start wearing beads and stones to defend myself against negative energy. I have had to seek out healers and been told by many that I must get out of my mind and start to become more grounded in my body. The very thing that I put so much work into cultivating has become my demise. My intellect has become the very portal from which these demons can access my nervous brain causing me such scary afflictions as to make me consider taking medication. These voices and disruptions get louder and louder every day- if it continues I may send out invitations to my own beheading.

photograph by Keith Purdy.

The Doorman

I am obsessed with doors. I have walked for miles upon many miles and spent years upon years- staring at nothing but doors. The way doors are crafted and the permission that they grant the viewer to imagine what may lay behind, give me an animated sense of being alive. I love the way doors swing and hang. When I am watching a door swing or sway upon its hinges it is as if I am watching a beautiful women seductively pull back articles of clothing that slightly reveal glimpses of forbidden flesh. A potential is revealed and then hidden.

I am a man who is drawn to doors like sailors can be drawn to sea. I am in love with the concept of a door. The way doors separate realities and tempt the mind into a certain curiosity. Doors alter moods, depending upon whether they are opened or closed. They hold the key to the riddle of the universe- all we have to do to is walk on through to the other side.

My obsession with doors grew out of a brief relationship with a woman whose father was a door maker. He specialized in making doors from Southern Spain. The doors had a Moorish quality to them and were always carved with seven sided stars and Arabic writings. The doors were large enough to allow elephants to walk into or out of a room. Aliza’s father was also a man obsessed with doors and after he was long asleep (his wife and he slept on a mattress which was set upon two 18th century doors that he brought back from Barcelona) we would sneak into his door studio and make love on the various kinds of metal door carving equipment. I remember the cold of the equipment against my bare butt as I lifted her upon my legs and made love to her in the dark. Aliza taught me all that she new about doors. We would spend days doing nothing but walking around the tree lined neighborhood in which she lived examining the various kinds of doors that separated families, friends and strangers from “experiences, perceptions and realities.” When Aliza left me for another woman the last words she said to me upon slamming a door in my face was “my doors are shut.”

I managed to steal an antiquated book about doors from Aliza’s father before leaving the door studio for the final time. My heart was in pieces and I had tears in my eyes as I ran off with the book under my jacket. I read the book at least a dozen times and got over my broken heart by traveling around America on a bike and examining, studying and documenting various forms of doors. I took photographs and documented over 10,000 doors in sixteen journals that I tugged around with me in a heavy suitcase. I stayed in Philadelphia for months amazed by the various kinds of colonial doors that seemed to exist in excess. I worked in a strip club during the evenings and documented doors during the day. In one form or another I have been doing this same thing for the past fifteen years. I have over two hundred door documentation journals. I hope that one day not to soon my obituary mentions that I am one of the most important Doormen of my generation.

A Doorman is not the standard and accepted definition of a man who opens doors for you. Rather the term Doorman goes back at least 2100 years to antiquity where a minor Greek Historian by the name of Herodumus wrote the first collection of writings on the theme of doors. He defined a Doorman as the connoisseur of the study of doors whose fascination with the transcendental architecture of doors burn like a fever in his soul. He spoke of the Doorman as one who searches with unrelenting fervor to find the secret or “alternate reality” that can only be revealed by passing through a door. This is the alternate reality that Aldous Huxley wrote about in The Doors Of Perception- another book that has deeply inspired my search. Huxley spoke of doors as a living form of matter that have the absolute power of separating and joining one reality to another. It was Jim Morrison who was the twentieth century’s greatest devotees of Herodumus’s manifesto of the Doorman. He took Huxley’s challenge to break on through and started a band that was dedicated to investigating the mystical apparatus that we refer to as a door. Morrison made doors spiritual and sexual. The textures and structure of doors became more detailed in American society (1969) after The Doors became on of Americas greatest rock bands. It is to Jim Morrison that I will dedicate the great twenty first century book that I plan to write about doors. It will be called The Doors.

For now I am swamped with perpetual thoughts of doors. I see them when I sleep and I am always trying to find ways that I can sneak behind them. No matter if it is a Cabbala door, a Mulligan door, a Moorish door, a Rotunda door, a Franklin Colonial door or a simple 4 by 4 American Suburban door- I am always wanting to break on through to the other side. I am like a Scientist who wants to prove the existence of God by finding the one door that reveals all of his/her or its equations. Like the Door maker whose daughter I long ago copulated with- I am convinced that all the riddles that confuse and confound the human species can be immediately unlocked by the transcendental power of a door.

How To Stop The Mind From Having Thoughts Of Impending Doom.

Maybe I am alone in this one, but does anyone ever feel as if their mind is playing tricks upon them? Do thoughts: negative thoughts, bleak thoughts, horrifying thoughts, terrorizing thoughts- ever enter your mind without your permission? Do they cause you to shake and tremble at times- as if the end is all to near? Do these thoughts keep you awake at night, force you to drink and keep you confined to your house on certain days? Do the thoughts prevent you from traveling, loving and experiencing joy? I could go on and on but for the sake of my own anxiety I will stop here. I will stop here because I have pointed out enough symptoms of intrusive or unwanted thoughts of impending doom.

I once knew a devout Buddhist who told me that thoughts of impending doom should be welcome to one. We should be open to them and celebrate them because they give us an understanding of our mortality, which in return allows understanding the impermanence of all phenomena. Train the mind he said- and you will be free. Years later, I have trained the mind with therapy and meditation but to little result. Thoughts of impending doom grab me in the moments that I am least prepared and send me into a mystical flight of fear that I am convinced (in the moment) I will not survive. If I have these thoughts while on a bridge- I will avoid the bridge- if I have these thoughts while in bed I will sleep on the floor. If I have thoughts of impending doom while on a walk, I will try to avoid walking. It seems as if I am becoming more knowledgeable about avoiding my life than I am about living it.

I have had thoughts of impending doom for many years now and I thought that by now I would have the answers about how to control these antagonists or even better- abolish them from the mind. But I am no where closer today than I was five years ago in understanding how to live free of such anxiety provocations. I have learned to accept my fate as a man whose mind plays tricks upon him without any concern for his wellbeing. I have come to see my mind as a mass of tissue that is committed to destroying my bodies tranquility. Just today while I was on a walk in a cemetery I suffered a sudden burst of negative thoughts that sent me to the ground where I tried to gain control of my self. I was convinced that I would die and I muttered a few words of a prayer. The thoughts passed and I returned home to do some research on the web about how to stop the mind from having thoughts of impending doom.

I came upon an essay by Martin Luther King. It was an essay about overcoming fear and it talked about courage as the only way to overcome fear. Martin talked at great length about the courage to face death as if it was upon us now. I thought about this idea of courage as being a possible palliative against the thoughts of impending doom. After all- it takes courage to suffer the fate of a silent fury that has no desire to let you be. It takes courage to stand up to your doomish thoughts and convince yourself during your darkest hour that every thing is okay- maybe. I wonder if when Martin was dying from a bullet wound he felt fear? Or maybe he was courageous in the face of death- and rather than holding on to this thing called life he was able to let go, with courage.

And this friend’s maybe the answer. Let go. Accept your fate with courage and with each thought of impending doom- let it go. Now I have never been able to do this and I would be a hypocrite if I said I could. I can’t and I won’t. Letting go is something I seem incapable of doing because I am a Jewish (Jews have a notably hard time letting go. Why this is I am uncertain). When I feel death to be near my knees rattle and I loose control of utilizing any of the wisdom that I have gained from reading, workshops or therapy. I become terrified; because I do not want to die, and I hold on with the force of a man that is unwilling to let it all go. And I wonder is this my main problem? The root of my chronic thoughts of impending doom? “ It is only in courage that the man/woman who stands rooted in fear can be free,” Martin said. “And freedom is only the ability to walk through your fear.” Maybe I’ll just avoid walking for a while.

Stuck In High School!

After 37 years, I am still in high school. It is a mystery to me how this has become my life. After all I do not know if being stuck in high school is the epitome of the American dream or a nightmare. Maybe I am repaying a karmic debt from a past life or maybe I am paying penance for the things I have done in this life- what ever the case may be, I am still stuck in high school.

I am currently sitting in a history class while students are taking a written examination that I designed with the intention of making test taking entertaining. Occasionally I hear small explosions of laughter as students read some of the more comical questions that I have inserted in between the more serious ones- “how many times a day did Abe Lincoln masturbate?” For the most part the room is so silent that I can hear the hum of the freeway which sits just behind the school. I am the Teacher of these students but at the moment I feel like them- stuck in a place that I do not belong. I am always perplexed by the similarities that I find between myself and my 15 and 16 year old students. It is true- I am twenty years older than most of my students but like them I am still pre-occupied with sex and what I am going to do with my life. It is as if a large part of me is yet to grow into this thing I often hear referred to as maturity. I feel as if I have never left high school, my body has aged but my spirit or soul is still stuck at 16. It is a difficult phenomena to explain- but as I sit here writing in my notebook and my students are taking their examination- I feel strangly equal to them. It is as if we should all just be friends and ditch school.

When I was in high school, the first time, I was an apparition. You could see my physical body but my soul was some place else. I was stoned most of the time and Teachers only knew my name because I was the tall lanky guy in the back who never spoke and was seen by all as being weird. At school dances I would get drunk on liquor that I stole from my fathers bar and stand in a corner trying to spy on couples who were making out. Sometimes I could be found lying in the school hallways, broken down into an agitated state of tears crying out “get me out of here!” I did not read a single book nor did I do more than was asked of me. I was preoccupied with blow jobs and death and not once did I get a grade that was higher than a C. My father had to pay off the principle to let me graduate after 6 years of high school.

Now some 20 years later I am still stuck in high school. Somehow the fury of the fates or divine consciousness has managed to transform me into a Teacher. It is like a great magic trick that has been performed in front of my eyes. The trick is on me and I stand there trying to figure out how the magician has created the desired effect. I am perplexed and can not seem to come up with an answer. I am in a state  of absolute dis-belief. How did they do it? It just makes no sense.

Squeezed.

I am a man who is being squeezed from the inside out or maybe the outside in. I do not know which comes first- the outside pressure or the inside pressure, but if Karl Marx was right when he said that society determines the behavior and health of man/woman kind- then it is the the world that is squeezing me. Between the pressure that the earth is placing upon human beings to change or be eliminated and the pressure that government is placing up the individual to pay up or go broke- the outside is squeezing me like a balloon which might just burst. Between rising gas prices, food shortages, recessions, depressions, wars, deficits, unequal distribution of wealth, rising costs and poor environmental conditions, my chest feels as if there is a large leather belt buckled tight around it. My fingers and and toes pulsate and I have noticed that my face has grown pale. My vision is clouded and I can constantly feel my heart beating. The stress of the world seems to have nested upon my skinny left shoulder.

I have noticed that I am not alone. I have noticed many suffering from similar ailments and running around desperately searching for relief (yoga, meditation, eating, drinking, consuming). People do not seem to be getting along, wherever I look another relationship has ended, another person is struggling to survive and another person is experiencing some kind of transformational event that is threatening the sanity they seem to be slowly loosing. All around me people seem squeezed. I can see it in their eyes. I can hear it in their voices and I can certainly feel it in my gut. Human beings are fighting for their lives.

I have heard it said that 2012 marks a monumental time in the history of our planet. Thousands of years ago Mayans have predicted that this will be a time of great transformation that will result in change that our human minds can not currently fathom. Physics believes that the closer time gets to an end the faster it gets- time speeds up. Along with the sppeed up of time comes a kind of constriction and anxiety within all those who are subject to this elevated blood pressure of time. Animals (humans) become more frantic and stressed, things start to break down and people feel squeezed. Like there is not enough minutes in the day. Chaos can ensue.

It is my belief that the earth is experiencing symptoms of this larger breakdown. The sky is literaly falling and some see it and others have managed to distract themselves enough so as not to have to deal with it (but they still feel it). Others feel the squeeze. There is a pressure upon us that seems to be forcing us into submission, to the transformation that needs to occur within ourselves and upon this planet. Maybe being squeezed is not so bad. Maybe I can look upon my pulsating toes and finger tips as a gift from the universe in which I have accidentally found myself living. Maybe I am being forced to awaken to what is going on around me, outside of me- and change what is taking place within me. After all, physics tells me that I am just a microcosmic reflection of a larger macrocosm…if I can un-squeeze myself- than maybe I can un-squeeze the world.

The Biggest Boner.

I have been suffering the nagging pangs of a chronic boner for the past few days. It is a relentless boner. A tenacious boner. A boner that will not let me rest or play. It drags me down and lifts me up. It tickles my thighs and gets in the way of my stride. It itches and aches, strains and supports, tickles and then goes completely numb. It is almost as if I were experiencing the range of human sensations all withing the confines of my groin.

The pulsations are more intensive in the evenings and early mornings when I am trying to sleep. During the day I keep myself preoccupied with superfluous work so as to keep my mind away from my crotch. I fill my waking hours with copious amounts of meaningless duties and petty responsibilities- not only to make myself feel important but mostly to keep my mind from wondering why my erection will not subside. When I run out of “to do’s” to fill my waking hours with and I try to take some time for rest and relaxation- I find that my mind becomes hyper aroused. It takes little effort to stimulate the little pervert that lives on the tip of my penis, but great strength and courage to bring him down. My only defense seems to be masturbation.

But still my erection persists. I try to observe the subtle nuances in nature, I look up the meaning of vocabulary words like laconic and penetralia, I meditate and spend hours cleaning my small bedroom all in the hopes of forgetting what ails me. Today I am buying a television, which I have been told can reduce the amount of oxygen which travels to the penis- which in turn may decrease the girth of my erection and bring forth impotency. I never thought I would long for the life style of the impotent- but the tempestual aches and pains of the past few days, have brought forth a longing for this state of being, equivalent to Noah’s longing for his ark. I desperately need to save myself.justice

I would describe my sex life with my wife to you, but there is little to say. Our relationship is shaped by a deep abiding love, which is committed to a life spent honoring and respecting the other. We are tender with one another, playful and romantic- but we lack one spare part….sex. With this important part missing from the structure of our six-year relationship, we have become well functioning team members who both long daily for a time when we will receive a tune- up and elevate our performance together to contain sexual components. However, for the time being this is not the case. Instead we subsist on hope and trust, hope that some day we will “do it,” and trust that someday one of us will not “do it” with someone else. This is good, in theory.

But in reality there are consequences. These consequences are often painful and life changing. Human beings have been hard wired to learn from consequences rather than learning by avoiding consequences. It seems as if it is only when we can feel the sting of the flame that we pull our hand away. I can not be absolutely certain that my big boner is inextricably linked to the absence of sex from my life- but I am willing to bet all that I own upon this being the culprit. I am a youngish man with the luster of life still gleaming within or between my loins, but I am afraid that without the thrusting gyrations, the lustful moans and the primal embraces of sex as part of my life- my penis has erupted in an autonomously declared protest against me.

I have not brought this up to my wife because I am afraid that she will take it as a personal offense. Instead I keep this protest, which is being waged under my pants to myself- and now I am sharing it with the few readers who may not have even read as far as this sentence. I have always been told by others that writing is one of the greatest forms of effective therapy that there is- and it is my hope that this confession may induce a decrease in swelling. It may be futile to think that the expression of thoughts and feelings can actually affect the physiological happenings of the body, but maybe my penis will understand that I realize and empathize with its needs and somehow find a way to work with me rather than against me. I am willing to negotiate- and if my penis would kindly cease its agonizing protest then maybe we could talk and come up with an acceptable compromise.

A SENSE OF HUMOR FOR SALE!

I noticed a sign in the window that said “sense of humors for sale.” I thought that this was a rather awkward thing to be selling and my interests were aroused. I went into the small store that was poorly lit and had many shelves without anything upon them. The walls were bare and no one stood behind the counter. There was an eery feeling that ran through the vacant shop and as I turned around to leave I was startled by a voice from the back that said, “good afternoon young man, can I be of some assistance.” I turned around and noticed a tall skinny man who looked similar to me standing behind the counter holding an unsmoked cigarette in his hand. “Yes,” I said- “I am curious about the sense of humors that you have for sale.” “Oh yes, I believe we have one left,” he replied looking up at a shelf that had nothing upon it but dust. “Would you like to try it on,” he asked?

The dressing room was illuminated by a yellow neon light and there were no mirrors on the walls. I commented upon this to the salesman who continued to smoke his un-lit cigarette and said “we do not sell anything that you would need to see on, so why have mirrors I ask you?” He seemed a little defensive so I asked him another question. “What kinds of things do you sell in this store?” he looked at me with an expression of annoyance and replied, “why don’t you try on the sense of humor and then we will talk.”

I put the sense of humor on by rubbing a very cold cream into my chest. He wanted me to take off my pants as well and rub the cream into my legs but I felt uncomfortable getting naked in this strange environment. I rubbed the cream all over my chest and arms and then was given a cloth to wipe off the residual cream. “Give it a few moments and then you will notice a change. The cream that I gave you was a starter cream. The effects only last a few minutes. If you decide that you would like to purchase a sense of humor, we have a permanent cream,” the salesman said to me as he motioned me over towards a chair where I was supposed to sit and experience the sense of humor.

Within seconds of applying the cream I started to notice a chuckle in the back of my thought. The salesman put up various pictures on the shelves and asked me to observe these photographs. There were photographs of Hillary Clinton, villages destroyed by bombs, a soldier in Iraq carrying a very large gun and of George Bush and John MacCain. There were also photographs of prisoners being tortured, the atomic bomb, people suffering from starvation, animals stuck in small cages, two men having sex with a woman, hospitals, ghettos, a man begging for money, and a dead body that seemed to be so violated that I could not tell if the body was a man or a woman. The salesman also placed white pieces of cardboard on the shelves that had words like CANCER, DEATH, POVERTY, UNEMPLOYMENT, GREED, GLOBAL WARMING, CORRUPTION and INJUSTICE written on them. The salesman said something like “now feel free to take your new sense of humor for a test drive,” and then he walked away. I sat there alone in the cold room and observed all many photographs and words for a few seconds- and then it happened.

The laughter was so intense that I was unable to control it. I laughed like I had never laughed before in my life. There was a feeling of great release that caused all of my stress to dissipate into thin air. All things that normally were causes of stress and despair for me seemed to no longer cause me any aggravation. I looked at the photos of George Bush, Hillary Clinton, the soldier and the dead body and my normal feeling of constriction and anger seemed to vanish. All I could do was laugh. I could see the humor in the ridiculousness of human behavior and I was able to laugh at all the ways that we take ourselves SO SERIOUSLY. I saw the ignorance that most human beings seem to suffer from and all I could do was find this ignorance very funny. When I looked at the words my laughter increased because I was able to see how funny it is that human beings create the very things that they fear and do not want the most. I could not believe how funny all these realizations were to me. I saw the whole divine human comedy in which we are the actors on a stage creating our own tragedy. How fucking funny is that!! We do it all to ourselves and then think that we are free!!!

Finally, after my allotted period of time was up, the salesman returned into the room and began taking the photographs and words off the shelves. “You can take off your sense of humor now,” he said as he still held the un-lit cigarette in his hand. The moment he said this to me my laughter halted as if someone had suddenly applied brakes. I wiped the tears from my face and tried to compose myself. “When you are ready please meet me back at the counter and we can talk,” he replied as he walked into the back room. I sat in the chair and tried to assess what had just taken place. I felt what turned out to be a pulled muscle in my upper back (from laughing so hard). I took a few deep breaths and decided that I wanted to purchase a sense of humor.

“We sell all sorts of potions and creams. Not only do we sell sense of humors but we also sell, happiness, IQ’s, ambition, sex drives, maturity, wisdom, feeling successful and we just ran out of love. We sell what we can to make life more worth living or should I say to make life more enjoyable. That is our intention- however, not many seem to want to purchase what we have for sale. It is almost as if people have become so attached to their suffering that they fear change. They are addicted to the way things are because that is how they think things are supposed to be. Little do they realize that we human beings have it all wrong. We have been conditioned to suffer and we do not even know it,” the salesman said to me as he sat on a stool with his arms crossed. “How much does a sense of humor cost,” I asked? “I can sell you the cream for $75.00 and it also comes with a one month warranty. If for some reason you find that it is not working for you- you are welcome to return it and I will give you your money back. I think this is a good deal because after all a good sense of humor is priceless.”

The Man With A Moving Nipple

I know this may seem strange but I am suffering from a moving nipple. It is my left nipple and it gesticulates and twitches like a firecracker. At the moment, the uncomfortable movements of my nipple have become chronic with little intermission in-between. This discomfort has become a part of my life, another bewildering ailment that I must learn to live with.

My nipple began to move after I was in a very upsetting argument with my father. He was in a hospital bed recovering from a surgery and we managed to fight with one another about what, I cannot remember. Consumed with guilt for upsetting my father during his darkest of hours- I left the hospital in a terrible state of mind. The stress was causing my chest to constrict and I remember having difficulty breathing. It was when I turned on my car engine that I noticed my left nipple beginning to twitch. I placed my right palm upon it, as if I was trying to comfort my broken heart. I drove off into the night trying not to think about my moving nipple. Little did I know then that this was the beginning of what would become a full-blown dis- ease.

As the days passed my nipple picked up speed. The twitches would come in unpredictable spurts and I was often forced to have to sit down and try and relax when the episodes would begin. The twitches turned into strange gesticulations that would wake me up at night and force me to place an ice pack on my chest. The moments that my nipple would not be moving became like tropical vacations for my weary mind, which was being over worked by the torment of my moving nipple. The sensations were like aggravating tickles combined with what felt like pinpricks that seemed to leave me feeling like I was a man being slowly crucified from the inside out.

As the weeks passed my moving nipple became more chronic. It rested little and began to control my every waking hour. I had read some where in Greek mythology of a character that had suffered from a very similar ailment as I was. His moving nipple became so violent that it slowly began to make its way onto his forehead and announce all of his private thoughts to whomever was around. Not only did this character suffer the humiliation of having a talking nipple on the center of his forehead but also he was unable to think without the nipple revealing his every thought! Of course it is not difficult to understand why this character took his life by forcing his lover to cut off his head. Once he was decapitated the nipple did not stop talking for over an hour- it told his lover of all his previous affairs!! Ever since I have read this tale I have been terribly worried that my chronic gesticulating nipple is going to break free from its root and make its way onto my forehead!! If the world were able to hear my every thought I would certainly loose everything that I love!!!

Last week I visited a Doctor who knew not what to make of my condition. He told me that he had never seen anything like this before. He recalled reading in a medical journal many month back about someone who had suffered from a similar ailment for most of his life- but he could not remember which medical journal it was in. The Doctor wanted to put me on some medication to see if he could relax the tissue but the side effects for the medication seemed to great to take the risk. My Doctors conclusion was that I was suffering from a stress-induced ailment that was causing calcium build up around the nerves of my nipple tissue-, which is putting pressure upon my nipple. The ensuing twitching and gesticulation is the result of this pressure. If it did not go away in a month he recommends surgery.

In the mean time I still have to live in this world. I have to make a living so that I can continue to have a roof over my head. As much as I want to hide away in my closet and write poetic lamentations all day- I cannot. I have a mouth to feed.

It is not difficult for you to see my ailment, or what I have come to call my crucifixion. There is what appears to be a constant vibration and rotation under my left shirt pocket. When people notice this they immediately ask me if I am okay. I tell them that I am fine, that what they are witnessing is an annoying muscle spasm. My high school students make fun of me and refer to me as a freak. They all want to touch my nipple and when I let them there are loud uproars of “EEEEEEWWWW,” or “That’s so disgusting!!!!” Whenever I go out into public people stare at my nipple as if they had never seen anything like this before. I feel like an aberration, like all eyes are condemning me to constant judgment. Now I know what it must feel like to be a big-breasted woman.

The only thing that I can do is learn to live with my ailment. Every night before bed I put a chamomile cream upon my nipple, which seems to relax it a bit. I also wrap my chest in a towel before bed, which seems to reduce the annoying vibrations of my moving nipple, allowing me to get some sleep. There is nothing that I can really do (besides having my nipple surgically removed) other than accept my current situation. I see this condition as an opportunity for me to deal with the various causes in my life rather than the effects. If I can learn to change the stressors that have caused my moving nipple than maybe over time my nipple will stop moving. I believe it was Pascal, Socrates or Emerson or maybe Nietzsche- who said that an unexamined life is a life not worth living, so I am examining my self- trying to understand the various ways that I have caused my own dis-ease. Maybe, through this process of self-examination, I will eventually become the only man who can set myself free.

No More Awards, Please!!

I just received notification for an award that I received today. The award is for ” Blog With Least Amount Of Weekly Readers” and I must say that I am surprised. I have always thought that having ten to twelve readers or “hits” a day was fairly decent. I was proud of my weekly rating of around seventy hits. But when I received this award for “Blog With The Least Amount Of Weekly Readers,” I did some research. I found that successful blogs receive over 10,000 hits a day and mediocre ones receive at least 500. 500!!!!! Since I have started this blog I have gained many awards for things like “Most Ridiculous Content,” “Most Depraved Blogger,” “Blogger In Need Of Most Psychological Assistance,” “Least Commented Upon Blog,” and so forth- but this most recent award has really opened my eyes! I mean I have been writing, laboring and living in the dark thinking that ten or so hits a day was decent!

All I had to do to receive the reward for “Blog With Least Amount Of Readers” was push a button and what I won was three private phone consultation with a blogging service that could help me acquire more readers. It is a pity prize, a reward that is intended to patronize the awardee. So I will not follow through with receiving the free consultations but I will ask one final time to Please….stop giving me these humiliating rewards!! I write not to be awarded but rather to release my numerous thoughts and emotions into the digital void hoping that some semblance of a life form will answer with various solutions for my existence here on earth. Some days, I stay away from this blog because I am afraid of what I might say and instead decide to keep it all in. Now that I know that 10 or so hits a day is nothing to be proud of I may change my strategy…but like I wrote in the awardee comment box when I accepted this last award “It is not about quantity…but rather quality. If I can affect only one reader with the things I write than I would rather have one reader than 10,000.” But Please….to whomever this may concern- NO MORE AWARDS, please! These awards are causing me to question why I spend my time blogging and taking a toll upon what little self confidence I have left (please read my last post entitled “The Trappings Of My Mind” for more information upon my psychological state at the moment).

The Trappings Of My Mind

My mind has been doing things without my permission for the past few years. It began with very subtle thoughts such as “you should steal this,” “you are a failure, “you can’t breath,” or “you might have this disease.” I tried not to pay much attention to the workings of my own mind by smoking weed and drinking two bottles of red wine every day. Whatever it took to put these mischievous thoughts out of my mind- I did with a passion. But life went along as it normally tends to do and everything changed including the thoughts in my mind.

Now I realize that all human beings suffer from the condition of negative thinking but I believe there are variations of effect. Some people are able to immediately transform their negative thoughts into positive ones and others are able to ignore the thoughts that enter the confines of their own mind. Others, who are not so fortunate- may be dominated, overcome by the negative thoughts that their minds generate. They look towards food, drink, chemical substances, television, film or novels to distract themselves from the negative thoughts that have a tendency to colonize their minds. These distractions work for an allotted period of time but the negative thoughts seem to return with a fervor and force that no amount of inoculation can put down.

This is where I have found myself these days. I have met with nueroscientists, psychiatrists, chiropractors, and healers all to try and garner some support around gaining some control of my own mind. I have done daily exercises to turn down the left side of my brain and turn up the right side. I stand on my head every day for twenty minutes and I eat alot of fish which has been said to balance out the right and left hemispheres of the brain. But still at different times of the day the negative thoughts come at me like a wave which is determined to drag me under. What is a man to do when his own mind is working against him?

The past two years I have made many changes in my lifestyle. I no longer steal, cheat , lie or act without a motivation to be loving (most of the time). I exercise every day and I make every attempt that I can to sing or hum when I walk and to meditate when I sit. My hope has been that by using my mind in positive ways the negative thoughts would start to fade away like fog around noon time. Instead, the better and more hole I become- the more intense is the volume of my negative thoughts. It is like there is a devil in between my brain cells.

Nowadays, my negative thoughts seem to have been mainly centered around death. Every time I get comfortable or relaxed there appears in my mind an agitating thought about my own death. I see myself dying in various fashions and the thoughts are so vivid that the ensuing apprehension and fright stimulates my heart to beat rapidly. My body constricts and I have to fight against the impulse towards flight. The negative thoughts have become so frequent and strong that I have almost rendered myself powerless in controlling them. When a negative thought comes in which I see myself having a heart attack or being hit by a car, all I can do is take deep breaths and tell myself to relax. What is a man to do when the most dangerous place on earth is within his own mind?

When I sit in meditation, drive my car, go for walks or do just about anything- I am filled up with these intrusive negative thoughts. They scare me out of being ambitious in my life and instead I feel pity for the man I have become. I have grown depressed and conquered by these thoughts which have invoked a silent fear which resides just beneath my chest. There is really no place that is safe for me so I have taken up prayer (I am still trying to figure out to whom I am speaking). I eat less and take foot baths before I go to bed in the hopes that this mini baptism will perform the miracle of eliminating these negative thoughts. But instead my mind is a living entity that has its own set of rules which I am to weak to defend against. It is like the nueroscientist told me “as a result of many years of suffering from anxiety, worry and hypochondria-sis your left brain is at war with your right brain.” “What can I do about this?” I asked him. “The only thing that I know of is prayer,” he sternly replied.

So I pray, I sing, I stand on my head and I try to act with an intention towards love rather than hate (most of the time). I am doing all that I can to gain control of the workings of my own mind without giving myself over to medication, surgery or a Buddhist monastery. I work hard not to manifest the fears that I carry around inside my head and I have even started volunteering some of my time (to keep my mind off my thoughts) to help suicidal illiterate soldiers who have lost limbs in the war learn how to normally function in society. Sometimes when I talk to these veterans about the war which is raging in my own terrified mind they seem to be the only people who understand what is going on. “Ya, it is like a kind of post traumatic stress disorder that you are suffering from,” one soldier told me who had lost both legs in Iraq. ” “Rather than fighting in an actual war you are suffering from the terror that your own mind is generating…you are in a perpetual trap,” the soldier said. I could not have agreed more with his comment and to this day all I think about is how I can survive the trappings of my own mind. “What can I do?” I always ask but no one seems to know. “If only there were more answers, I would not be in the situation I am,” one suicidal soldier replied.

“Beat It”

“Do you like to sing in the shower?” one of my students asked me in the middle of class. It was an innocent question and little did I know that my reply might cost me my job. The class was being observed by three education bureaucrats, who sat in the corner of the classroom with laptops on their legs, into which they took notes about my class and my teaching abilities. The school I work at is trying to receive more funding from the state so the bureaucrats came to evaluate the school and see if it was worthy of extra funding.

“Of course I do,” I said. “What song?” she asked. “Beat It,” I innocently replied with out thinking first how my response would be interpreted. It was an honest reply after all- I have been singing “Beat It” in the shower for most of my adult life. I did not realize that I may have made a fatal mistake until I noticed the hanging jaws and the looks of dismay on all three of the state bureaucrat’s faces. They looked like three people who had just seen a ghost.

“The song by Micheal Jackson, you know beat it, beat it…no one wants to be defeated,” I sang as the class laughed and made all kinds of comments like “I’ll bet you beat it it in the shower” and “do you have a thriller after you beat it?” Trying to silence the class while digging myself out of the hole that I had unintentionally dug for myself I continued to explain that it gave me great pleasure to sing Micheal Jackson songs in the shower. ”They are just songs!!!” I said trying to imply that the thought of masturbation in the shower never occurred to me. One of my students, of course had to shout out- “I’ll bet it brings you great pleasure…… Teacher.”

For the rest of the class period I was terribly uncomfortable. The three bureaucrats in the corner did not look at me once and seemed to be no longer writing things in their laptop computers. I tried every which I knew how to prove that I was an exemplary Teacher- rather than some perverted pedophile- but I am afraid that the hole was to deep to dig my way out of. Students continued to heckle me about beating it in the shower while I lectured about the bad luck that seemed to bring about Romeo and Juliet’s death. Little did I know that I was also talking about the bad luck which might just cost me my job.

After school I was called into the Principle’s office where he sat me down with an abrupt and angry gesture of his hand. Immediately he looked into my eyes and said, “the state administrators told me about the sexually suggestive remark you made in class today and the ensuing inappropriate remarks that your comments provoked in the students. The administrators are very concerned about the level of Teachers that I hire at this school because of your suggestive comment. Now we may not receive the money that we need from the state unless you are willing to be subjected to investigation by the state to guarantee that you are suitable to be teaching our children.” I tried to explain to him that Micheal Jackson was one of my favorite performers and that I really did sing Micheal Jackson songs in the shower. I tried to tell him that my reply had nothing to do with masturbation- which was the farthest thing from my mind. He replied, “as a Teacher I expect you to be able to draw the boundaries between appropriate things to say and inappropriate things to say. You are a role model for the students and I trust that you have the skill to think before you speak.” I wanted to say that we should be able to be open and honest about everything rather than walking around on egg shells and deciding what is appropriate or inappropriate for others- instead I put my head down and apologized for my lack of tact.

While walking to my car I could hear students singing “beat it, just beat it,” while they made suggestive sexual motions with their bodies. One of my students yelled at me, “hey Teacher don’t beat it in the shower too much- you might grow hair on your palms.” And then there was a loud sound of group laughter. I got into my car and wanted to get away from the school as soon as possible. In my head were the final words of the principle who said, “Myself and the board of directors are going to re-evaluate whether or not you are going to be kept on as a Teacher or given a suspension until the investigation. I know that you are a good man but I question your ability to be a role model.” As I left the school property and turned onto the main road heading in the direction of my house- I started to cry. “Why was I always the one???” I repeated over and over as if I was seeking an answer from the universe. Then to calm my nerves I turned on the radio, which ironically enough was playing a cover version of Micheal Jackson’s “Beat It.” It was being performed by a high school choir from Nebraska.

Masturbation Fixation?

Forgive me but I must make this confession because my masturbation fixation is getting a bit out of control. It is true that I have been masturbating since the age of 13. As I have written about before- it was the day of my Bar Mitzvah (the Jewish ceremony representing the passage into manhood), and I masturbated for the first time that morning to relieve the great amount of anxiety that I felt about the day that was to follow. Masturbation was effective in relieving my anxiety and from that day forward I used it diligently as a practice to reduce stress and tension. I masturbated every day. I remember masturbating in the hotel showers in Hawaii, Spain, Palm Springs, Israel, Greece, Italy, Palestine and all the other places my family would go for vacation. I was a fiend and once during my 17th year of life my grandmother caught me masturbating to a Victoria Secret cut out that I had taped on her shower wall.

But now I am nearing my 37th year of life and my masturbatory practices seem to come and go. I will go through months without masturbation and instead cultivate a spiritual practice that allows me to feel harmoniously aligned with the cosmos and the oneness of all human kind. My health improves and my skin color seems to reflect a virtuous sheen. But then I fall back into my habitual masturbatory practices. Now, I know that no one wants to hear about my current fixation with masturbation but I need to express my deep feelings with regard to this subject. Possibly this is a situation that I share in common with some other habitual masturbators. Possibly I am alone in my obsession and therefore I will have to go through it by myself. After all this is not really something that I can talk about with my parents, sister or wife (even though they might suffer from the same ailment).

Ever since I accidentally discovered youporn.com I have fallen into a pit of masturbatory excess. This excess seems to correlate with the financial and physiological difficulties I have been experiencing as of late. It seems that I masturbate more when life becomes difficult and considering that I am on a strict raw food diet, do not smoke, drink alcohol, coffee or eat chocolate (all of which I once loved) I need some consolation in my waking hours. Porn and masturbation seems to be the only guilty pleasure that I have left- and I am relishing in it like a man without any concern for consequence.

My concern is that I am releasing a lot of my vital essence (sperm). After the age of 25 Taoists and various natural healers believe that men should preserve their sperm because it holds many vital minerals and fluids- the life force. Releasing too much sperm after 25 is responsible for a good majority of male dis-ease and early death (this is a belief that Taoists and natural healers hold true). On one level this makes sense to me because I feel terribly tired after I orgasm. I am left with little motivation or ambition to do anything and this may be the result of relinquishing my vital fluid (my life force). Humans may not be far away from a certain spider kingdom whose women kill the male spider after intercourse. With humans it may happen at a slower rate but after each ejaculation the man may be slowly fading away while the female gains more vital energy from the sperm and sexual energy- which they keep within and thus improve their health and well being (this may be why women live longer than men).

So maybe masturbation is slowly causing me to fade away. I have all the symptoms of this slow degeneration: anxiety, heart palpitations, irregular heartbeat, abdominal pressure, feelings of impending doom, chest pain, fatigue and lack of ambition. It is a theory but one that makes sense to me. I wonder how many men over the age of 37 have been masturbating regularly since the age of 13?

This morning I woke up with an erection and a desire to meditate. I sat upon my meditation cushion and started to do deep breathing. My chest was tight but I forced air into my lower abdomen. After five or sex- I mean six minutes the tingly sensations in my erection would not stop distracting me. I wanted more of this good feeling so I took my hand and rubbed it all along my penis while continuing to meditate. Finally I could not take it any more so I went to my computer and visited youporn.com. I pulled down my pants and watched various attractive women do scandalous things with male erections. Each time I watched a young temptress swallow sperm I could not help but think about the female spider. As the women look into the men’s eyes with sperm on their tongues all I can think is “ our lust for these women is slowly killing us!” And then I to released my sperm upon my stomach and was once again relieved (for a moment) of a tension, which seems to constantly be built up in me. This tension I like to refer to as- my life, and masturbation and youporn.com seems to be my medicine. Like my grandfather always told me- “life is about trade offs son….no one lives forever.”

Teaching Naked.

For those of you who know who David Sedaris is, I thought you might want to know that I have been reading his short stories to my ninth and tenth grade English classes. The response that I have recieved from the students is one that I could have never for seen. Not in my most wide-eyed imagination could I have imagined the effects that David Sedaris’s various short stories could have upon a very simple and conservative high school in Richmond, California. I am inclined to think that the worst is yet to come.

After I read my students the first short story from David Sedaris’s collection of short stories that is entitled “Naked,” the response was one of disbelief. The students thought that David was a “weirdo,” but for some reason they wanted to hear more. We discussed the nature of repression and the daily prohibitions that are set up to restrict their youthful minds from traveling into certain “inappropriate” terrains. After I read them a second short story the feelings shared by all the students were mutual- David Sedaris was writing about things that they thought about but were not allowed to talk about- or else they would get grounded or kicked out of school. After I read my students the short story entitled “Cyclops”- the students were hooked. The forces of liberation were spun into action and there was money being placed into my hands by students who begged me to buy them a copy of this book.

I was apprehensive. I did not mind reading these stories out loud in class, but I felt that buying them copies which they would own, might be taking to great of a risk. Not only could this action set in motion the early corruption of young conditioned minds but also if the administration found out that I was buying students David Sedaris books I may loose my job. So I photo copied various stories for students and soon these photo copies were selling for ten dollars a piece on the underground high school black market. Students tried every which way to steal the copy of the original book from my bag and a couple of times they were successful and I had to chase them down. A fever had become full blown and the cause of it was David Sedaris.

I have had to stop reading these stories to students. I feel my job may be in jeopardy. Since I started reading the stories more students have been expelled from school than in the entire history of the school. Students have started smoking and drinking booze while at school. They have also been running around the school with various articles of clothing taken off while screaming ridiculous things at the top of their young lungs. Students have started swearing at Teachers more and one Teacher quit because students would not stop asking her what her vagina smelled and looked like. I am afraid that every thing that these young minds have had to repress in order to stay in school and not get into trouble at home has come out with such passionate force because of David Sedaris’s short stories. These stories have unlocked something primordial in these students that has even caused one of my best students to rip off her shirt in the middle of class and scream, “Teacher, lets get naked!”

Like my students, I am also subjected to a good dose of unhealthy repression. In order to maintain a legitimate position in society one has little choice unless they are wealthy and or famous. So I keep my sins mostly to myself and hope that my lusts and desires will simply drown under the mass of cerebral tissue that keep them hidden beneath. But when my student ripped off her shirt and yelled out “lets get naked,” something primordial within me exploded and I to experienced a coming out that had a force and volition that not even I could apprehend. “What the hell, why not!!” I screamed out with a feeling of freedom that I had not felt since I was young. I then proceeded to rip off my clothes as my entire tenth grade English class joined me and got naked.

The Cricket Who Talks To God

What is it that I can do that can help raise the consciousness of humanity? How can I- an underpaid high school teacher who suffers from anxiety and various health ailments participate in the evolution of human kind on earth? I realize that these may be big questions but I also realize that they need to be asked, now. I have often heard it said that humanity is at a vital turning point in our history upon this earth. Many of my high school students justify not coming to class or doing their homework by saying that the world is going to end soon anyways, so why worry about school? Sometimes I find it difficult to argue with a perspective that I find may be true- but I try to keep my mind upon transformation rather than liquidation. If I only had some version of an answer then I could cleanse and heal my mind by writing a book and traveling around the world doing consciousness workshops- but I am afraid that there maybe no answers, only cricket’s who talk to God.

There is a cricket that sits upon my deck day upon day as if it is in a deep state of blissful meditation. I am convinced that this cricket is praying to God. It seems to be that the cricket is channeling some kind of divine energy for the sake of all life uponn earth. I have tried to communicate with this cricket in various ways, but each time I get close to connecting I am met by a strange energy which feels like an electric shock. So I keep my distance and pray along with this cricket at certain times during the day.

The cricket seems to be staring at the sun with its eyes wide open. Be it that I can not stare at the sun I keep my eyes shut and do what certain Harri Krishna’s refer to as sun divining (it is when you stare at the sun with your eyes close and feel the heat against your closed eye lids). I ask the cricket if he/she/it can take a moment and listen to my prayers and then relay them to God. There never seems to be any form of communication that suggests the cricket is unwilling to do so, rather I feel like he/she/it is saying “okay go ahead, lets hear it:”

I feel so blessed to be alive, to be breathing and free from a hospital bed or jail cell. I feel so blessed to have all of my family alive and well at the moment because I know that at any moment this will change. We never know which time the phone will ring and bring news that will forever alter our lives. We never know when our own lives will be altered in the blink of an eye. Everything is always changing and it is this movement that keeps human beings terrified- living in constant fear. How is it that we can be free from this fear, let go of our constriction and tension so that we can live with and in the chaos without terror…with peace and health and wealth? How can I participate in giving something to humanity that will help us evolve out from our fear and into a state of connection to gratitude and love? How can this be done? Fear is destroying us and the natural world- quicker than I could ever imagine….what is the answer. I am asking for an answer that is greater than just recycling, going to protest marches and workshops on weekends and doing Yoga. If you tell me I promise to give free lectures around the world. I will spread this answer like a wild fire. There is no greed here, just my will to save myself, the earth and all those who live upon it. Thank you for listening and considering my prayer, peace…Amen…well maybe there is a little greed.

When I am finished with my long winded prayer the cricket is in the very same position that he was prior to my prayer. I do not know if he received and relayed it to the appropriate authority, but I suppose this is where the power of faith comes in. I offer the cricket some water or wine and when I get no reply I leave it alone in what looks like a state of divine rapture. This is a cricket without fear…and I want some of what he’s got.

This evening I went outside to see if the cricket who talks to God would not be interested in relaying another prayer for me. I opened my front door and noticed the cricket was not in his same spot. I felt a sadness come over me that I had not felt in some time but then I remembered that nothing lasts forever. I looked up at the moon and took a deep breath and then went back inside. I decided that I would make a nice dinner for my wife and I- and as I took out the fish from the refrigerator the phone rang. It was a trauma nurse in Los Angeles telling me that my mother in law is in the intensive care unit and in critical condition. The doctors were awaiting the results of a Ct Scan that would show if there was internal bleeding, hemorrhaging and a broken or fractured spinal column. A speeding car cut her off while driving on the freeway and she lost control of her automobile and ran into a tree. When I got off the phone I put the fish back into the refrigerator and went outside to search for the cricket before giving my wife the news.

The Outdoor Furniture Salseman.

I want to take a job selling outdoor furniture but my wife is unwilling to compromise. “You are a Teacher, and there is no way I am going to let you sell yourself short by becoming an Outdoor Furniture Salesman,” she told me with determination in her eyes. “Why would you want to do this to yourself,” she asked? ” The only response that I could muzzle together was “I have always wanted to sell outdoor furniture.”

Some of my fondest memories of youth include outdoor furniture. Sundays would be spent sitting out back with my entire family. We would drink lemonade, eat burgers from the grill and swim in the over chlorinated pool until the sun set. When you sat on the furniture dripping wet a certain aroma was given off by the furniture which I can still sometimes smell. When I am around outdoor furniture I feel young again, without any health concerns and without a care in the world. I become relaxed and nostalgic- recalling the days when I was a happy young man.

Now that I am older and all of my childhood is practically buried six feet under- I am desperate to again feel the pleasures of my youth. When I went into Osh Outdoor Furniture Suppliers for the first time I was only looking for an outdoor chair to stick upon my deck. As I browsed around the tables, pool chairs, umbrellas and pillows I immediately felt intoxicated by the smells and memories that were given off. I remembered a past I had all but forgotten. The Sundays spent out back with my family, the evening barbeque’s, my first sexual experience on the pool chair, catching my father and mother kissing beneath the umbrella besides the fire pit- all these memories and more came at me like a fierce wind. I felt a joy in my heart that had not been there when I walked into the outdoor furniture store. Without even purchasing the chair, I went up to the check out stand and asked the older gentleman behind the register if I could have an application for a job. I filled it out in the shop and was called in for an interview the following day. I was hired on the spot when the manager asked me why I wanted to go from teaching high school to working with outdoor furniture. “I want to work with outdoor furniture because it makes me feel young again, ” I said. To which he replied, “I can relate, that is exactly why I work with outdoor furniture as well.” We shook hands like two men united by a common desire- to be young again.

“I understand that you want to feel young again, but why do you have to go to such extreme lengths to do so?” my wife asked me in desperation. “Unless you have had the same experience with outdoor furniture as I have, it is to difficult to explain to you. It just feels like something I need to do.” “But what about teaching? Are you just going to quit and tell your students that you are leaving them for outdoor furniture.” My wife had a point, I do not think that my students will be happy about my decision. “They will get over it, besides as we get older we forget everything anyways…do you still remember your high school teachers?” I asked hoping that she would agree with me. “I remember almost every single one, even the ones who could not handle it and quit. Just think- you always will be remembered as that teacher that quit to go sell outdoor furniture.”

I decided that I would sleep on it. My wife was planting doubt in my head and I was afraid that the repercussions of my decision would be greater than I was aware of. I longed to spend my days in the presence of outdoor furniture. To describe pool chairs and umbrellas to costumers seemed much more gratifying than explaining nouns and verbs and the Great Gatsby to high school students who were incapable of listening. To smell the scent of outdoor furniture rather than the sent of fake cologne and dirty lockers, what more could I ask for. As an Outdoor Furniture Salesman I would be able to spend my work days reminiscing about the pleasurable past of my childhood which is now forever gone. I could remember the faces of those that I loved who have now passed on and once again swim in the pool of my childhood. I could be sitting out back with my grandfather one sunny June afternoon and listen to him say to me again and again- “enjoy being young kid, because when you get older and enter the real world, it’s a bitch.”

My wife threatened to separate from me if I took the job. Before I was even awake this morning she rolled over on the side of the bed and said, “I will not be married to a man that is constantly undermining himself and not living up to his fullest potential. I will not sit by and watch you destroy your life because you want to spend your days reminiscing about your childhood. That part of your life is gone and if you take this job as an Outdoor Furniture Salseman, than I will not sit by and watch you fall.” I was half awake but already frustrated by her perspective. Right when I was about to respond to her the phone rang. She answered it and then looked at me and said, “It is Osh Outdoor Furniture, they want to know if you made a decision.” She handed me the phone with a stern look that seemed to say you better not. I looked at the clock and it was almost noon.

Man Of Miracles

I’m a mess. This morning I awake with my left foot swollen to three times its size and my wife crying in the bathroom. Our electricity is going to be shut off in three days because of unpaid bills and our cat is suffering from fierce scrape wounds to the nose and head. Last night at dinner my wife and I spent two hundred dollars because we drank and ate so much so that we could forget about all the difficulties present in our life. It was fun but now we are both hung over and broke. My house is cold and my job is starting to give me chest pains. If only I could jump into a hole and bury my head. I am a mess,

…..my father sent me an article today about debt. I have more debt than a mountain has weeds. Sending me an article on debt is like sending a cat and article on language. A cat has no words to speak and I have no cash to pay off my debts. I wrote him back a letter telling him that if he wants to help me with my debt, send cash, otherwise let me be. My car has two big dents in it and every time you push on the brakes there is a sound of metal. My wife is frustrated with me for the large amounts of stress my way of life brings to her. If I was only able to find a way to have balance and be happy, she keeps telling me. The roof of our home allows rain water to fall on the floor and currently some workers are banging away beneath my desk trying to fix an broken floor beam. I feel as if inside of me there is a boiling pressure cooker than at any moment could pop. I am a mess,

…I have rent due and not nearly enough money to pay it. My refrigerator is filled with aging food and my liver is aching from all the booze I have been consuming. Panic attacks have been a daily occurrence and usually before bed at night I think about death. I am filled with unmanifested dreams and am always feeling like nothing is good enough. My wife cries in the bathroom all through out the day and the only solid pleasure I seem to be able to find is masturbating to porn on the internet. My chest is always tight, my mother is always concerned about my well being and I am three years away from being 40. I am a mess,

…I nap a lot ion the afternoons and have a hard time climbing out from bed. I do not remember my dreams and I often eat burnt toast for breakfast with a boiled egg. I am addicted to email and have been writing people that I do not even know for help. Yesterday, while driving across the bay bridge I had a terrible panic attack which made me feel like death was sitting upon my shoulder. I tried to jump out from the moving vehicle, but once again my wife saved my life. I have experienced very little success already I have been afflicted with two chronic diseases, one which could be fatal. My wife and I seem to fight constantly and I can not stop looking at other women because it is another form of fleeting pleasure for me. I spend all my money on books (that I never read) and food and often dream about prostitutes and flying through the sky. The mattress I sleep upon is old and almost undone and my bedroom collects dust like a garbage can collects trash. I am a mess,

….my sister is an alcoholic who thinks that Arabs are going to take over the country. All around me are signs of affluence but I struggle for every dollar I earn. I am underpaid and overworked and like all lower income people I am taken advantage of time and time again. I am tired of it all and seek out a solution. I think about suicide, killing sprees and self mutilation but none of these answers would I be capable of performing. All day I have been looking for another job, but there is nothing I am interested in doing. My back hurts from writing out my soul so much and I am suffering from chronic diarrhea and palpitations because of my nereves. All I want to do is eat and drink to forget about the pain. I go from meal to meal as if I trying to erase the desperation that I feel in between. There are wars being waged, poverty all around, starvation and injustice walking through the air and I am a mess. Such a big mess that I have no clue as to how to clean it up,

….I have thought about buying guns, mops, towels, and blankets all to clean up the mess that I am. I have thought out self help solutions and consulted with great gurus. I have prayed, meditated and walked on pilgrimages for miles a day. I am out of shape, winded when I walk up stairs, afraid to ride my bike because of various cardiac issues and wondering around my home like a zombie who has been beaten by the struggles of the world. If this was not enough I see ghosts, spirits and can look deep into peoples souls. I know what you are thinking before you think it and I am aware of the truth. I can see through time and I know what the future will bring and so I try to preoccupy myself with various forms of pleasure and sleep so I do not have to think about it. In one more day I will be done, done with this way of living. I will change and do what I have to so that I am not all messed up. I will use a broom or mop and clean myself up so that you will see all that I can be. I will get a haircut and seek out the help of psychologists and chiropractors. I will brush my teeth put on my best face and find a decent job. I will stop complaining about my situation and accept all of this as the way life is. I will stop envying the sucess of Brad Pitt or Johny Depp and try to enjoy my job as a Teacher, my bank account with a small balance and my freezing cold home. I will think positively and learn to identify my good feelings from my bad ones,

….in one more day I will become a man of miracles…. but today just let me be a mess.

How To Loose 65 Pounds Without The Long Wait!

The six months prior to my wedding- I was a nervous wreck. Anxiety is something that I had lived with since being in my mother’s womb- but the panic that can often follow chronic anxiety was a new addition to my life. The very first panic attack that I ever had came only minutes after I proposed to my wife in the cemetery. As we sat on a rustic ledge that overlooked a beautiful turtle pond my throat swelled up and my insides began to shake. I felt my heart skipping around in my chest and before I knew what to say the thought, “I am going to die,” zapped my adrenaline into 5th gear. I ran through gravestones and daisies like a man who was literally running for his life. When my then fiancé found me hyperventilating besides an eighteenth century gravestone- I was already suffering from the affliction that would significantly reduce my weight.

Prior to asking my wife if she would marry me, I was 65 pounds heavier than I was at my wedding six months later. I rarely engaged in any form of exercise and I loved to drink beer from breakfast till bedtime. I reproached any attempts to confine my dietary choices to the category of unhealthy living because the choices I made were my own- and I was an adamant individualist. My pre-marital days were filled with creative explorations and I was determined to live my life with the determination of the great artist that I believed myself to be. It was only when I began to think about inviting the tradition of marriage into my renegade existence that I began to feel the strange sensations, that some call fear, develop in my body and mind.

After my wife and I were engaged I felt the expectations from in-laws and my parents gathering heavily upon my shoulders. I felt the fear of change begin to set up camp some place in my brain. I was concerned about how I would continue to live like the great artist that I considered myself to be when I had no money in the bank and a resume that was shorter than a paragraph. My dreams threatened to cave in on me and my access fat was the first part of me to run away.

There is nothing, and I mean nothing that will reduce one’s weight faster than panic and anxiety. When the brief attacks come on, the shit is literally scared out of you. I would be constipated for days and then when panic attack overcame me I would find myself shivering from fear, on the toilet- downloading a weeks worth detritus. As the attacks grew more frequent so did my bowl movements. Everything I would eat would stay in my stomach no longer than my intense fear would allow. But what was I so afraid of?

Death. For as long as I can remember I have been afraid of death. The thought of the mysterious non-existence of me has sent shivers running down my spine and prayers rambling from my mouth. Whenever I felt the presence of a strange sensation upon my timid body I became (and still become) terrified that this may be the key that unlocks that eternal door. The extinction of my self, of all that I pretend to be- has rendered me powerless when it comes to accepting this natural transition. Some place deep in my hard wiring marriage seems to be wired to the notion of death. In marriage I somehow managed to think that a part of myself would become extinct. I feared the loss of my rugid individualism because like Nietzsche always said- tradition has a way of destroying all things individual.

The thought of loosing myself and changing- rattled my nerves. Over the many years of living for myself only- I became attached to my way of being. The thought of having to change the way I lived my life made me fear what the future would bring. Someplace deep within me I welcomed this change but on the surface domesticity was a nightmare that I was yet to reconcile with. Every day that the wedding grew closer was another pound lost. Butterflies took up to much space in my stomach and my throat seemed to be closed for business. I lived on a diet of pineapple and wine and I prayed like a man who was soon to fall off the side of the moon.

Thanks to my six months of fear, worry and concern I was able to loose 65 pounds. Besides all of my frazzled nerves and my graying hair I was the mere image of perfect health. On the inside a daily war was being waged between the forces of life and death- but on the outside I appeared picture perfect. My wedding went over well with numerous complements about my new figure and lots of requests for advice upon how to loose weight so fast. At my wedding I was in to good of a mood (I threw caution to the wind and drank and danced as if it was my last night on earth) to bring up the subject of panic and anxiety so I said I would write a book about how to loose weight without the wait and then send them a free copy. There was a sign up sheet in the lobby.

One year after my wedding I am still yet to write the book or put back on the weight. Married life has not assuaged my fears and worries but it has given me a steady partner to share my suffering with. With marriage I have also become more aware. The decisions that I make (I no longer drink beer all day and I payed my taxes for the first time, much to my discontent!) not only affect me but also the love that is shared between my wife and I. Even though my fear of death and change is just as strong as it was before my marriage- I have found that the tradition of marriage has given me not only a smaller waistline but less time to focus upon my fear. After all- the tradition of marriage demands family and home ownership and with my nervous disposition I have had to spend a lot of time reading self help books, meeting with therapists and taking meditation classes. I am trying to get into some kind of physical and psychological condition so I can play at being a responsible married man who has found the secret ingredient for rapid weight loss.

Why Women Talk To Cats

I have always wondered why women talk to cats? Ever since I was a child I have took note of this strange phenomena. My grandmother would sing in Yiddish to every cat she passed by and often formed relationships with certain ones that she would invite over to her house on Sundays. Both my mother and my sister always talked to cats and I remember growing up with the both of them more preoccupied with talking to our two cats then they were with talking to me. I became annoyed with my sister and mother at a young age because whenever they would begin a conversation with cats it would be in a whiny childish high pitched tone that even as a young man I found concerning. But as I grew into the man I know seem to be today, I noticed more and more women who talked to cats.

Maybe there is a closer connection between the feline constitution and the feminine constitution? Maybe women are more tapped into the sensitive and delicate world of the cat? I have always thought of cats as very emotional creatures, and if it is true that the female is the most emotional species on the earth than this would provide an interesting connection between cats and women. I often wonder why it is that women have always talked more to my cats then they have to me, and I am just starting to learn that the answer to this may be less mystical than I have always imagined.

I have had girlfriends, wives and mistresses all of whom talk in strange childish tones to cats. They stop everything that they are doing and talk delicately with the cat as if it is their baby. They ask the cat the same questions that they would ask a human being. “How are you doing today Lilly?” or “Do you like the way the tree smells?” my wife always asks our cats. I think to myself, “does she expect that the cat is going to say I am fine thank you, and yourself?” or could this be a sign that my wife may be loosing touch with reality (since Alzheimer’s does run in her family). However, I try not to judge and I just presume that she feels good communicating with cats, just like all the women I have ever known.

Today I was walking home from the bookstore when I happened upon a rather attractive women dressed in a tight black skirt who was talking to a cat. The cat rubbed its feline fur all over her ankles as I heard the lady saying, “why are you such a nice cat…why are you such a nice cat? How come you are so beautiful and smart?” I waited for a moment to see if I could not hear some kind of response from the cat, but I heard nothing. My curiosity got the best of me and as I passed her I stopped and said “Excuse me, do you mind if I ask you a question?” “No not at all,” she kindly replied. “Why are you talking to a cat?” I said. She seemed surprised for a moment and then provided me with a vague answer, “because I love cats.” I thanked her for her vague response and continued on. As I got a few feet away from her she added, “don’t you know that cats are a woman’s best friend?” And then everything made sense to me.

If dogs are a man’s best friend than why not assume that women should also have a four legged creature to call their own? Cats are not only independent and patient but they also embody some of the finest qualities of the female species. They are not only graceful in their movements but cats carry themselves with a kind of confidence that seems to be a familiar trademark of most if not all women. Cats are proud and seem to embody a certain warmth that I have only found before in the womb and women. If cats share certain qualities in common with women that define their relationship than what may this say about man and his best friend- the four legged beast?

So women talk to cats because they have something in common. They share a spiritual alliance with the feline species that no scientist could ever understand. Both cats and women get something from one another that no other source can provide. What this is I am uncertain, but I am willing to admit that it may have something to do with love and respect. When I returned home from my walk to the bookstore I found myself greeted by my two cats, Lilly and Monk. Before I realized what was going on I found myself asking them both how they were doing and what they were up to. Suddenly I realized that I too was talking to cats!! For a moment I contemplated what this realization could mean- but I sat down with both cats upon my lap and they both began to tell me about how men and women have more in common then I might think.

The Man Who Pissed A Miracle.

    Three weeks ago I peed upon a large plot of dirt that was located behind my parents home. I was locked out and had to go. The large plot of dirt was the only piece of land on my parents property that was not touched by landscaping. My father had wanted to build a Japanese tea garden on the dirt plot but because of the recent economic recession he had decided to wait it out. I was in my parents neighborhood that day (I went to a job interview) and I decided to stop in. Not only was I hoping to borrow some money but I desperately needed to use the toilet. When I found no one at home- I had no choice but to pee on their small piece of land.

When nature calls it is difficult for man or woman to ignore the call. The twentieth century was filled with magnificent inventions that attempted to bypass natures call. Somehow humans thought that if they could be ingenious enough to trick nature then maybe they could be in control. I however have difficulty ignoring the call of the wild. I prefer to listen and respond when necessary. Possibly a great deal of my anxiety stems from the fact that I am too tuned into nature but this seems to be a disposition that I was born with. That day under the sun and in the quietude of my parents back yard, I peed without any thought about the personal violation I may have been committing. When I was finished watering the dirt I zipped up my pants and drove back to my home.

Today I returned to my parents home and was stunned by what I saw. In the very plot of dirt where I peed three weeks before grew a gorgeous lemon tree. My father and I stood in silence under the spring time sun staring at this lemon tree that had grown over four feet tall- in no time. Full grown lemons sat perched upon the end of its branches and a yellow hue highlighted the trees fluorescent leaves. For a few minutes all thoughts about my peeing in this spot three weeks before escaped me. I asked my father if he was sure that the gardeners did not plant this tree. He told me that he was cutting expenses for the time being and one of those expenses was the gardener. No one had worked on this land for months. My mother came out with a cup of iced tea in her hand and said “isn’t it amazing!!” I looked at my mom and said, “how could this be?” My father picked a lemon from the tree and handed it to me. It was the most beautiful lemon I had ever seen. I could smell it before it was in the palm of my hand. “Amazing,” was all I could say.

And then I remembered that three weeks before I had taken a piss in the same place where the lemon tree now stood. I questioned myself for a few minutes trying to convince myself that the tree must of been here before I peed. It was not. There was no way to explain what was before my eyes other than that my urine had given birth to this lemon tree. How this could be escapes my rational mind but I remember when I gave a urine sample to my doctor a few months ago he told me it was the most nutrient dense urine he had ever seen. “It almost reminds me of lemon juice,” he said. I thought nothing of this remark until today. As I stood besides the lemon tree with my mother and father I was shocked by the possible power of my pee. I wanted to tell them that I may know the reason why the tree is there. They may be upset that I peed upon their valuable land but when they found out what their son’s urine could achieve- all hurt feelings would possibly turn into an emotion of awe towards the holly man who was their son. Finally they would think that after 37 years of failure on earth- I had made something out of myself. As my mother stood there repeating, “incredible” over and over- I remained silent afraid that if I took the risk and told the truth as I saw it I would never be allowed to come home again. My father went inside and got his camera and for the rest of the day I pretended to be as surprised as they were about this strange lemon tree that grew from my pee.

I Swallowed My Wedding Ring, Part 2.

I returned home from the hospital a few hours ago. It was a minor procedure. Since my own digestive system was incapable of removing my wedding ring I had to rely on modern medical techniques to do so. I was subjected to a metallic probe (with a camera) that was inserted in my anus and then loitered around my intestines until the wedding ring was found stuck in a pocket of my colon. The probe delicately latched on to the ring, dragging it out from my system in the same manner that a baby would be removed from the womb. The pain was slight since I was heavily sedated (and still am) and I was kept in the hospital for a night following the procedure to make sure my colon did not go into frenetic spasms.

My Doctor has asked me to spend the next few days in bed. He wants me to drink plenty of fluids and remain lying on my back for at least twenty hours a day. His concern is that since my wedding ring was stuck in a very narrow pocket of my colon there was some bruising done. The colon is a very sensitive organ and his fear is that it may become swollen as a result of the trauma. This is why I am only allowed to eat fruit and drink water for the next week. When I was leaving the hospital my Doctor asked me if I had learned anything from this experience. “I have learned to keep my wedding ring out of my mouth,” I said. He looked at me as if he was waiting for a more insightful reply. Did you learn anything else?” he patiently asked. I thought for a moment and replied- “to love and care for my wife for the rest of my life.” This answer came from some place deep in my gut, rather than from my mind. It was as if the Doctor had implanted in me the knowledge that I had been given a second chance to make my marriage work. “Swallowing your wedding ring may have been a blessing for your marriage,” the Doctor said with a smile and then disappeared from my room. As my wife pushed me in my wheelchair out from the hospital I could not stop telling her how much I loved her.

I am still very tired and must return back to bed. I have only gotten up to write this brief entry. I wanted to let you know that this terrible story has had a happy ending. Even though I am still high on various pain medications, my wedding ring is back upon the safe confines of finger. My wife has been caring for me and despite my weak condition- we have made love twice. I have pledged my renewed love to her over and over and thanked the heavens above that this chapter in my life has had a good ending. While lying in bed I have often thought about what would of happened had I never swallowed my wedding ring? I may have not just lost my wife, but also this love which now floods my heart- in holly matrimony ofcourse.

I Swallowed My Wedding Ring.

This evening while I was sitting on the couch reading a novel, I accidentally swallowed my wedding ring. You may be wondering why, or how? Well, I believe that I suffer from certain oral fixations or obsessive compulsive disorder. When I am writing or reading I seem to need to have something in my mouth- constantly. Tonight I pulled the ring off my finger with my lips and sucked on it in my mouth as if it was a candy. I stuck my tongue through its hole and ran it around along my teeth. I was not terribly aware of what I was doing since I was so engrossed in the book I was reading.

My wedding ring is made out of one ounce of white gold. It is a thick ring that rests on my finger like a small weight (reminding me of my eternal commitment). How I managed to have it in my mouth without noticing boggles my mind. I first became aware of what was taking place when I felt the metallic sensation of the ring passing down my throat. I choked for a moment and then started to cough when I realized what I had just done. Panic came over me and I ran into the bathroom and tried to make myself vomit. I thought that I could die as a result of swallowing my wedding ring. I thought about my obituary- man dies by swallowing his wedding ring, as my whole body began to shake. When minutes passed and I was still alive but unable to regurgitate my wedding ring, I called my wife into the room and told her what happened.

As she stood in front (I was on my knees in front of the toilet bowl) of me aghast at what I had done, I felt the a cold metallic sensation skipping around in my intestines. I was not sick but terribly uncomfortable. “You are so absent minded! You forget to turn off the heat, to feed the cat and now you swallow your wedding ring!! When are you going to get it together- you need to wake up!!!” I knew she was letting off steam so I allowed her to freely vent. She had spent her last two thousand dollars to buy me this ring and now I had just swallowed it. As far as she was concerned the ring was gone, buried in the penetralia of my intestinal regions. “Baby don’t worry, I’ll either shit it out or have it surgically removed,” I said to her as she dropped to her knees. “When are you going to wake up!!” she kept repeating as I sat on the floor with my hands on my stomach and a feeling of anxiety in my chest.

My grandmother always told me that if I was going to be a reader of fiction, that I should prepare myself for not being in the world. What she meant was that a symptom of reading fiction is being absent minded in day to day life. My grandmother felt that fiction readers (and poetry readers) lived in a world of thought and fantasy rather than reality. I disagreed with her until I was in my ninth year of reading fiction every day. I started doing stupid, absent minded things like rear ending cars and forgetting to pull up my zipper because I was thinking about the plot of a book. But now I have swallowed my wedding ring. This act of mine makes me feel like my grandmothers words were a prophetic warning.

My wife was able to get control over herself and called a poison control center. They told her that if I do not poop out the ring by tomorrow morning that I should go to the emergency room. They recommended that I eat prunes and lots of fiber to move my bowls. My wife slowly came to a state where she could take pity upon my state and began to treat me like a man who needed help. She made me prune tea and put a blanket over me while I lied flat out on the couch. She has been rubbing my head and cynically uttering comical comments like “you are so silly.” I am yet to poop out the ring but it is my hope that after a few more cups of prune tea and a good nights rest that I will be wearing my wedding ring by lunch time tomorrow.

The Fly.

I am trapped in this body that seems to be changing or aging at a rate that I can not control. With a life span of three to five days- there is so much to be done. Since my birth I have been happily confined to this labyrinthine Victorian home that has harbored generations of my family. We spend our days buzzing through ancient hallways made out of pine wood and we tan ourselves up against thin glass windows filled with sunlight and heat. The windows reflect our infernal images back upon our dilated eyes revealing an ugliness that I am just starting to come to terms with- and I am already three days old. My mother always told me that if I did not come to terms with my image in the window by the time I was three days old- I would never find peace.

With two days left to live there is so much to accomplish (I am confident that I will live to the ripe old age of five days…maybe even six). So many rooms to fly around in, so many walls to investigate. The home in which I was raised is filled with various plants and antiquated furniture so enjoyable to fly upon that I gladly forget that more than half of my life has been lived. All of the pressures involved in being a fly (the pressure to reproduce before my old age sets in and the pressure of flying enough in my life so that I can die with a felling of fulfillment) seems to become mitigated by the pleasure of resting upon a silk arm chair or an aloe plant and reciting the verse of Emily Dickinson. If you had told me that being a fly would involve such a great desire to do and see things I would have thought you were nuts. When I was young I had always thought that flies were anxious little creatures with a spasmodic will and a pestersome bzzzzz. Never could I have imaged the wonder filled world of the fly I have found out about in my later years. The beauty of flying naked and weightless through long hallways and landing upon warm afternoon windows. The beauty of crawling along ceilings and landing on the heads of humans. Tears come to my eyes when I think about how much there is to live for.

I keep to myself most of the day perpetuating no rumors about fellow flies. I spend a lot of time sunbathing upon the guest bedroom window. There I can be left alone, freed from the frenetic activity of fellow flies. I can clean my nimble legs and antenna and design ways in which I will fly to the moon on my last day of life. I am able to dream of other worlds where spirit flies still live and roam freely through hallways and furnished homes. I imagine my ancestors watching over me as I make my way through out the various rooms. Being a fly requires a strong constitution- when you are allotted only five days to live, the fear of death can be crippling, but even more so the awe of life can become overwhelming.

I make my way alone most of the time. It is true that my only purpose for living is not simply to spend my days in such a perplexed state of awe. I have my biological obligations to fulfill. The need to perpetuate my species weighs upon my soul to such a degree that I am not able to spend the days in mindless contemplation like I once did when I was young. I feel as if there is something more important that I need to be tending to. Before I come upon my final day- it is pertinent that I find a way to bring forth another me, a next of kin. Through this process of reproduction, us flies find immortality. This is how we make sense of our three to five days of life. We reproduce, and through our children become immortal. Like my father always told me, “A hen is only an egg’s way of making another egg.”

Even though I have been hard at work searching for a female fly to mate with- I have come up empty today. Night is almost upon us and after dark I have a tendency to stay put for the rest of the evening. I find particles of food (usually cat feces which I love) in various places and then rest in a safe spot until the heat of the sun returns to the windows. Tomorrow will be the fourth day of my life- what most flies refer to as the early evening of a flies life. I will spend the day searching for a mate- and into the evening if I must. If the midnight hour falls and I am yet to find the one who will give my child a chance to be born, I am willing to resign myself to a life spent alone, in awe- upon a window. Others may think that I have failed in my purpose (or utility) but I am willing to accept the responsibility of not living up to others expectations. It is a small price to pay for the hours of wonder and solitary pleasure I have experienced being a fly.

Electromagnetic Freak #3.

Last night was one of the more tempestuous nights in my life. The past week my EMRSD (electromagnetic radiation sensitivity disorder) has been very manageable. I experienced only small amounts of symptoms which seemed to bother me little. I was not hassled by the zapping and palpitating sensations nor was my body chronically filled with a buzzing vibration. The feelings of impending doom were lessened and I was beginning to posses the hope that I may possibly have the chance to live a normal life free from EMRSD.

Despite the fact that I have been keeping my wireless exposure to a minimum (I no longer carry a cell phone, I avoid areas where there is a lot of wireless or cellular activity and I limit my internet use to one hour a day) and maintaining some control over my stress and fatigue- last evening all of my symptoms returned like a force of nature. I drank a Belgium beer before calling it a night- despite alcohol being a main cause of palpitations, I have found that the booze helps me sleep. Outside it was raining and the cold air coming through my open window felt dry and electric. Little did I know that the heavens were soon to release a thunder storm, the likes of which I had not lived through before. As I was about to drift off to sleep I was zapped awake by an electrical sensation which caused my heart to race and beat irregularly. I was able to calm myself down enough so that I could fall back into the wonderful world of sleep. But sure enough I was zapped awake again with what felt like an electrical discharge to my brain and heart. My heart raced and flipped flopped like a car engine that was stuttering to a start. My fear and frustration got the best of me, so I climbed out of bed with a heavy heart and went to the kitchen for water (which I drink a lot of because I recently read that tap water in San Fransisco and the surrounding bay area contains trace amounts of sex hormones and anti-depressants both of which I need).

A flash of bright light startled me as I was drinking a glass of water over the sink. This minor shock again caused my heart to race and my mind to unleash scary images of me dropping dead on the kitchen floor. Then there was a loud roar of thunder as if the heavens above were trying to tell me to stop thinking such horrible thoughts. I did some deep breathing exercises in my dark living room which smells like a combination of cat piss and bleach. I burned some sage and did a Yoga pose but the smell sent me back to bed (I am convinced that the sour smell is from an undetected gas leak in my home which is contributing to the symptoms from my EMRSD).

My wife was snoring away soundly in her sleep as I struggled to remain amongst the living. I took deep breaths and remained lying upon my back as I listened to the sounds of thunder and rain that sent my sensitive heart into occasional spasms of fright. “Why am I so sensitive,” I kept repeating over and over to myself as I tossed and turned trying to find a comfortable spot on the mattress. I could feel my heart beating in my ears and pulsation all around my neck and arms. “Why has God forsaken me!!,” I wanted to cry out into the night but instead I tried to calmly reduce my anxiety by repeating a mantra over and over in my fear filled head. As I began to drop off into slumber I experienced some minor zaps and a few thunderous shocks but nothing that threw my heart into a spasmodic sprint. Eventually I was able, after hours of struggle, to join my wife in the world of silent slumber.

This morning I awoke with the relief of one who has just survived a life or death situation. I was overcome with a joy to still be living. Everything looked as if I was seeing it for the first time. After my usual breakfast of yogurt and bread I did some research on the Internet about electromagnetic radiation sensitivity disorder. My concern was that years and years of weekly zapping was weakening my heart. I found information that reassured my anxious mind but also I found a strange article that unsettled it. It was about a woman who suffered from the same ailment as I. Not only was she sensitive to wireless and cellular technology but her condition was aggravated by the weather- especially thunderstorms. During such storms she experienced terrible zappings, palpitations, irregular heartbeats and a racing heart beat that normally sent her to emergency rooms in a state of fright. I suppose I feel some relief in knowing that I am not alone, but today I have been depressed. Knowing now that my EMRSD can be aggravated by the weather has made me feel as if there is no escape. If it is not one thing it is another.

The Alchemy Of YouPorn.

Just as I thought my sexual addiction was fading away, I received an email. It was from a friend who was telling me that I should check out this site called YouPorn. “I know you have not much to do and you also have not had sex with your wife in almost a year. You should check out this site, not only will it help with your pent up sexuality but it will also rid you of some of your depression and anxiety,” he wrote. Friends, I have allways thought, are good for guiding you in directions that may be helpful to your well-being. Friends see things that you often can not see about yourself- so I decided to take his advice. I was wrong again.

Lately I have been doing more meditation and prayer. I have been tapping into a quality of spiritual existence that I have found quite satisfying. Recently I finished reading the New Testament and The Koran and I have moved onto the Zohar. As a result of my spiritual center being cultivated, I have longed less for the temptations of the flesh. My cravings to drive around ghettos late into the evening searching for the perfect pornographic hand jobs have seriously diminished and my loyalty to a new found sense of virtue and integrity has increased. After all- our spirit thrives off of integrity. But since I have been introduced to the raw video footage on YouPorn, my spiritual commitment has dwindled.

My fascination for all things pornographic is a biological trait I have inherited from many generations of sexually addicted relatives. The urge to see women do all kinds of degrading and perverted things to men is buried deep within my DNA. Ever since I began masturbating when I was 12 I have been attracted to porn. My mind finds solace and relaxation in the sounds and images produced from pornographic videos. There is a calm that comes over me that I have found in no other recreational activity, other than my recent spiritual pursuits.

I deeply feel like there is an innate conflict between pornography and spirituality (the self perfected state). Something in me feels less motivated by intentions of integrity and virtue when I watch pornography. I don’t know exactly why this is but I presume it is because of a conflict of interests and associations. YouPorn has allowed me to dig down deep in my fascinating repertoire of perverted interests and associations :

girl straight sexy babe WEBCAM online fetish blowjob performers live chat mature couple stockings teens asian handjob blonde boys dating making friends camgirls free chat chicks granny GAY latina ebony cam bigsize horny bdsm joy big tits group 18-22 small tits mommy muscular adultcam milf PRIVATE SHOWS skinny white maturecam shemale amazing live shows tranny hot teen nice cock threesome director toy big ass boobs real girl cute teen video chat lesbian 18+ black girl

All of my perverted interests and more can be viewed from the privacy of my laptop computer. The people that are performing these recreational activities are people just like you and I, supported by no corporate interests but rather a simple video camera and perverted sexual motivations. Sitting for hours on my computer and watching various videos on YouPorn feels just like the guilty pleasures I derived from spying upon my next door neighbor having sex with her multiple boyfriends. I used to hang out for hours by her window watching her do things to young men that I had only imagined in my already corrupted young mind. Rain or shine I would be outside that window until my mother would come outside and yell that it was time for dinner. It is almost as if I am regaining some lost sensations of my youth while watching YouPorn- and I know that this is not a good sign since Psychologists claim that this is a fundamental cause of a lot of addictions.

I was not really bothered the past few weeks by the hours and hours that I would spend watching YouPorn. It did not seem unhealthy to me that I would come home from a long day of teaching high school and rather than going out and exercising, or reading or simply relaxing and talking to my wife- I would sneak into my small studio, lock the door and spend hours watching YouPorn until my wife finally yelled “time for dinner.” However today I realized that my YouPorn obsession has gone a little to far. During meditation today I could not stop thinking about the various facial cum shots that I have been watching incessantly. I got out from my meditation and came to my computer where I put on my headphones (which I bought specifically to make the pornographic experience more life like) and went immediately to YouPorn/facials. My spiritual progress was directly interrupted by my desire for porn.

My health has not been in the most ideal condition for some time. My chakras have not only been worn out by my lustful ambitions but also the guilt and shame that I have suffered as a result. It is important to me that I become more spiritually aligned in my life so that I can learn how to love thy neighbor as if he or she where thy self. It is important to me to live with integrity and to set intentions which are motivated by positive energy and love. My healing is wrapped up in my emotional well being and my obsession with YouPorn may be inhibiting my ability to turn toward heaven without a guilty conscience. Pleasures of the flesh are always confused with sin and immorality but personally I have never let these negative attributes stop me. It is only now that I am feeling like pornographic obsessions may not be beneficial for mind or body. Being sent the link to YouPorn may have seemed like a good intentioned gift from my friend, but for me it has become a doorway which has lead back into the realms of my wounded soul.

The End.

On Being Tall.

I am unusually tall, however, I have recently figured out reasons for my overly aggressive anxiety that seems to annoy me on a daily basis. All of the life that I can remember, I have suffered from tumultuous bouts of anxiety. As I have grown older and taller my anxiety has grown right along with me. I have sought out the assistance of psychologists, psychiatrists, acupuncturists, astrologers, chiropractors, meditations teachers and prostitutes. At times certain modalities have been more helpful than others but for the most part my tempestuous anxiety has stalked me like a revengeful lover. I have been held victim by an anxiety so strong the the most menacing of closet or basement monsters pails in comparison.

I am close to seven feet tall which means that I rise quite high off the ground. All of my life I have been on the taller side but I really began to notice the distance between my eyes and the ground when I reached six foot five inches. My grandfather and father both suffered from a terrible fear of heights and until recently I was unaware that I had inherited their affliction. The other day someone said to me “is it not terrifying to be so high off the ground and looking down to see such a vast distance?” And then a little bulb went off inside my mind- this is the cause of my years of ANXIETY, a fear of height!

Being unusually tall in a society composed of mostly medium height people creates a feeling of separation inside of me that only sitting down can resolve. Granted I have noticed that some of my more peaceful moments have been while sitting in meditation. Normally I feel like a man dangling from the edge of a cliff dramatically fearing his fall…I can see now why I find such a respit while composed in the lotus posture- I am close to the ground.

I am told that anxiety is the result of being disconnected from your body, but has anyone ever consider that anxiety could be caused from being to high up in your body? At almost seven feet tall my mind is terrified by the space between it and the ground. Always looking down upon people makes me feel like I am not apart of them. Sometimes I feel as if I am suffering from complete disconnection- a head hovering high in space chronically dealing with a condition called being really tall. And so I have found a reasonable panacea for my anxiety. In the words of one of my students, “just don’t look down and you’ll be all right.”

Push Cart Sallie

I find women who are pulling shopping carts filled with empty bottles and cans to be highly attractive. I do not know from where this sexual excitation arises, but it may have something to do with my first experience with a prostitute. Her name was Push Cart Sallie and I met her while walking down a back alley in San Fransisco. She asked me if I had a cigarette or weed and I could not deny her since she also showed me her large breast which was hanging out from a ripped and stained white stretch shirt. She did not seem to be a day over forty and her physique resembled that of a model who had fallen down deep into the suffocating realms of addiction. Utilizing all of my lung capacities to take a deep breath when she asked me a question that I was to young to deny, I handed her a smoke. Yes, I wanted a hand job for five minutes and five bucks. We disappeared between a dumpster that had a tribe of pigeons scavenging for food all around it. The sun radiated down upon my penis as she pulled on it with her hands that suffered tremors which are a direct consequence of forgotten dreams. My first orgasm with a prostitute was one in which I happily came all over a pigeon loitering upon my feet.

Ever since this encounter with Push Cart Sallie I have been unconsciously hoping to replicate my experience every time I see a women pulling a shopping cart filled with empty cans and bottles. I have reached a point that no matter what the appearance of the women may be, I find myself becoming sexually aroused just looking at the way her body pulls the cart behind her or pushes it forward. It is a symbiotic chemical reaction that takes place in my brain whenever I am confronted with a woman and a shopping cart. I do not know if it is a deep longing for my lost youth that I hope to regain through recreating my first experience with a prostitute or a disturbingly unacceptable sexual dysfunction that I am suffering from. Whatever the case may be, twenty years after my experience with Push Cart Sallie, I am still searching for her in back alleys all over the world.

Blogging Burnout

The desire to write has been burned out of me like a cigarette turning to ash. I have lost all whimsical motivation to explore my unconscious motivations, in the blink of an eye. When I think about writing my head becomes heavy and my thoughts stagnant. Blogging has become as interesting to me as horse back riding, and this is not saying much. How did it happen so fast? Not more than a week ago my fingers were on fire exploring the very themes that travel through my psyche day upon day. There has been little room in my head for thought the past few days, considering the sun has been out and the last place I have wanted to be is with my id (The term id (inner desire) is a Latinised derivation from Groddeck’s das Es,^[2] and translates into English as strictly “it”. It stands in direct opposition to the super-ego. It is dominated by the pleasure principle). To turn the heat up even higher I have decried the use of technology by spending the past few days working on a farm and refusing to use my cellular technology(Neolithic Revolution). How is one to blog if they have decided to wage a revolution by denouncing all technology?

Like all revolutions, mine was short lived- I am back on line. I find myself with little to say, burned out by the sound of my repetitive thoughts. Not wanting to face my self and all my demons- I have turned off the computer and refused to write. It is only when I write that truth slips out, causing me to face the things I can normally hide so well in my normal life. I am almost a victim of my own hands which type out truths I am unwilling to confront. I almost give thanks for these days where I feel as if I have nothing to say, no truth to face, no will to write. Instead I work with the soil, plant flowers and reconnect with the earth, entertaining the novel idea that I shall abstain from ever writing again. But then the stories, the novels, the plays and the blog entries that want to be written start knocking against my brain so that they can be let in and eventually brought to life. So my burnout may be temporary, but real and painful none the less. I will eventually open the door and return with more investigations of my id sooner than I would probably care to admit, but for the time present my wife is laughing in the next room and I should seize this opportunity to experience some joy in our rugid relationship.

The Sex Life Of A Man Without One #19

I never imagined that a naked woman behind glass could be so gratifying and theraputic! How had I gone so long without considering this form of sexual interaction? Not only is it considerably cheaper to talk and mutually masturbate with a woman behind glass (than say go to a strip club or massage pallor), but it is a wonderfully safe form of sex. It is amazing that no one had told me about this. Like most interesting things that I have learned about in my life…I had to stumble upon this one on my own.

It was around 9 p.m when I finished writing my previous blog entry (Shakespeare and I). It was one of the better entries that I have written in some time and I felt the need to reward myself for my efforts. My home was lonely and cold, the wife was at work (she picked up a second job waiting tables at a very hip and formal restaurant in Downtown Oakland) and I was in need of entertainment. I took a quick shower and dressed in a black suit with white converse all star tennis shoes and decided to take a drive into San Fransisco- the city of the night. After a quick drive across the Bay Bridge I entered the womb of the city like a man with a great deal of anticipation in his heart. I parked my mumbling car on a small street where many lives were squished together in nineteenth century apartment buildings. I lit another cigarette and decided to walk, to see where my feet may take me.

I spent an hour or so shopping around in my favorite bookstore, City Lights Books. I read the first pages of dozens of novels by African, European and Latin American Authors. Nothing captured my attention. I decided to buy a book of poems by Jack Kerouac and then to go across the street and drink a beer in an Irish pub. The pub was once home to many Bohemians whose pictures still decorate the walls. I sat at the bar where I had once had a drink with Allen Ginsberg and order and stout. It was close to midnight as I drank black beer and waited for the poetry to fill my mind with a reverent awe.

I left the bar and walked down Broadway. I was a man alone with himself and happy to be filled with the sights and sounds of a city at night. I wondered into an establishment with a blinking neon sign that said Naked Girls Behind Glass- Come On In! Inside a few punk rockers greeted me from behind a counter. I wondered around dark hallways filled by glass windows covered by curtains. All kinds of men wondered the hallways searching for an open window. On the doors besides the windows were pictures of the women who sat on the other side of the curtain. I walked around in anticipation waiting to find an open window. I peed in a bathroom that smelled like urine and I watched a fifty cent porno film in a booth that was sticky with semen.

She knocked hard upon the glass and I could make out her lips saying “hey you, come here!” She seemed to be pointing at me so I followed her index finger and entered the closed door which she sat behind. Inside the cubicle was a black telephone. The room was dark and I could hear a voice shouting “pick up the phone.” I did so and was told to place a five dollar bill into the money slot. When I did this a curtain was pulled back and the room was illuminated with a red neon light. A young women dressed in revealing black and pink lingerie was spread out on a mattress that was covered in red silk sheets and surrounded by mirrors. She held the black phone in her hand and said “my name is Silver, what is yours?’” With the black phone up to my ear I scrambled to make up a name “Zoey,” I said. “Hi Zoey, Welcome to Silver’s Temple. Why don’t you whip out your cock and stick twenty dollars into the slot.”

I was slightly nervous. My conscience was playing in the back of my mind. “You degenerate sleaze ball,” it kept saying over and over. “You can’t take out your penis in a room that smells like cum and is filled with various forms of disease,” my conscience told me over and over, but there was a problem- Silver was hot. Her breasts and stomach were filled with a youthfulness that was yet to see the decline of the flesh. Her face looked like an image that could have created been created by Leonardo da Vinci. She had straight long hair and long silken legs with smooth manicured feet which pressed upon the glass window. When she turned over and showed me her sculpted behind with a small tattoo of a butterfly I immediately began to pull money from my wallet. “What would your wife think of you now,” a voice said into my left ear but I told it to be quiet and leave me be, as I stuck a twenty dollar bill into the money slot.

Music began to play and Silver opened up her long legs revealing a treasure chest between. I stared without concern for the look on my face. “You look like you have never seen a pussy before,” she said. “It has been some time since I have seen one like yours,” I replied with a hint of anxiety in my voice. “Well then Zoey, come closer so you can see.” She took out what looked like a long plastic turkey baster, but was a dildo made out of rubber. She stuck it into that sacred spot that was making my heart rapidly beat. I felt the immediate power of the hole that brings forth life, with a reverence that made me want to fall to my knees. My nose pressed against the glass. I was staring directly into her majestic hole which she played with like a child. She made various sexual sounds and continued to ask me to take out my cock and cum with her. But I could not move. With my nose pressed against the glass all I wanted to do was climb into her vagina and return to the womb which I so fondly remember.

I had to hold back my tears. I understood now the reverence that a religious disciple feels for a sacred object. As Silver played with her dildo I slowly unzipped my zipper and let my pulsating penis leap out into the dank air. “Yes, please play with it for me,” Silver said as she watched me watching her. “Stroke it, stroke it,” she demanded. I felt a little uncomfortable about masturbating in front of the sacred object but the more she demanded that I cum the more I became intoxicated by her sirens call. Silver than sat up and brought her perfectly painted face up to the glass so that she could look directly at my cock. With the black phone in her hand she kept repeating “cum on my face…cum on my face dady,” and like all good disciples I eventually did what the idol demanded. I released my sperm onto a glass window.

“Wow!!” Silver said. “Seems like you have not had sex in a long time,” she commented in response to the large amount of semen that came forth from my penis. “It has been some time, yes,” I said recalling that it has been over a year since I had had sex with my wife, or any women for that matter. “Must be difficult being a married man without a sex life,” Silver said to me as she looked at the wedding ring upon my hand. “It is not so bad, I just can’t seem to figure out how to be intimate with a woman that I love,” I said as I pulled my limp penis back into my pants and zipped up my fly. “Yeah, that’s difficult for a lot of men. They seem to be only able to have good sex with women whom they hate,” Silver said as she turned back around onto her back. I was surprised by her statement but I understood what she may have meant. “Once a man loves a woman they get her confused with their mother and then sex goes out the window. It is all because men are afraid to love,” Silver said. “Maybe so,” I replied not really feeling honorable enough to voice a response. Here I was, with my cum splattered all over a glass window which separated me from the object of my desire. Maybe Silver was right, maybe I was afraid of love.

“Have a nice evening and make sure you come back and see me soon,” Silver said as she shut the drape and turned off the light. I walked out of the establishment with my head down and a feeling like I had just done something that I was not allowed. Outside on the cold and quiet midnight streets I lit a cigarette and began to walk back to my car. Garbage men collected trash on both sides of the street and stray dogs wandered into dark corners searching for food. I looked up at the black sky and observed the sky scrappers which surrounded me on all sides. I am a man in love with the city at midnight. I was twenty five dollars poorer now, but for that price not only did I get to have a pleasant orgasm and watch a beautiful woman play with herself- but I also was able to learn a little something about myself.

Tennis Balls.

“Why don’t you go hit some tennis balls,” my father said to me in response to all the stress I have been under. I had not played tennis in years and the idea of hitting a tennis ball sounded appealing. “Go to the club and hit against the backboard, or hit with the tennis pro if you want, I’ll pay for it,” my father said. I decided to take him up on his suggestion, and dressed in some old sweat pants and a brown Jimmy Hendrix t-shirt, borrowed my wife’s tennis racket and went off to play tennis.

It had been years since I had played against this back board. As a kid I was here almost every day. I felt tight and stiff. I have grown older than my years (36) and my body was unhappy about being forced into these strange postures. However, after a few minutes of warming up and stretching- my game came back to me. I hit the tennis ball just like the pro I used to be. My backhand was a little rusty but my forehand stroke was still in top condition. I bent my knees and released all of my stress with each swing. The sun warmed my body as I slowly began to forget about all my worries and just concentrated upon hitting the tennis ball.

I was unpleasantly greeted by a middle aged man in a Nike sweat suit wearing a yellow Nike hat upon his head. He looked very serious. “Excuse me,” he said with an official intonation in his voice- “Are you a member of this tennis club?” My first inclination was to be offended. I had grown up playing tennis on these courts and was here long before he had ever come around. This was my turf. I took a deep breath and said “yes, in fact I am.” “May I have your club number,”he said. “Why do you ask,” I said with some hint of animosity in my voice. “Because I have never seen you around before, and quite frankly you do not look like the average club member,” he said implying that this was a prestigious tennis club and I did not look like one who had any money in the bank. “Since I am the tennis pro here at Round Hill Country Club, it is my duty to keep these courts safe.” I felt the anger rise up in my body which was covered in a noon time sweat. Just because I had long hair, a beard and was not wearing the appropriate tennis gear certainly did not make me a threat. Granted I LOOKED OUT OF PLACE, BUT HIS ACCUSATION THAT I MAY BE SOME KIND OF THREAT WAS SIMPLY OFFENSIVE.

After a few minutes of struggle and argument he threatened to kick me off the court if I did not give some proof of my identity or club number. “How dare you question my legitimacy,” I continued on, “you have no idea the implications of your mis- judgment. You are profiling me!!” “Just give me your club number sir,” he said with a hint of legality in his voice. I told him I did not know my club number (my father would not give me the number because he was afraid that I would use it to buy booze and food at the country club bar) but I gave him my last name.

He stopped to think for a moment and then he asked me what my mothers name was. When I told him his whole demeanor changed, as if a light had gone off in his head. I went from being a potential terrorist to the son of a club member. He apologized for his interrogation of me but said again that it was his job to make sure these courts were safe. He then asked me if my name was Randall. When I told him it was he said, “your mother always talks about you and tells me what a great tennis player you are.” “Oh,” I said without interest- wanting him to just go away so I could resume my game with the back board. There was a moment of awkward silence between us and then he said to me before leaving, “can I offer you a complementary can of new tennis balls as an apology?” Of course I said- “don’t worry about it.”

The End.

Sex Life Of A Man Without One #18

She called herself the “Divine Back Scratcher.” A whore with this kind of vernacular struck an immediate interest in me. Despite the fact that I had pledged to stay away from prostitutes for a time, the itch was returning. For a man this itch is the equivalent to a nuisance which never seems to go away. For a time there will be some quiet, a respite but like all biological imperatives- it returns with a vengeance. I have learned to accept this eternal return, with the calm acceptance of the Buddhist I feel I may be becoming. I realize that everything is as it should be in life. I try not to get in the way.

Once again I began my day by doing a little meditation and then immediately going on the internet to see who was on the Craig’s List Erotic Adds page. I searched trough numerous pictures with an erection that felt like kundalini rising in my lower spine. I was delighted by various adds that mentioned daily head specials or lunch time hand specials. The photographs were mostly unappealing but the few that struck some interest in my eyes were like shots of ecstasy to my brain. I had been to long without my girls.

I have been meaning to talk to my wife about my sexual expeditions and obsessions. My therapist decided that if I had not done it within the month that she was going to call my wife and tell her. I knew my therapist was only innocently threatening me with her pledge (since it violates patient privacy rights)- but now I fear that she may do it. So I have an allotted time left to indulge my fantasies before I have to face the music (which may turn out to be a rehabilitation center for sex addicts). This morning the sun was out, I had money in my bank account and could foresee no reason why (other than guilt and shame) I should not investigate my curiosity with regards to the Back Scratcher. Cumm Let me Scratch your back and make you purr, the add said and the photograph I could hardly resist.

She was only seeing clients at a hot tub establishment that was not far from my abode. I quickly dressed and decided not to put on underwear since I assumed I would be going into the tub nude. Over the phone she sounded rather unfriendly and belabored. I tried not to take this personally by telling myself that I was not trying to make friends. I just wanted an erotic hand job in a hot tub. My appointment was for 1:15 p.m and when I arrived at the establishment it seemed as if it could be closed. A homeless man stood outside and there were no cars upon the vacated industrial street. Other than a few famished alley cats and a sign that said Health Spa I seemed to be in the middle of nowhere.

I rang the buzzer and was greeted by an older Asian man who had a cigar in his mouth. “You here for girl, yes?” I did not know how to answer. What if this was a sting, a trap to catch perverts like myself? This has been going on a lot lately. “You here for girl?” he said again with a frenetic energy that made me feel pressured. I threw caution to the wind and nodded yes. “You sit, she almost through with nother client.” I sat in a yellow chair that smelled like a thrift shop. I looked at desperate fish floating around in a neglected fish tank. One orange fish watched me watch it. I wondered if he understood. There was a picture of the Buddha on the wall and a few oranges and a banana were placed in front of the picture. Food for the Gods.

A very fat man walked down the hallway. His step was heavy enough to rattle the chair in which I sat. He was breathing hard and seemed to be perspiring a great deal. His face was beet red and when he said good bye to the Asain man, I thought I heard him say “what a back scratch!” I was nervous and hesitant when the Asain man said to me, “Okay you go,” and directed me to walk on down the hall to the open door with white light shining out of it. The hallway was dark and lined with straw mats that made me feel like I was visiting a whore house in a third world. If it was not for the smell of chlorine and tobacco, I would of thought I was walking away from the living and towards the light.

The room was dark, and I was greeted by a long legged women dressed in a black corsage. Her hair was long and ruffled and she seemed to be developing dark bags under her eyes. None the less I found her very attractive. She reminded me of a fallen angel. “Welcome,” she told me after she mentioned that I should get undressed and lie on my stomach on the mattress upon the floor. I noticed that in the room there was no hot tub. “Have you had your back scratched lately,” she asked me. “I have not,” I said like a shy school boy. “Well this one you will enjoy,” she said as she ran her long pink nails down the front of my bare chest while making a sexy sound. “Oh look,” she said surprised as I stood naked in front of her, “your cock is ready to go!” I looked down and noticed a pulsating erection hanging off my shaking groin. “This is what happens when I am nervous,” I said.

I gave her the agreed upon sixty dollars and lied down on my stomach. The mattress smelled like a mixture of semen and perfume. I buried my face deep into the pillow and tried with all my might not to think about how I would tell my wife about this. She would never believe these degenerate journey’s I go out on. Her life is clean, composed, starched and blessed. This kind of experience is not upon her radar nor does she think it is upon mine. While she is hard at work I am at home looking for work, is what she thinks. As I was thinking about what not to think about I felt the Back Scratcher sit upon my bare butt like she was straddling a horse. I took a deep breath as she gently began to run her nails down my spine. She made strange chanting sounds which had the effect of really turning me on. She then ran her nails over my head and into my ears. My anxiety fell away and turned into a relaxation I had never felt before. Even though I wanted to see her naked (and was willing to pay more) I was completely resigned to the moment. I surrendered and turned into a floating cloud. Her fingers ran up and down my spine and shoulders with a motion that felt like the wind. I was hypnotized by her scratches until she placed one of her hands upon my testicles.

I am easily surprised. I live my life trying to avoid surprises because it makes me feel like I have little control in my life ( I am having difficulty accepting the laws of chaos). When she placed her warm and tingling hand upon my testicles, I made what sounded like a pre-pubescent chirp. My body vibrated and she asked me if I was okay. I was more than fine I told her, “I had just had an orgasm.” She laughed and said, “you came already, I did not even do anything!!” “It takes so little,” I said. All she could do was laugh and ask me if I wanted a cookie.

Ever since I was a young man I have suffered from premature ejaculation. Many a women have left me because of it. I have done what I can to develope my “locking,” abilities but the older I get the more I have just learned to live with my disability. I have read books, taken a seminar (“The Multi Orgasmic Male”) and even saw a councilor for this ailment. To no avail. I have been told that the problem is the result of years spent frequently masturbating, neurological and genetic. I just think I am a very horney man who can not hold back all the intense pressure I keep blocked up during the course of a typical day. When I explained this to the Back Scratcher she told me she understood. “My last boyfriend was like this so I can relate,” she said. “He usually came before he even stuck it in.” This made me feel better, understood. Once I was fully dressed I told her that during the back scratch I had reached a state of relaxation I had never achieved before. “See whores are good for some things,” she said as she counted her money and then looked at the clock. I could not have agreed more.

Electromagnetic Freek (EMF).

I love my laptop but it is making me sick! It has turned into a constant struggle. Let me explain before you jump to judgment: I am immensely sensitive to EMF radiation from cell phones, laptops- all wireless technology. I have learned about this new advent in my life lately. Upon moving into the new home in which I live- I developed all kinds of physical symptoms. Besides the regular palpitations, and constant worry, I have developed what feels like a perpetual tingling erection, brain surges and vivid dreams which shock me awake with a racing heartbeat. I have also begun to slur my words on certain heavy electromagnetic days and feel pins and needles tap dancing