How To Escape A Drama-Filled Society

Living in a drama-filled society can be exhausting and draining for anyone. It’s no secret that drama often causes unnecessary stress, anxiety, confusion, distraction and it can be difficult to escape. But not impossible. There are a few steps you can take to remove yourself from the morass of drama and create a more peaceful, stress-free life.

  1. Identify the sources of drama:
    The first step in escaping the drama of your society is to identify its sources. It may be certain friends, family members, or co-workers who create drama. Alternatively, it could be social media or news outlets that stir up emotions and create angst. When you identify the causes of drama, it’s easier to avoid them.
  2. Limit your exposure to drama:
    Now that you’ve identified the sources of drama, take steps to limit your exposure to them. For example, if you have a mentally unstable sister who constantly involves herself in your drama thus creating even more drama for yourself, you may need to distance yourself from her or set solid boundaries. Similarly, if social media causes negative emotions or triggers drama, delete the app or take a few days off.
  3. Surround yourself with positivity:
    To counteract the negativity and drama of your society, focus on surrounding yourself with positive people who bring you joy and make you feel good about yourself. I realize that positive people can be superficial and dull. This may mean eliminating friends who don’t share your values and interests or making time for self-care activities that lift your mood and counteract all the soul-destroying drama.
  4. Practice mindfulness and self-care:
    Mindfulness practices such as meditation and deep breathing can be helpful in reducing stress and anxiety. Self-care activities like taking a hot bath, reading a book, journaling, stretching, cleaning, listening to music, being naked with another human, hanging-out/doing nothing or going for a ponderous walk can also help reduce the impact of deadening drama on your life.
  5. Focus on what you can control:
    Finally, remember that while you can’t control the drama in your society, you can control your reactions to it. You may feel like being distracted from everything but focus on the things you can control, such as how much time and energy you devote to drama, and let go of things you cannot control. By taking ownership of your own life, you’ll reduce the impact of drama and create a more peaceful and interesting existence.

Escaping the drama of society takes effort, diligence and discipline but it’s worth it to create a more fulfilling and stress-free existence. By identifying the sources of drama, limiting your exposure to them, surrounding yourself with positivity (that is not superficial or dull), practicing mindfulness and self-care, and focusing on what you can control, you can escape the drama and create a more relaxed living situation for yourself.

My Sleeping Wife

Every morning starting at 8, I begin the long process of waking up my sleeping wife. She sleeps in the nude and at around 8am all the blankets are pulled off and her naked and supine body just rests there. Sometimes I imagine that this is how she would look if she were dead. The bedroom is completely dark even though the sun is very much new and alive outside.

I tell her it is time to wake up but she does not respond. I go back to reading my book.

At 9am I remind her that she is missing the best part of the day. Mornings are a time of renewal. Everything has a fresh start and is yet to be destroyed by the rest of the day and night. I try to entice my wife with a cup of two hour old coffee heated up on the stove, but her body refuses to move. Looking at my wife I often think how good her body looks in the nude but how much better it would look if she would just move.

Sometime at around 11am I return to the dark bedroom and remind my wife that she is sleeping her life away. By this time her body has shifted into a different position. Often she is laying on her back and I will notice if her pubic hair remains untended to. Sometimes I will receive a response from some part of her that is still alive, which says something like, I don’t want to get up. Please just let me sleep. I love you. She seems agitated but calm and indicates that she wants to be left alone. What kind of thirty-year-old woman sleeps like this? Isn’t this the time when a young person should be most engaged in life? But I keep these thoughts to myself and let her sleep.

At around 1pm I will ask my sleeping wife if she would like me to bring her some lunch and she always answers no. Sometimes she will even say that she needs to be careful with her weight so please do not entice her with food. But doesn’t she need to eat? I will think about all the things which could go wrong from a lack of nutrition but not say anything about it. Not to mention what happens to a body when it goes without any sunlight. It seems as if my sleeping wife just wants to hurry up and be old.

In mid-afternoon I confess to becoming mad. What kind of way is this to live? She is neglecting so much in her life? Why can’t she just get it together and wake up? If she would just start exercising everything would feel better. She needs to wake up and tend to her life! It is just not healthy to be in bed this long. All these thoughts and more start racing through my head at around 3 pm. What I do not seem to understand is that my sleeping wife is tired of life. She can not handle the load of responsibilities she must tend to as an adult and would rather just remain asleep. I don’t think this is a good coping mechanism.

I realize that my wife is a shy person who does not enjoy interacting with most people but this is no way to avoid the world. At around 5pm I will tell her this. I will tell her that being an adult involves doing a lot of things that you do not want to do and this is why most adults are terribly unhappy and addicted to so many things. Rather than sleeping all day I tell my wife that she needs to find healthier ways of being an adult in this messed up world but my wife just continues to sleep. At this point she is usually laying on her stomach, on top of our comforter. I notice how healthy and appealing her butt still looks. I feel my libido spike and I want to reach out and touch her butt. I always abstain because I know she would become violently angry if I invaded her space.

At around 7pm I go back into the bedroom, this time frustrated and indignant (it is the same every day) and notice that she is not there. She has finally gotten out of bed and is either standing naked in the kitchen or she is naked on the toilet. If the human animal could be in a state of hibernation all the time I know my wife would never get up. But because she exists in a human body she must wake up. Often I will find her standing in front of the refrigerator eating various forms of vegan food. I will ask her if she wants me to make her something and she always says no. I will ask her if she heard about the most recent terrorist attack and she always says no and that she does not care.

At around 8pm, after taking a long shower, my sleeping wife is back in bed and will remain there for almost another twenty-four hours. At this point I no longer bother her even though I am completely frustrated by this on-going situation. I understand that this is how she is choosing to respond to living in the messed up adult world but I feel like there are more proactive and responsible choices that she could make. But what can a man do whose wife has decided to remain asleep? You try waking a sleeping wife up. Any attempt to intervene just pisses her off. I have learned through time and effort to let her be and instead make friends with my own loneliness and turn it into a comfortable solitude by reading a lot of books.

I am usually in bed around 10pm and try not to bother her.

The Balding Husband

“Sounds great honey!”

I’ve been saying this a lot recently. As much as I can.

You see I am trying to win over my wife’s heart. For a while now I have had most of her heart but not all of it. Now I need all of it. Every last square inch.

When a husband has less hair, he needs to find other ways to win more heart.

My wife responds well to, “Sounds great honey!” The more enthusiastically I say it the bigger the smile. On downtrodden days it is harder for me to be enthusiastic, but I force myself since enthusiasm is what is wanted most by people.

We should put in nice gravel all over the backyard: “Sounds great honey!”

Lets get our hot tub up and running again: “Sounds great honey!”

I am going to be going away for a week to go camping with friends: “Sounds great honey!”

We should go into LA today and eat at a nice restaurant and then go to a bookstore and buy a bunch of books: “Sounds great honey!”

Maybe you could trim all the trees today and clean the leaves off the roof: “Sounds great honey!”

Would you please pay all our bills this afternoon and wash the dogs: “Sounds great honey!”

I have been committed to being so enthuisiastic with my wife because I am balding. I can’t believe I am even writing this but I am having to confront the inevitable fact that it is happening to me. It is not a rapid balding but my hair is thinning more and more every single day. Each day that I examine my head in the mirror, I am noticing more and more scalp.

The last time I had my haircut, the stylist said, “I will not cut anything from the back, since you need that hair.” Fuck, is what I thought when she said this. Balding is happening.

I did not think it would happen to me. My mother’s father had a full head of hair all the way up to his very end. My father has a head without much hair on it, but I work hard not to be as angry and stressed as him. As a result, I believed I could avoid his hair loss fate. The last time I spoke with him I considered asking at what age he really started to thin, but I decided that I would rather not know.

As I write this I have a concoction of aloe vera, lemon and castor oil in my hair. I am supposed to leave this concoction in my hair for an hour, twice a week to encourage new hair growth. My scalp is currently burning but they tell me that this is encouraging blood flow.

You see, my wife is 14 years younger than I am. She is just a year or so over the age of 30 and no woman just over 30 wants a balding husband. What would a younger woman like my wife do with a balding husband? Once my head of thick and wavy hair is half of what it was when we first met, how will my young wife cope with this? It can’t be easy for a beautiful, young wife to have an older, balding husband. Sounds superficial, but whether we like it or not, thinning hair is an issue.

So I have had to start being extra nice. Extra enthuisiastic. “Honey, could you come here?” “Sure honey, I will be right there,” I reply and move quick.

I have read that I can compensate for undesirable physicalities (hair loss) through kindness, enthuisiasm and making more money. This is why you sometimes see those very unattractive men with beautiful women. They have these three necessary ingredients.

I don’t know about making more money, but I can certainly be more enthusiastic and kinder.

When a man or woman is physically pleasing to the eye, he or she can get away with behaving like a shit. But once the appealing physicalities start to fall away- we have to stop being angry, greedy, selfish selves. We have to get better at being nice and putting others first. If not, we end up alone.

I have been taking supplaments, doing hair conscoctions, standing on my head for thirty minutes a day, massaging my scalp before bed, orgasming only once a week (sperm retention is said to help in Ayurvedic medicine), only using organic hair products, meditating twice a day for twenty minutes, abstaining from alcohol, eating more fish, keeping stress levels low and exercising- all in an effort to grow new hair or keep the hair I have left. Few things are more distressing to me than taking a shower and finding hair that has fallen out. I have none to spare.

I kick myself for the things I took for granted in my full-head-of-hair-youth.

I can’t afford to be a balding husband. I just can’t. It is too much of a blow to my sense of self. I have always been a man with a full head of wavy, thick hair. Who the hell would I be if I had more scalp showing than hair? The thought is terrifying even though I realize aging often involves coming to terms with these things.

For now, I need to wage a war against hair loss. I can’t imagine subjecting my beautiful, young wife to the insecurity of having a balding husband.

I need to go wash this stuff out of my hair then stand on my head for thirty minutes. I can’t be wasting my time writing. Writing isn’t any good for encouraging new hair growth.

Stuff To Make Sandwiches With

All of our lives are running away from us and all we have to let us know that this is happening is our withered reflections when looking in mirrors. I am someone who is continually aware of how my life is running away from me. Often I will look at pictures of people in the 1950’s and 60’s and think about how their lives have completely run away from them. I am well aware that I am up against the same fate, every moment of every day.

I have a particular practice or daily exercise that I employ for better managing the feelings of dread and futility that arise when a person is aware of their life running away from them. I make sandwiches. I try to make at least two sandwiches a day but on a bad day I will make five. There is no greater satisfaction in my life than eating a sandwich that I have made. The thicker the better. I do not enjoy thin sandwiches. Thin sandwiches are for those who are not courageous. Thin sandwich makers are so afraid of the realities of life that they do everything to calorically restrict themselves so they can feel the illusory impression of being immortal and unaffected by aging. I prefer thick sandwiches because not only do they satiate the more fear prone parts of my brain, but they also allow me to better enjoy a life that I know is running away from me.

I use the healthiest bread that I can buy. This means bread with a high fiber and seed content. Not only is this bread delicious but I do not feel so guilty after eating large amounts of it. I know that I have superseded my daily recommended fiber intake and this helps me feel more confident about the workings of my bowels. I prefer using organic mayonnaise on whatever high fiber bread I use, but since my wife is vegan I normally have to resort to using organic vegan mayonnaise. The good thing about using organic vegan mayonnaise is that I can use larger amounts of it and not feel so doomed to coronary heart disease. I also like to use large amounts of organic spicy mustard, the names of which I can never pronounce. The combination of organic vegan mayonnaise and organic spicy mustard usually and temporarily suspends any kind of existential dread.

My wife and I both try to keep our refrigerator loaded with stuff to make sandwiches with. My wife is younger than I. Not much younger in terms of the span of human history on planet earth but much younger in terms of the deterioration of the human body. Fourteen years can make a massive difference when it comes to the ravages caused by aging. But because my wife also suffers from a certain existential awareness (a fundamental signifier of an intelligent mind) she too is aware of life running away from not only herself but also from her beloved husband and her even more beloved three dogs. In a way I envy her youth. Even if in youth a person is aware of their lives running away from them they still have the underlying comfort of knowing that they still have a good amount of time to lose. Once you are older, the awareness of life running away from you fills you with more despair (or denial) because you know you have much less time to lose.

My wife has picked up the sandwich making practice from me. She also finds it an effective way to deal with the awareness of a run away life. I appreciate that she dedicates just as much interest in keeping our fridge filled with stuff to make sandwiches with as I do. Because my wife is still young enough where she still has the ability to have an incredibly attractive figure (which often provides a person with the fit illusion of being immortal) she does not make her sandwiches as thick as I do. She usually makes her sandwiches with things like organic vegan cheddar cheese, organic sprouts, organic pickles, organic lettuce or organic kale and organic sauerkraut. For some reason she always insists on toasting her seeded wheat bread, which is something I never do. This is another luxury of being young- you feel like you have more time to spend on doing trivial things. I never toast my bread, only because I feel like I just do not have the time. For her she still has a good amount of time to give to such superfluous things. (This is why most good art, literature, film and music is made in youth. A young person has more time to spend passionately dedicated to such things. Once a person is older they just want to spend time with life or living because there is less time and energy to give towards working at things that feel more superfluous the older and sicker a person gets.)

I stuff my sandwiches with a plethora of different organic things. I use various kinds of organic nuts, organic onions, organic vegan cheeses, wild tuna or wild salmon from a can, organic humus, organic pickles, organic sprouts, organic vegan sausages (usually uncooked), organic cabbage, organic kale, organic mung beans, organic sauerkraut, organic habaneros and organic baked barbecue potato chips for extra crunch. I find that stuffing my sandwiches with things that create a crunch effect allows me to discharge a lot of the anger and frustration that I feel with regards to a life that is running away from me and everyone I love. Crunching is a very effective way to deal with this chronic frustration that I feel in my life.

It requires mindfulness and slow movements to keep everything in the sandwich rather than falling out on the plate. What I have found is that with the right positioning of everything inside the sandwich and with mindful movements, overboard condiments can be avoided when eating a thick sandwich. Whatever things do fall out on to my plate, I make sure to eat once I am finished eating my sandwich. I look as this as a kind of dessert.

My grandfather, on my father’s side, used to do a similar thing. After the age of forty he was also very aware of life running away from him. He often spoke about how he could not believe how much older everyone was getting. “One minute they were young and filled with life and now they are older and filled with all kinds of unwanted obligations, wear and tear,” he would say when talking about friends, family members, old lovers and celebrities that he liked. Every day for lunch he would eat a large hoagie sandwich. He lived in Philadelphia where there was a hoagie/steak sandwich establishment on every corner. Philadelphians obviously are also very aware of life running away from them and deal with it by making and eating very large sandwiches. Have you seen how big these things are? Some people refer to them as subs, because they are so long. My grandfather would eat one all to himself. Everyday. All alone. A sandwich filled with not organic cheese, meat, hot peppers, shredded lettuce, tomatoes, mustard, mayonnaise, vinegar and oil. He would shake not organic pepper and salt on top and whenever he took me to a hoagie place on one of my yearly visits he would always say, “It is all in the bread kid.” To this day I still believe that to be true but instead of using freshly baked white sourdough bread, I use high fiber wheat or rye seeded bread.

I have found that making sandwiches on a daily basis has been an effective, short-term way for me to deal with the day-to-day knowledge that my life is running away from me. The thicker the sandwich the better. But I also realize that this is a short term solution. I have to keep making sandwiches, sometimes several times a day in order for it to work. Once I am done making and eating my sandwich it is a matter of an hour or so before my sense of life going quickly by returns. I notice when it returns because I feel somewhat depressed. This is usually when I will make another sandwich. If I am away from my home and not able to make a sandwich I will settle for having one made for me. It does not work as well, but it still eases the pain of knowing that it is all quickly passing by.

By the way, now it is Fall. I stay inside as much as I can when it is Fall. Fall is a season that can literally fall on you, so please proceed with caution. Look up, even as you eat sandwiches.

Hot Soup On A Hot Day (Post #422)

Please learn from my mistake, even though I realize this rarely happens.

I don’t know why I did it. It’s been a long process to return to normal. I never appreciated normalcy as much as I do now. Many years ago, while seeking treatment for a certain health condition, an Ayurvedic doctor told me to never consume hot liquids on a hot day. He said that this was the worst thing a person could do to their health. I listened, up until last week. Then I forgot.

When a person is hungry and there is very little food around, eating for the sake of health no longer matters. Eating to be healthy is a luxury that most people in the world can not afford. I made my self hot soup only because there was no other food to eat in my house. I had to be at work within the hour, so I had no time to go out for food. I had to eat what was left in my pantry and since there was only one can of minestrone soup and I was starving, I ate it without thinking.

I had not been outside yet that day so I was not aware of how hot it was. I suppose I should have been since normally I check the weather on my iPhone. But that day I did not. Had I known that the day was going to be so hot I probably would have eaten the soup cold. This is a common human problem- only realizing what the correct thing to do is after doing the wrong thing. I am human.

I brought the soup to a boil in one of my pots. I then added a few tablespoons of cayenne pepper to make it spicier. I prefer all of my food spicy. Non-spicy food bores me. It lacks soul. I also added some garlic salt along with a few raw cloves of garlic. I then took out a tablespoon and began eating the soup right out of the pot. I don’t enjoy doing dishes and avoid using dishes whenever possible. My wife often gets frustrated that I eat my meals right out of the pot they were cooked in. Since I am the one who does the dishes in our house, how could she understand?

I always eat as if someone is about to take my food away. In retrospect I now realize I should not have eaten the hot soup so quickly but I needed to be at work. I burned my mouth and my gut and probably began the process of some sort of abdominal or esophageal ulceration. When a person is hungry and in a hurry all health considerations go out the door. I finished the minestrone soup quickly, put the empty pot and tablespoon in the sink, picked up my things and left the house. From the start of eating the soup to the time I left my house, no more than five minutes elapsed. It really is not a good idea to do anything in a hurry.

The moment I got into my car I noticed an unusual amount of perspiration on my forehead, chest and underarms. I thought nothing of it. It was just an effect of eating hot soup and would pass quickly enough. I turned the air conditioner on HIGH and drove to work. During my seven minute commute, the perspiration turned into a full blown sweating attack. But I still assumed it would pass.

While at work the sweating did not cease. It became relentless. I had to take off my button down shirt and use it to soak up the sweat coming out of my pores. I hated doing this since the shirt was new, expensive and I had just received it as a birthday gift. Sweat was dripping from my forehead onto my desk and crotch area. My entire black t-shirt was soaked. What the hell is going on? was all I could think. My tan pants were also absorbing a large amount of sweat from my leg and crotch pours. After an hour at work I was completely drenched in my body’s sweat. My sweat filled the room with the rancid smell of digested garlic. It looked as if I had jumped into a pool with my clothes on. This is when I began freaking out. I use the word freaking literally. I panicked.

I left work without asking or letting anyone know. I just ran out the front door and went directly to my car. As I ran I could hear the soaked cotton sound of my pants rubbing together at the thighs. When I got into my car I looked at my face in the rearview mirror. I was drenched. My hair and forehead were dripping with sweat. I considered going to the emergency room but decided to drive home and figure things out instead. Other than feelings of panic I felt fine. I was just sweating profusely and it would not stop. I had my car’s air conditioner on HIGH as I drove home, all the vents pointed directly at my chest and face. It is strange that I was thinking this because I have often heard people say things like this but suddenly I was the one thinking, Why me? Why do things like this always happen to me? I wanted to cry.

Once I made it home I took off all of my clothes and turned my home’s air conditioner on HIGH. I considered texting my wife and letting her know what was happening but I did not want to worry her. In the nude I walked all around my house waiting for the cold to kick in and trying to calm myself down. I got bath towels out and carried them around with me in order to absorb the massive amounts of sweat. I opened up the freezer and stood in front of it. I even stuck my head in the freezer with the freezer door closed against my back. None of this seemed to help. I continued to sweat.

I took a cold bath, rubbed ice cubes all over my body, ate a pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. I laid down on the kitchen floor and covered as much of my naked body as possible with packages of frozen vegetables that we had kept stacked for years in the freezer in case the apocalypse struck. As the packages of frozen vegetables thawed and the air conditioner roared away- I continued to sweat all over the linoleum. I had no idea what was going on.

Should I go to the hospital? Should I let my wife know? What if I sweat so much I just melt away? All kinds of thoughts ran through my mind. I thought up various ways that I could try to stop the sweating. Climb into the freezer and shut myself in. Build a tent over the air conditioner vent and stay in there with packages of frozen vegetables duct taped to my body. Fill the bathtub with ice and soak in it (we did not have enough ice for this, I would have had to go to the liquor store down the street and was in no condition to be seen in public). As I was searching my mind for solutions to stop the profuse sweating it was then that I remembered the Ayurvedic physician telling me to never consume hot liquids on a hot day. I then remembered the hot minestrone soup. “Shit,” I said out loud.

When my wife returned home later that day and saw packages of frozen vegetables duct taped all over my naked body, she began laughing hysterically. I often did these kind of pranks to lessen the stress and banality of normal life. When I was finally able to calm her down, convince her this was for real and tell her about the severity of my situation, her laughter turned into deep concern. The sweating lasted for several days and my wife helped me out in whatever ways she could. I do not know what I would have done without a loving wife to help me. She kept me hydrated, she made me delicious cold gazpacho soups, she bought me powdered electrolytes which she rubbed into my body and kept fresh bags of ice piled on top of me as I rested in bed. Most importantly she continually calmed me down by telling me that everything was going to be alright. This helped my mental state so much because when the sweating would not stop for days, I really believed I was going to melt away.

The sweating ran its course and I have thankfully lived to tell this tale. It was a terrible experience that I am sure will traumatize me for the rest of my time on earth. Sweating that profusely for so many days was something that I would not even wish upon the most terrible human being. It was the single most awful experience of my entire life, even though I did enjoy the attention and care that I received from my wife. For months to come I will have to take mega doses of supplements and drink a lot of coconut water to return my bodies potassium and magnesium levels to a normal state, but this is fine. I am just happy that I did not melt away.

Most lessons are learned after the mistakes have been made. I realize that very rarely do us humans learn anything without experiencing the consequences first, not matter how much someone tries to teach or warn us. This is a fundamental human flaw and we just have to accept that some things don’t change. As far as consuming hot soup on a hot day is concerned, I will never do that again. I realize I can’t stop you from consuming hot soup on a hot day, but for what it is worth, I wanted to try.

How To Become A Night Writer (Post #412)

unnamed Want to become a night writer? Does the idea of writing when everyone else is entertaining themselves to death in front of televisions or falling asleep in beds while glued to their smart phone or iPad screens appeal to you? Would you like to write without feeling like there are other things that you should be doing, without feeling like the day is getting away from you as you slave away on some story that will never be read? Does writing when everything around you is dark and silent and going to sleep sound like the ideal conditions for writing?

If so, I have no idea how to help you do this. For the past several weeks I have been disciplined about writing at night but so far everything I have written after 7pm has been an absolute failure. I am not certain why my writing is so bad after the hour of 7pm (or even 6pm) but I have a few ideas, which I would like to share with you.

First, I would just like to say that I got the idea for becoming a night writer after I listened to the writer Jarett Kobek (the author of brilliant novels such as ATTA and I Hate The Internet) speak about the benefits of writing at night. When I heard him I thought: Maybe this is why my writing career has been a failure? Maybe I have the timing all wrong? Maybe if I wrote at night instead of mornings my writing career would start going better? Maybe I could actually finish writing a novel? I decided to give night writing a try. So far, this try has been a disaster, a failed experiment.

I just can’t write at night. I continually fall asleep. Once I wake myself back up again and start writing, my words are just a blur on the screen. I mean what the hell kind of writer who is any good, falls asleep while writing? This is unacceptable. I am not falling asleep because I am bored with what I am writing (well, maybe a bit bored). I am falling asleep because after ten or twenty minutes of writing at night my eyelids feel as if they have been stuffed with heavy bags of sand. I regret not asking Jarett Kobek how he does it. How does he keep himself awake at night? Does he drink coffee or green tea? Does he take amphetamines? Does he smoke stimulating marijuana with lots of THC? Does he wake up really late in the day? How the hell does he do it? This is what I want to know. What’s the secret?

I don’t want to ingest any stimulates after 3pm. If I do I know I will encounter a restless nights sleep. If I don’t sleep well, my entire life suffers. I can’t smoke weed without freaking out, so this is out of the question. I have tried eating sweet grapes and pineapple, drinking a large glass of orange juice, eating a large bowl of frozen yogurt, all in an effort to use the natural sugars to keep myself awake while night writing. But this has failed. Natural sugars from fruit and dairy assists my digestion while gradually putting me to sleep. I don’t eat artificial sugars, so no Snicker bars for me. Falling asleep while writing is a major problem that I do not know how to fix.

Normally (when not kept up late by a good film or unexpected sexual experiences), I wake up early in the morning. I will meditate for 45 minutes and then make coffee. After I have my mug filled with coffee, I will take it to my writing desk and start typing away by 7:45am at the latest. But I do not enjoy writing in the morning. It is no fun to be sitting in a dark room with a desk light on while the morning sun shines bright outside. I would rather be reading out in my sun filled garden or at the local cafe. I would rather be on a long walk. Anything but writing, even though I write anyways. Maybe this is why my writing career is not working out? I am writing at the wrong time. But if I want to be a night writer, I must go to bed later and wake up later. This is a fact. I can not wake up at 6am and expect to not feel tired while writing at night. It is just not logical for a 44-year-old man to keep himself awake this long.

I can’t stay up past 10pm. I have tried but my capacity for staying up late seems like something I lost along with my youth. The past two weeks I have tried to force myself to stay up past 10pm. Even though I am too tired to write, I listen to records, I paint, I do yoga, I watch erotic French films, I eat a large bowl of red grapes, anything to keep myself up. But I fail every time. Once the clock hits 10pm, all I want is to be falling asleep in my tempurpedic bed with my arms wrapped around my non-tempurpedic wife. In the mornings when my eyes open at 6am, I try to force myself to stay asleep longer. I do breathing exercises, I put lavender oil under my nose, I wrap my body up against my wife’s body, which is still sound asleep. I put my hand on my wife’s breast in order to feel more relaxed. I do everything that I can to stay asleep, but by 6:30am I have to get out of bed. I can’t take it anymore.

I do not know what to do. I have no clue about how to become a night writer. I know that night writing is an excellent idea. The absence of the sun, the silence all around, the disappearance of all people and distractions and the darkness outside are all ideal conditions for any writer. But this falling asleep while writing thing is really getting in the way of what could otherwise be a brilliant writing career. A tired writer does the world no favors.

And then there is the issue of my sex life. I am sorry to have to talk about this but I presume it is something fundamental that any night writer must confront. Like most married couples, sex time is usually nighttime. Having sex during the day is something for young people and for those who are at the very beginning stages of their sexual relationship. Sex is like an elevator going up, the more you have it with the same person the more it moves up towards the later hours of the evening (eventually I presume it arrives at the top floor where no one is getting off). If I am writing at night, when will I ever have sex with my wife? It wont happen during the day, I can tell you that for certain. I am just not the morning or daytime sex kind of guy. If it is not at night, it will be never, so I am not sure what to do. Literature is important to me. Probably the most important thing (besides the health of my wife, my dogs and myself). But I am not so certain that at the age of 44 I am ready to sacrifice my sex life for my writing career.

How to become a night writer? How about you tell me? Once you figure it out or if you have figured it out let me know, because I am getting nowhere with this night writing business. On second thought, please keep your ideas to yourself. I don’t care. If I can’t figure this out on my own, I would rather not figure it out at all. This is just the kind of person I am. I will keep writing at night. I’m not giving up just yet. Maybe writing at night is a muscle that a writer needs to develop over time. Like any developing muscle, the beginning stages are always the worst. Maybe if I stick with it, my eyelids will gradually lighten up, and I will be able to write for longer periods of time without sleep interrupting some great idea. Maybe I will figure out how to make quick trips into my house for some brief sex time with my wife and then return to my writing desk when all is done. I doubt this, since I become very sleepy after sex, but it is worth striving for. It is worth trying because a writing career is still important to me (even though I try and let the dream go). If I figure it out, then I will be able to let you know how to become a night writer. For now, I have no idea.

Time for bed.

 

*If you came across any grammar errors, my apologies. I really should not be writing at night.

Portrait Of A Marriage On A Wednesday Afternoon (Post #405)

1:11 pm.

Sun is struggling to come out behind gray haze.

Sitting in a Eames dining chair, at my writing desk, in backyard studio.

Listening to experimental sounds made in the 1970’s playing through stereo speakers.

Wife sits on the couch eating take out Indian food lunch. She is dressed in yoga clothes and asks me what I am listening to.

The sound of a truck just went by.

“Pekka Airaksinen’s sound opera,” I reply.

My wife says “No!” to our miniature Chihuahua, which is harassing her for Indian food.

I am dressed in the clothes I slept in Monday night and it is already Wednesday afternoon.

Eyeglasses by my side.

“Alright, I got to go get ready for work,” my wife says.

“No, stay here!” I say. I like having her around.

There is an open glass jar filled with pickled yellow mezzetta chili peppers by her side. I tell my wife she should not eat so many.

My wife’s legs are stretched out on the floor. She is wearing yellow flip-flops.

I am still thinking about the film Confessions Of A Child Of The Century, which I finished watching late Sunday night.

“I feel sick and congested baby,” my wife says.

I wonder what I should do.

My wife checks her iPhone.

I am writing this is my notebook. At my writing desk.

“Marie! No! This is not good!” my wife says non-reactively to our Chihuahua, which is once again eating something it is not supposed to.

My wife laughs at the Chihuahua as she eats salad from the salad bowl.

I can hear a train going past.

Both my feet are touching the ground.

My wife takes a large pink plastic bag and puts all of our empty to-go lunch containers into it. She also collects the used plastic utensils we ate with and puts them in the pink plastic bag.

The miniature Chihuahua chews on a plastic fork.

Lunch is ending. It is mildly windy outside.

“If you take whatever you can of this stuff, I will take some of that stuff,” I say in an attempt to be helpful.

“I was just looking for the lid,” my wife says.

I am wondering when she is going to leave. She is now making a lot of rustling sounds, which is making it hard for me to listen to the sounds coming through my stereo speakers.

“Are you leaving?” I ask as she walks out the studio door.

My wife does not answer. She is gone.

I am alone.

It is quiet.

Birds chirping. Wind chimes. Experimental sounds.

Sore legs and back and neck from typing so much over past several days.

My German Shepherd sits on the backyard wood deck staring in at me.

I wonder where my wife went? Into the garden?

I say her name out loud.

No response.

I say it again.

No response.

I am going to get up and go look for her.

As I get up she returns with Chihuahua in her hands.

“Yeah, I got to get ready,” she says.

She is looking at her iPhone.

“I am going to go to work my love. I will be done at 6:30, but I will probably want to come home and rest since I do not feel so good.” My wife says this while bending over and kissing me on my forehead.

“Ok,” I reply.

She picks up the pink plastic bag, walks out of the backyard, towards the house.

“Good girl, good girl,” I can hear my wife saying to the miniature Chihuahua as they both disappear into the house.

Now I am alone again.

It feels slightly uncomfortable being alone. I feel the urge to get up and go towards the outside world. My backyard studio is an isolated and quiet place. Like being in the woods. A person can touch the solitude back here.

No more music playing on stereo speakers.

Sounds of birds. Wind chimes. Silence.

I scratch my head and decide to go ride my bike.

Man In A Bathtub

I have always enjoyed reading stories about men and women who spend a lot of time in the bathtub. Recently I read a short, absurd, twisted French novel (I can not remember the title or the author’s name at the moment and I can not go search for the small book in my stack of books since I am currently in a bathtub). In the novel the protagonist has committed himself for life to his bathtub. I became fascinated by what this would be like. How would it feel to spend day after day lying around in a bathtub? There would be no water- just a lot of pillows, blankets and books.

I decided to try it out. I am at perfect time in my life where I can actually spend a lot of time in a tub. I have mastered the machinations of my mind enough so that I am confident that my mind can not get the best of me. Most people who would be locked away in a bathroom for days on end might experience a degree of psychological duress that could cause them to tip over into insanity or violence. I, however, am able to keep my calm. Even though my thoughts might be telling me all kinds of things that could make my stay in the bathtub unpleasant, I know how not to believe everything I think.

Currently, I have been in this tub for three days. My goal is to spend at least four or five days in the tub. I have no real desire to leave the bathroom. As I write this now, with my laptop perched on the side of the tub, I feel as comfortable as I have felt in some of the worlds finest five-star hotels. I don’t have many needs (other than to be left alone and to get a lot of rest) and I rather like the solitude that I have found here in my tub.

I am fortunate though. I have a loving and supportive wife who brings me food and whatever else I request. Just this morning I asked her to get me a chocolate bar, the New York Times newspaper, a can of tuna fish, a loaf of bread, some gluten-free cookies, a kale juice and within a matter of an hour I had all these things with me in the tub. I realize that most would not have this good fortune. Most men in their mid-forties with a wife, a house and a plethora of other worldly responsibilities would not receive this kind of support if they decided to drop out of the world and spend their time in a bathtub. I know and I am thankful.

My wife thinks I need the rest. She has been concerned about the amount that I work and the toll my work sometimes takes on my health. When I was telling her about the French novel I was reading she is the one who came up with the idea.

“Why don’t you do that for bit?”

“Do what?”

“Why don’t you take some time of and just relax in our bathtub?”

I immediately thought this was a great idea. I mean why not? I have always been fascinated by people who retire to their tubs. Why should I not go ahead and do the same thing?

“You sure that would be ok?”

“Yes my love.”

“What about work and all the bills we need to pay?”

“My love, your health is much more important than our wealth. Besides you are fortunate that you made all that money years ago. You no longer need to strain yourself in the way you do. You are at a point in your life where you can spend some time in the tub.”

“You are genius. What a great idea.”

I began my stay in the tub that evening. I may decide to spend the entire week in the tub. My back is sore and my body does want to move but I am not worried about it. I am able to meditate, read my books and just contemplate various things in my mind. This tends to keep my mind off of the more uncomfortable sensations in my body. Just this morning my wife scrubbed the bathroom clean and now the lavender scent that was in the bathroom cleaner seems to have relaxed my mind and body. I am quite content here in my bathtub and could remain here for awhile.

In the French novel that I recently read, the protagonist confines himself to his tub because he no longer wants to be apart of the madness of human life. He feels that humans have become the most troubled animal on earth and he wants to disassociate from the human population so that he can find some peace. He never finds the peace that he was looking for because even in the solitude of his bathroom he is not able to get away from being human. Contained within his mind and body is all the madness that he was wanting to flee from. At the end of the novel the protagonist drowns in his bathtub.

I have no intention of drowning in my tub. As nice as it is to be removed from the outside world, it is not without its challenges. My mind and body do generate a lot of difficult thoughts and sensations but fortunately I am able to calm myself down and not get too caught up in all the madness. I am able to recline, relax and read even though my mind and body are sometimes wanting to get out of the tub and go for a walk. “There will be plenty of time to walk, just sit here,” I tell myself.

My wife is an excellent cook. This evening I have requested eggplant parmesan with a side of steamed spinach drenched in garlic and olive oil. I have also asked my wife to get me a nice bottle of red wine. I know that she wants my stay in the bathtub to be without difficulty so I suppose I have been taking some advantage of her kindness. This morning I requested a cup of green tea, three cheese omelet with reishi mushrooms and a side of vegan turkey sausages. She made me much more than I needed to eat.

What should I do with the rest of my day? It is almost late afternoon and I have a stack of books on the side of the tub that I still want to read. Maybe I will turn over and take a nap once I am finished writing this. Maybe I will do some stretching. Maybe I will use the toilet and then take a quick shower. Maybe I should spend some time reviewing some memories that I have been going over in my mind. So many choices. Life in a prison cell can not be all that bad. When a person spends all their time in a confined space the irony is that so much space opens up. The busyness of life no longer squeezes out the space all around. Maybe I will just sit here for awhile and enjoy the space.

Even though I am spending all my time in a bathtub filled with pillows and other things, I realize that what I am really bathing in is all this space. It is what I needed most.

Maybe this is why I am so drawn to stories about people who spend all their time in bathtubs.

 

On Becoming Domesticated

imagesToday I need to clean under the dinning room table, vacuum the carpet in the living room, fix the grass borders in the backyard, clean the back windows and plant the cactus someplace in the backyard.

Michel Eyquem de Montaigne, on of the most influential writers of the French Renaissance, wrote: “The man who is happy in his domestication, who sees his domestication as the good graces of the Gods being bestowed upon him, is no longer a threat to the world, to others and most importantly to himself.” But I didn’t see this one coming. Who could of imagined that by the almost middle age of 42 I would become happily domesticated? Ten years ago, not my mother, my father, my sister, my daily bartender, my palm reader, my marijuana dealer, my pharmacist or my psychotherapist could have seen this coming. To be domesticated basically means to feel comfortable at home. After a lifetime spent feeling terribly uncomfortable and anxious in the numerous places that I lived, its nothing short of a miracle that I not only have my own home but am comfortable in it. The comfort aspect of domestication is not what concerns me. I am grateful for it. If you look up domestication in the dictionary you will find several definitions. If you read through all of the definitions you will arrive at one, which says: To bring down to the level of the ordinary person. I suppose this is that part that concerns me.

At the moment I am writing by my kitchen window, which looks out into my expansive back yard. It is a cold Southern California morning. I am looking at my two German Shepherds pace around in the pea gravel that my wife and I recently purchased. One of my dogs, which is named Camus but lacks the intelligence of the author he is named after, is engaged in a long and steady urination, which is getting all over his front paws. The fact that he is peeing all over himself doesn’t seem to bother him in the least. I am reminded that, contrary to certain people’s opinion, I am nothing like my dog. If I was peeing all over my feet I would like to think that I am civilized enough to move my feet out of the way. My other dog is sniffing around in the pea gravel trying to find an adequate spot to relieve herself. And I get to observe these kind-of-wildlife undertakings from the heated comfort of my kitchen nook. It is this aspect of domestication that I am grateful for. I too spent many years out there in the cold looking for a place to pee.

However, I wrestle with this notion of being brought down to the level of the ordinary. Ordinary? Oh gosh. In my twenties and thirties, when I was still naive enough to think it was only a matter of time until I was recognized as a great American writer and painter, I disdained the idea of domestication. I had nothing but indignation for those who had embraced domestication and I looked upon these “masses” as having given up on their unique greatness (whatever that meant). I would walk by a man gardening or watering his front lawn and I would have to restrain myself from calling him a “sell out.” I would see families moving into beautiful middle and upper class homes and think of these people as mediocrities. Becoming domestic was a threat to my dreams of literary and artistic eccentricity. And as wrong and judgmental as I was about the motivations of those individuals who had embraced domestic comforts, I was not far from correct about domesticities effects upon creativity.

Today I need to clean out the garage, sweep up the pea gravel that has gotten all over the driveway, water my plants in the front yard, sweep the backyard deck and straighten up in the house. Maybe I will do some touch up painting on the walls which have been chipped and marked up. I also need to walk the dogs and unload the dishwasher. Due to my extensive studies in Eastern philosophy I am well aware of how ones outer environment is a direct reflection of their inner environment, and vice versa. I am also aware of how a person’s external environment interacts with their inner life. It is important for me to have everything in my home look curated, cared for, dusted and organized. It is one way that I attain inner peace. However, for those of us who can not afford a housekeeper, maintaining a home that is a direct reflection of an inner life that is balanced, calm, caring and refined requires a continual, almost athletic effort. It leaves little time for making art. Or I should say that being domesticated becomes the art.

I am sure there is extensive information out there on the historical and sociological aspects of human domestication. I wonder if there is as much information out there about what happens to artists, writers, musicians, etc., when they finally become domesticated. Off of the top of my head, I know of few artists, writers and musicians whose works have not become less interesting, potent and innovated after becoming domesticated. I wonder if this becoming comfortable at home business somehow reduces a persons suffering and as a result reduces the quality, ambition and quantity of their artistic output. Why make art once a person finds comfort? I wonder if many artists, writers and musicians who at some point in their life become domesticated are making a kind of Faustian bargain where in exchange for the comforts of home they agree that their art will become their hobby and they will become a bit more ordinary. After all the years of struggle and uncomfortably, for most artists. I would assume that this is probably a fair deal.

Today I also need to clean up my dogs poop, mop the hardwood floors, water some of the potted plants, pick up water for the fish tank, empty various trash cans and sweep the dirt away from the front patio. I may also need to take a trip to IKEA to buy some pillows for an older mid century couch that my wife and I purchased yesterday. I can’t help but think: Am I wasting valuable time? Shouldn’t I be more disciplined and working on a painting and/or writing? If I put as much time into my artistic interests as I do into maintaining my home maybe I would feel better about myself (not that I feel bad about myself)? Maybe I would feel more purposeful? Maybe. The truth is that when I spent almost two decades committed to my art (well committed to the idea of being an artist but not committed to the idea of doing the actual work) I was miserable. I struggled and got little in return for my efforts other than a vague notion that one day all of my toil and poverty would one day pay off. And it has, just not in a way I ever saw coming.

Instead of visiting a bookstore or spending my evenings sitting in a cafe reading, I now prefer to go to Home Depot or Lowes in order to find various things for my home. It is almost as if Home Depot has become my night club. Last night was Saturday evening and I was at Home Depot looking for a new water faucet for my kitchen sink (I like the ones that are steel and are in the shape of a candy cane). On Friday I was at IKEA looking at various linoleum floors to replace the current linoleum floors in my kitchen. Rather than spending hours and hours reading literature at my desk, I now enjoy sitting on my couch or my back deck looking on Craigslist or EBay for deals on Danish modern furniture for my home collection (I have developed a passions for chairs and want to collect as many strangely shaped modern chairs as possible so that one day I can open a chair museum). In my twenties and thirties I wanted to be one of the greatest living American painters and writers. Now in my forties, I am driven to one day open a chair museum. How things change.

I also need to shave today. I also need to go to the market and prepare a lunch for myself to take with me to work tomorrow. If I have time I would like to hook my stereo speakers to the television. I would also like to watch another episode of Breaking Bad. Has being domesticated made me more ordinary?  Has it made me what my twenty something self would of called a sell out or a mediocrity? From a particular perspective, probably so. In many ways there is probably not that much difference between myself and those thousands of other American who love their homes. We are all engaged in similar daily home maintenance routines. But in becoming domesticated I have found an extraordinary well-being and satisfaction that I never imagined I would experience. I have chosen to now spend my days designing, cleaning and maintaining a beloved home rather than pursuing what I now realize for me was a unobtainable dream. I have learned to find satisfaction in everyday, ordinary acts rather than the annoying and constant desire to become something that I am not. My marriage, my dogs and my home have become the canvas upon which I now work.

I will never be comfortable with this idea of being ordinary. However that might not even be true. Our views and belief systems are always changing as we age. Ten years ago I would of never, ever imagined that I would be forty two years of age and happily domesticated. I do know this- if becoming ordinary means feeling comfortable in one’s home, I welcome the ordinary (I think). Now when I go for walks around my neighborhood and I pass by someone gardening or watering in their front yard, I wave, smile and say hello.

The Incomplete Writer

773px-Erika_9_typewriter  I struggle to complete things. I am the kind of writer who often gives up just before an ending. I have written numerous incomplete short stories, essays and novels, leaving them for dead right before the end. It is a strange affliction that causes me a great deal of envy towards writers who are able to complete their works. It’s a muscle I lack. In order not to retire certain writings to the dump yard of all my other unfinished works, I have decided to collect below several of my most recent unfinished writings before I forever let them go.

 

So This Is What Grief Feels Like

How does a person’s childhood home live inside of them as an adult? I have just returned home after spending several days visiting my childhood home, where my parents still live. I’m sitting on my couch looking out a window into the backyard. The clock, which hangs on the wall, is making a sound that mimics my heartbeat. Or my heartbeat is mimicking the sound of the clock. My eyes feel slightly swollen from a few short-lived bouts of crying. I miss my childhood home in the same way that a person could miss a pet or a recently lost lifelong friend. I am aware that in my absence my childhood home feels emptier. Quieter. I know that it too is sad that I am gone.

The Beard

One morning he awoke and his beard was gone. There was a note on the pillow beside him, which read:

The Tunnel

A man, who cares about his age, needs to move out of the city, who cares about why. He moves to the suburbs, for reasons that I don’t want to understand. The only real problem here is the tunnel, which divides the suburbs from the city. After several weeks of living in the suburbs, the man, like most men, wants to go visit friends in the city. The suburbs are long, flat and lonely and for more reasons than I am wanting to go into here, the man desperately needs to spend more time in the city. Lets just say his mental health depends on it. Ok? But the problem that I previously mentioned is that he has a terrible fear of going through the tunnel. Maybe he is claustrophobic; I am not a medical professional so it is not for me to make that judgment. All I know is that the man’s inability to go through the tunnel is causing him to become trapped in the suburbs. It’s not a good situation for anyone.

The Insomniac

Five o’clock, Sunday morning, is the quietest time on earth. Everything is still. No one is up- except for the insomniacs.

JTimothy’s mind was a web of noise. Solitude was not bliss. Instead it was an uncomfortable collar that felt too tight around his neck. His feet were like ship anchors dragged along his apartment floor. What use was flossing his teeth when all he did was grind them? The only way that JTimothy could get some semblance of sleep was by putting clean, white tube socks on over his bare feet. And even that was not sleep enough.

Rewind. Three years before. JTimothy slept as much as you and I. A dream filled sleep in the nude. Back in those days the mountains outside his window were still skyrockets filled with opportunity and mystery. They had yet become the claustrophobic walls that trapped him. The washing machine and kitchen table were still inanimate objects. Three years later they would become his best friends and chess partners. The insomnia set in before he consciously realized that his adult life had become intolerable. A constant steady flow of deteriorations, disappointments and humiliating defeats. As is often the case with most diseases, JTimothy’s insomnia knew more about JTimothy than JTimothy knew about himself. His tube socks could attest to this .

JTimothy’s apartment was once an alarmingly beautiful space. It was clean and looked like the kind of space that you could tell the tenant enjoyed taking care of it. From the outside you would never know that inside was a well-curated showroom for mid-century modern furniture. Most of his money from his often-suffocating job went into these objects of good taste. The black Eames chairs in the corner were his favorites. What use are the most stylish and aesthetically pleasing objects when you can’t sleep? The insomniac gradually loses the ability to see beauty.

Fast forward to where this story began. JTimothy in tube socks and yesterday’s clothes. It’s 5 o’clock on a Sunday morning and JTimothy is the only person awake in a sleeping world. Macaroni noodles are boiling on the stove. The kitchen table is already hungry. The washing machine is not yet ready to eat. Just the other day JTimothy had to take the washing machine’s drivers license away from it. The washing machine is currently engaging in a hunger strike against what it feels was an unfair decision to strip it of its autonomy. JTimothy became feed up with the washing machine not being around every time he needed to do his laundry. Ever since the washing machine received its drivers license it had been going out constantly with other washing machines. JTimothy knew that the washing machine had been going to parties and he was concerned that the washing machine would drink and drive. Or even worse- what if it fell in love with a dryer and ran away? He could not admit it but JTimothy was jealous. Deep down he was annoyed that his washing machine was having more fun than he was.

The insomniac can become very possessive. There were times that JTimothy believed that even the mountains belonged to him.

JTimothy paced around his apartment. What had happened to him? He listened to the hot water boiling on the electric stove. JTimothy’s insomnia knew that the reason he could not sleep was

The Driver

The only place that the Driver feels safe and in control is in his car. This is why the Driver drives around and around and around. Day after day.

The Novelist

I know what your thinking. “Forty three years old and he has just written his first novel?” Before you jump to any unfair conclusions with regards to my ambition or will power please allow me to explain. But before I explain allow me to give you this brief list of novelists who made no money from writing before the age of 45: Henry Miller, William Burroughs, Tomas Espedal and I know there are many others but I can not come up with the names now.

If by the end of this short autobiographicalish story you do not think that I deserved to be called a novelist, fair enough. If you still think it is too late for me, that I have reached the expiration date as far as being a legitimate writer is concerned, fair enough again.

You see I have been determined to write a novel since the age of seventeen. No, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start where I am at now. The past is the past even though I understand that the past is as important to a writer as the present is to a Zen Buddhist. So let me begin from right now.

The Bathroom

Waiting in a bathroom stall, after having had an impressively large bowel movement, for a man to finish washing his hands and doing his hair because I am too embarrassed to walk out because of the odor I have created. The man is taking forever.

Walls

I built a small space in my backyard where I can be alone. It’s just one small room- no hallways, no bathrooms, no furniture, no windows. Just six walls made of pinewood and a pillow for sitting. I enter the space through a hatch in the roof.

Bad Bosses

I wish I could invent a device that would make all bad bosses disappear.

The Collector

My wife thinks I have a shopping addiction (even though I do not have enough money to have a shopping addiction). She thinks buying things helps me to feel empowered and in control. It’s a momentary substitute for the general sense of helplessness and lack of control that I feel most of the time, she tells me. I’m not sure I agree with her, even though in the end she is almost always right. However, for the purposes of this autobiographical essay, I will pretend as if she is always, completely wrong.

I don’t see myself as a shopping addict. I think the diagnosis is completely missing the point. Through years of study and exploration, I have developed a sensibility for the finer, more alternative things in life. In the same way that the archeologist has spent years studying so that she or he can identify and collect important objects, I have been refining my ability to

One more:

Chronic Pain (a memoir about a son’s life long struggle with a difficult father)

I was having a difficult time breathing. It felt like something heavy was resting on top of my lungs all night. As I sit up from a restless nights sleep, I struggle to breathe air into my lungs. It feels like trying to pump air into a bicycle tire that is almost full. My wife is still sleeping. She is wrapped up in heavy blankets, like a sausage inside a sourdough bun. I don’t feel rested but it’s 6:20am and I am ready to go.

My wife and I drove for six hours to visit the house were I spent my childhood and grew up into an angry young man. After thirty-five years my parents still live in this aging mansion, which sits on two acres of beautiful Northern California land. The house sits on top of a hill overlooking the affluent country club, which it is apart of. Twenty years ago I remember how upset my father was when the country club association started building larger houses in the oak tree filled hills behind his house. No longer would he be on top of the world- now more successful and wealthier people would be looking down on him.

It’s a cold November morning. Wet leaves cover the damp concrete ground as my wife and I load our suitcases into the back of our financed Prius. I’m too tired and sad to talk. I just want to get this over with as quietly as possible. Once we have loaded up the car with all our stuff we return inside to make sure we have not forgotten anything. As I look around I’m feeling a deep sense of grief. It’s been a difficult weekend visit with my parents and a part of me feels like this may be the last time I will ever return home again. I try to be as quiet as possible so as not to wake my parents. We have already said our goodbyes the night before.

Before retiring to bed last night my father came up to me and in his strange way tried to make amends for the fight he had started the day before. “We should talk on the phone once a week so we can improve our relationship son. I am who I am and I’m not going to change but I want to be your friend,” he said while standing a bit too much in my personal space. I admit, I felt threatened and annoyed. We were standing in a hallway that was filled with a history of my childhood battles with my father. “I don’t need you to be my friend, I need you to be a father,” I replied. “Son I’ve already done the best I could as your father. You’re a grown man now and it’s time to be friends.” I felt slightly confused and uncomfortable, like my father was once again trying to make me agree to something that was good for him but inherently bad for me. He gave me a hug goodnight. I told him to sleep well and with his signature negativity he said, “yeah I’m going to go die.” I knew that indirectly he was trying to imply that our dynamic had worn him out.

I stood at my old bedroom window and looked out into the expansive backyard, where I had spent so much of my lonely and unhappy youth. The same backyard furniture that I sat on as a child was still there and so were all the dangling bushes that I used to sing to while pretending that they were the hands of adoring fans reaching out to touch me. How can one be so sad, angry and unhappy in the midst of such beauty? I thought to myself. Did I even see the beauty when I was growing up? I turn around, turn out the bedroom lights and say to my wife, “Ready to go?” We have a six-hour drive back to LA ahead of us. Before I close the front door behind me, I take one final listen to the sounds inside the house that I love so much. I can hear the subtle sounds of the house settling. I can also hear the hallow sounds that a large house makes when everything inside is still. Upstairs, I can hear my father snoring and I imagine that my mother is laying in bed with her eyes half-open, tears on her cheeks while she listens to me leave.

How I Became A Lemon Tree

images

1.

You may not believe me but I am currently speaking to you as a fully-grown, verdant and quite content lemon tree. Currently my lemons are in full bloom and the ground above my roots are littered with lemons that have fallen off of my vines. With a feeling of deep satisfaction in my roots I am able to watch over the backyard that I once spent so much time working in and I can even look into the bedroom where my wife sleeps. There is a Eucalyptus tree not far from me, which is the tree that my wife and I were married under. As a man I never thought that I would think this, but it is actually a very pleasant life living as a lemon tree.

Even though the initial transition was difficult, it is not as surprising to me as it may be to you that I am a lemon tree. Back when I was a human being, I was inundated with a perpetual cycle of hunches about life being more than what meets the eye. Even though I allowed our modern world to squeeze out of me a good amount of my childhood sense of wonder and awe, I still felt like anything was possible. The world of work, bills and societal expectations may have closed me off to a more free and unbound way of being, but still I knew that there was not that much separating myself from the rest of the plants, animals and other animate things that I shared this planet with. When I worked in my backyard I would often stop and just stare at the flowers, trees and other living creatures and feel a deep sense of kinship with it all. This may be why when I finally made the decision to become a lemon tree, I really was not worried about it. Even though my wife was initially horrified with the choice that I had made, deep down I knew that it was the right thing to do.

2.

Prior to becoming a lemon tree, I was a happily married man with a plethora of ambitions. At the end of every month I had a stack of bills piled on my desk and I felt relatively satisfied with the choices that I had to make in order to pay them. I was working hard towards becoming a financially successful psychotherapist and I had a nice house, a car, a dog, a wife and a love of food and drink that I was able to afford. In a sense I was living what is often referred to as the American dream. I enjoyed collecting records and reading books and even though I was no longer a young and naive man I still harbored romantic dreams about living my life as a writer and artist. On a grander scale my life was no different than most other professionals who had reached mid-life and made some peace with the fact that their youth filled dreams had not come to fruition. I was ok with this reality and was deeply involved in the study of Zen philosophy to help smooth out some of the harsher edges of my life. I was in love with my wife and becoming settled with things as they were.  This is why it still surprises me that the innocent act of sitting down one evening to read a novel and sipping on a glass of water with a slice of squeezed lemon in it would end up having such a life altering effect.

I can barley even remember the miniscule seed going down my throat that night. I was embedded deep in-between the lines of a David Foster Wallace novel and can only now remember a slight hiccup, a minimal bump in the road as the seed traveled down my throat. Once I had swallowed the seed I thought no more about it until a few mornings later when I noticed a very slight shade of green sticking out from both of my ears. At first I was not alarmed about this and assumed that it was backed up gook in my ears that was slowly oozing out. I had been meaning to get my ears cleaned for sometime but had procrastinated on doing so. That first morning when I noticed the green substance in my ears I told myself that it was time to make an appointment to get my ears cleaned. That day I called to make an appointment for the following week. I wrongly assumed that that would be the end of the problem.

The following morning the green substance had turned into what looked like a few small green leaves sprouting out from my ears. I pulled on the leaves and broke pieces of them off. I observed the strange substance in the palms of my shaky hands and could not make sense of it. I continued to try and pull the strange material out of my ears but it felt uncomfortable- like pulling lint out of a belly button. I grew slightly panicked because I knew that this material was not made of the same substance that I often found at the end of my Q-tips after cleaning out my ears. In a voice that indicated something was wrong, I called my wife into the bathroom to help me make sense of the strange material coming out of my ear. She looked in my ears and then attentively observed the green substance. She studied the material, and then looked into my ears again and again and again. She then told me that it looked as if there were small little leaves growing out of my ears.

I was terrified of doctors but my wife insisted that we go see an ear, nose and throat specialist and find out what was going on. Since the only way to get a same day appointment with a specialist is if you are very wealthy, a fellow doctor or a celebrity, I was not able to book an appointment until two days later. My wife decided that we would keep an eye on things and I continued to go about life as normally as possible. I avoided looking into the mirror and tried to push the matter out of my mind but at work my clients all seemed to look at me like something was not right.

On the day I was supposed to meet with the doctor I woke up with what looked like small, twig like brown branches growing out from both of my ears. I felt a deep pain in my ears when I first lifted my head from my pillow. I touched my ears and felt something that should not of been there. I ran into the bathroom to have a look. In the mirror what I saw terrified me. I screamed to my wife, who was still asleep, to come into the bathroom. When she ran in and saw me she immediately passed out.

3.

The doctor did not know what to say. He had never seen anything like this.  It was an enigma. It was as if for the first time in his twenty-two year career he had nothing to say and knew not what to do. His nurses crowded into the small observation room with posters of the inner workings of the ears and throat on the wall. The nurse’s mouths were all agape as they stared at me under the fluorescent lights. It was as if they were all helpless to say anything. All the doctor could do was use a scissors and attempt to cut off the branches. Strangely, when he did so the branches quickly grew back twice their size. By the time I left the doctors office, not only had I felt like a strange object on exhibition but I also had foot long branches with an abundance of baby green leaves growing out from both of my ears. I knew then that there was nothing that the medical establishment could do for me.

4.

I canceled all of my clients for the following week and realized that I was going to have to stay inside. There was nowhere in public that I could go with branches growing out of my ears without being arrested or an object of scrutiny. I was a therapist and as a result was very familiar with how our society treated others who looked abnormal. It was wisest to stay in and allow my wife to take care of me. When you have no idea what to do, when a fate comes upon you that you could never have before imagined- the only thing you will be able to do is try and go about life as normally as you can. Despite the fact that the branches were growing and the leaves where getting bigger I spent my days reading a long David Foster Wallace novel, doing sit-ups, meditating, cleaning the house, playing with my dog in the backyard, cooking and leading what felt like a rather normal domestic existence. My wife gradually adapted to the leaves and branches growing out of my ears and tried to calm me with kisses, back massages, foot massages and a refrigerator filled with my favorite foods. Neither of us knew what we were going to do about the unimaginable fate that had found me. As times passed it began to feel like we were just waiting around for some kind of answer.

Every morning when I woke up and every morning before I went to bed, my wife helped me prune my branches- cutting them back as much as possible so that I could be comfortable. But after we did this for a few days we realized that it was a futile effort because the branches and leaves would grow back twice as large. I do not remember when it was but after several days of living with what was already a physically uncomfortable condition, my wife and I made the decision to just let the branches grow and see what happened. We both knew that no doctors could help us at that point. To be honest, even if there was a doctor that could, I did not want to deal with becoming a source of bizarre entertainment and study for a medical staff whose routinized jobs caused them to turn living human beings into objects. No thank you. Not for me.

It became very difficult for me to sleep. Often in the early hours of the morning I would get out of bed and go sit on my couch in the front room. There I would stare out a large window and into the dark night sky that was lit up with stars and occasional airplanes. I would wonder about the pilots of those planes and think about how difficult it must be to work a job where you have to fly all night long. I would sit there in the early morning silence and stare out into the darkness wondering about what I was going to do. How had I suddenly developed these branches growing out of my ears? How could this happen to me? For hours I would search for answers until I remembered the night not long ago when I swallowed the lemon seed.

I then began spending the early morning hours glued to my computer searching Google for some kind of answer. I would type into Google phrases like: can lemon seeds cause a person to grow branches and leaves out of ears, cause of branches growing out of ears, symptoms of swallowing lemon seed, cure for branches and leaves growing out of both ears, natural cures for branches growing in ears, and on and on. I would often become depressed because despite the plethora of information on the internet about every symptom and disease anyone could possibly have, there was nothing about growing branches and leaves out of both ears. I felt alone in the universe, a victim of an impossible fate.

After two weeks of living with my condition I had fallen into a deep hole of despair. The branches had become so large that it was getting difficult for me to pass through the various doorways of my home. If the branches got stuck on a wall or the side of a door and made the slightest crack, I would experience a pain much like pulling teeth. My psychotherapy practice was failing since I had to cancel all of my sessions with clients. Some were considerate since I told them that I was very ill, but those who were dealing with narcissism or borderline personality disorder were more concerned about the quality and consistency of their treatment so they threatened to find a new therapist if I did not see them. I started to develop headaches and a perpetual sour taste in my mouth. I could no longer eat most of my favorite foods since my depression interfered with my appetite. I had hit the lowest point in my life with several feet long branches covered in fully grown green leaves growing out of my ears. My wife and I felt totally hopeless as to what to do and it was getting to the point where I had to do something. So one evening while sitting at the dinner table and sharing a bottle of red wine I asked my wife if she would help me. Being the gentle and loving woman that she is, she was willing to do anything for me but when I told her that I was going to dig a hole in our backyard and that I needed her to bury me in it her spine slumped, her smile melted away, her eyes drooped and she let out a deep and defeated breath of air.

5.

That evening my wife and I held each other all night long. We made love twice. After our lovemaking had exhausted the both of us my wife curled her naked body into mine and gently rubbed her hand through my hair and branches. She kissed my neck and chest hundreds of times and told me how much she loved me. My wife cried and being a man who had never had an easy time with other people’s emotions I tried to calm her and tell her that there was no reason to cry. Again and again I reassured her that burying me in the backyard would not be such a bad thing to do. I told her that I would always be right outside the bedroom window watching over her. I promised her that I would never leave her alone for a moment and that whenever she needed me I would be just outside. My wife is far from gullible and as much as she wanted to believe what I was saying she knew that she would be burying her husband alive. In her mind she was convinced that it would be the end of me.

It was no easy task to talk my wife into assisting in my burial. We sat at the dinner table for hours arguing about why the idea was or was not ridiculous. My wife seemed to think that there had to be another way to deal with the problem. She also felt that even if I had twenty-foot long branches growing out of my ears, she still loved me and thought I was the handsomest man in the world. I was still her husband. It required a lot of emotional and mental effort on my part but after hours of going back and forth I was able to get my wife to empathize with me. I was able to help her realize how much pain I was in and how depressed I had become. As far as I was concerned my life as I had known it was already over. I had become a prisoner in my own home, my psychotherapy practice was falling apart, I could not sleep much at night and I had all but lost my appetite. All the pleasures of life were fleeing from me and I so badly wanted to rest. With tears running down her flushed cheeks my wife finally relented and told me that she would do whatever I wanted.

I did not tell my wife this, but deep in my gut I knew that if I were buried in the ground it would not be the end of me. I had a hunch that the branches would continue to grow out from my ears and turn into roots, which would then, in time, somehow turn into a tree.

6.

That evening I was up before the sun. The long branches growing from my ears made it almost impossible for me to walk into my tool shed and grab my shovel. While trying to get past the lawn mower and the compost barrel I broke off a piece of one of my branches. It felt like I had just jammed my toe into a brick wall and I wanted to scream. The pain was overwhelming and beads of sweat developed on my forehead. The memory of that sensation still makes the leaves on my tree shiver. It was a pain like none other I had ever felt before but like all pain- it eventually passed away. I walked through my backyard with the shovel in my hand and found what I thought would be a good location for a tree to grow. As I promised my wife it was right outside the bedroom window. I took off my bathrobe and in my boxers and a long black t-shirt I began to dig. When I was finished the sun was up and birds were singing in the trees. I could hear the sounds of the beginnings of commerce in the distance. Cars, buses and trucks all determined to reach their destinations on time. I looked down into what was a deep enough hole for my body and branches to fit in and then decided that it was time to go inside and wake up my wife.

Before I woke my wife I stood above her for a moment. I observed her beautiful long, brown locks of curly hair spread out all over the white pillow like an abstract painting. I always loved the way that she looked in the mornings- so innocent and sweet. Her red lips and rosy checks were all pale from a long night of lying supine. One of her bare arms rested on top of her head making an L-shape and I observed the wedding ring that loyally rested on her finger. I remembered the day many years ago when I first gave it to her. We were as in love then as we still were at that moment. Quietly I thanked my wife for all that she had done for me and for all the love that she had directed my way. I was forever grateful to her. And then like snapping myself out of a daydream, I maneuvered my way down over her so that I did not poke her with one of my branches and woke her up with a gentle kiss on the forehead.

My wife and I had our morning coffee together and did not say much. I tried to tell her that I was going to grow into a beautiful tree right outside the bedroom window, that I would always be there but she said nothing and sadly looked at me in the eyes. All she could do was tell me that she loved me. We sat there in silence for a while and listened to the clock ticking and the various other morning sounds that our house made. In her white night gown and long silk bathrobe from Victoria Secret that I had bought for her a few months before, my wife leaned over towards me and said, “lets get this over with my love.” We set down our coffee cups and walked out into the backyard, holding hands. I then showed her the hole that I had dug and she pushed her hair away from her face and I could hear her quietly repeating, “this is crazy.” But like all loyal partners, when I handed her the shovel she seemed determined to do for me what I asked her to.

I will never forget this memory. In my boxers and black t-shirt I climbed down into the hole and my wife got down on both knees. As she leaned over to kiss me goodbye the sprinklers suddenly came on. We both continued to get all wet but still remained locked in our deep kiss. Something felt very symbolic about both of us getting all wet during our final kiss. It was as if we were both being cleansed of any residual guilt we might carry. When my wife stood up with the shovel in her hand I felt grateful towards the sprinklers. My wife’s white night gown was all wet which allowed me to see her naked body beneath. As I managed to maneuver my way down onto my back I remained focused on her body. The outline of her hips and breasts had a calming effect on my nerves. I folded my arms and nodded my head, indicating to my wife that I was ready to be buried.  With her hair soaking wet and her face covered with tears she blew me a kiss that I felt land directly on my heart. She then proceeded to cover me with dirt.

7.

This is the short story about how I became a lemon tree. I did not want to burden you with the longer story. Ever since I have become a lemon tree I have realized that life is to be lived- not read, written, worked or entertained away. In my human life it was impossible but I now spend my entire days and evenings in one spot. Other than when I am resting I continually observe life playing out all around me. I have nowhere to go and nothing to do other than be. As a result of just being nature is able to run its course and allow me to continually bring forth an abundance of lemons. It is through this existence of just being that I have become happier than I ever was as a human. Of course I miss being with my wife and dog in the way that I was as a human but now my dog spends its days resting besides my trunk. My wife built a swing, which my branches hold and she set up a beautiful little sitting area under the shade of my leaves.

Everyday, rain or shine, my wife will come out and spend hours swinging and sitting in one of the chairs under my leaves. Sometimes she will pick lemons. Even though I can not talk with her she will tell me all about her day and things that are going on in her life. I will watch how her hair drifts in the wind, the way her crossed knees look sticking out from under her dress and with all the desire of a man I will feel lust for her run madly through my roots. All of the same feelings that I had as a man are still there but the only difference is that now I am a lemon tree. When my dog rubs up against my side and my wife swings from my branches, I feel such indescribable joy and satisfaction. What once felt like such a horrible fate now feels like a real blessing. As much as I miss my life as a husband and a psychotherapist, I could of never imagined then feeling the immense amount of love, contentment and gratitude that I now feel. It is as if for the first time in my life I now feel rooted in the right place.

………and then there are those moments of intimacy that I look forward to throughout the course of each day. When I was a husband I was never able to fully open my heart to my wife. I always felt some kind of fear and an annoying blockage that would get in the way of me giving my wife the love I knew she deserved. As a lemon tree it feels like this blockage is no longer there and I am filled with so much love that I feel unafraid in expressing it as much as I can. Every night before my wife goes to bed she will come outside and stand besides me in her nightgown. She will look up into my branches, clean away anything that looks broken or in need of care in the same way that she used to run her fingers through my messy hair. And then just like when we used to curl up in bed together every night, she will snuggle her body up against mine and tightly wrap her arms around my trunk. I can feel the side of her sweet face pressed tightly against my trunk and I can feel the tears running down her face. She will hold me like this for as long as time and her strength will permit and what is strange about this is that now, when she is crying I am able to also cry. My tears are a bit more sweet and sticky than hers but she does not seem to mind getting my sap all over her skin.

Where The Hell Do All The Black Socks Go?

Black+socksOver the months and years I began to notice the gradual decline of black socks. I would often notice that my sock drawer was filled with a dozen pair of nice black socks and as the months went by my collection of black socks dwindled. At a certain point during the year I would notice that I would only have one or two pairs of black socks left and then one day I would wonder silently to myself, where the hell do all the black socks go?

This recurring episode happened at least twenty times in my adult life. Ever since I started buying my own socks at the age of thirty-one, I noticed that there would be a gradual decline in the amount of black socks I owned. But I was young and self deprecating so I just assumed that the loss of black socks was my fault. I smoked a good amount of marijuana then, so I thought that I had misplaced my black socks when stoned. I also did my laundry at a laundry mat so it was more than possible that I was accidentally leaving my black socks behind in the dryer.

But as I began making more money, moved into an apartment with its own washer and dryer set and quit smoking marijuana I noticed that there was still this gradual decline in my black sock collection. But still I did not make much of it. I was thirty-four and preoccupied with that one lingering question that plagues most young men- what was I going to be when I grew up? As a result I had little time to worry about disappearing black socks. I would just go to Target, buy a $7.99 four pack of black dress socks and then get on with my life.

As my life became more domesticated and I found myself a married man, I started becoming more perplexed about where the hell all the black socks went. I was not yet at the stage where I was desperately searching for an answer but I was living with this question circulating around in my head. Since I was married and not making much money I was living on a budget. The budget was as tight as my pants had become. There was not enough money left over at the end of the month to go buy more black socks as I had done in the past. Now I had to learn to live with fewer pairs of black socks.

Every time I would sit down and put on my black socks I would wonder about them. Where the hell do you guys go? The mystery became too uncomfortable to carry around in my mind. I had to begin an official investigation. On the day I turned 40 I was getting dressed for my birthday dinner. I went to my sock drawer and noticed that there was only one black sock left. I had known for certain that only a few weeks ago I still had several pairs of black socks left. Now there was just one black sock. What the hell?

Dressed nicely for my birthday dinner I found myself inside of my dryer. A strange place to find oneself at 6:14 pm on their birthday, but I was driven by a irascible desire to solve the mystery. Enough was enough. First I looked inside of the washing machine. Nothing. Then I proceeded to climb into the dryer in search of some kind of explanation for the disappearance of all but one of my black socks. I was determined. As I moved around in the dryer looking for some clue, I accidentally turned the dryer carousel and ended up spinning upside down. I held myself in a manageable position by pressing both hands against the side of the dryer but my head was pressing into the metallic bumps of the carousel. I was in some pain and experienced some acid reflux. I did not know how to get out of this inverted position so I ended up kicking the top of the dryer in an attempt to turn myself right side up. But when I kicked the top of the dryer something broke. For a moment I became afraid that I would fall through some kind of dryer version of the rabbit hole and land in a massive pile of black socks. I envisioned my karma being that of a man forever trapped in a sea of all the worlds lost black socks. I panicked.

Fortunately my wife was able to hear loud thumping sounds coming from the laundry room and was smart enough to check out what was going on. When she found me inverted and stuck in the dryer she immediately began to laugh. What the hell are you doing? she asked me with an amused smile on her face. With her help I managed to stretch one leg over my stomach and head and onto the laundry room floor, turn my body right side up and climb out from the dryer. I did a kind of yoga like stretch that has left me with back pain until this day. I was trying to find out where the hell all my black socks went, I said once I had both feet on the ground, was standing straight and could breathe a sigh of relief.

At my 40th birthday dinner that evening I was wearing my one black sock and a borrowed gray sock from my wife. The sock was so small that I could feel it quietly ripping every time I moved my toes. It was obvious that I was preoccupied with something. People were asking me if anything was wrong. I then asked some of my male friends if they had the same problem with their black socks. I was surprised to find that they all had experienced the phenomena of disappearing black socks. Even the women at the table had noticed the same thing happening in their sock collection. We all tried to figure out where the hell the black socks go. There were so many possible explanations. They get left behind in the dryer, drop on the floor and get lost when we carry our laundry, etc. The only explanation that made any possible sense was that when we wash our clothes the black socks stick to the insides of our clothes and then when we wear those clothes out into the world the black socks fall out all over the place. But still I was not satisfied with this explanation. I mean if they fell out all over the place why would we not see them everywhere?

I became preoccupied with trying to figure out where all the black socks went. I did a lot of research on Google, but found no answers other than some Russian sock collector who offered a mystical explanation for disappearing black socks. I stopped purchasing black socks because I could no longer afford to lose them. My sock drawer became filled with red, brown and blue socks and over the months I noticed that none of them disappeared.

Then just yesterday I was on a walk. I often walk with my head down to avoid eye contact with passers-by. I also like to look at the ground moving under my feet. As I was walking I came upon a single black sock lying on the dirty sidewalk. I did not think much of it until a few minutes later when I happened upon another single black sock lying on the sidewalk. I was perplexed but I wrongly assumed that these black socks belonged to homeless people.

I continued to walk on and began noticing black sock after black sock after black sock lying on the sidewalk. What was going on? I lifted my head up and said out loud, what the hell? Where had all these black socks come from? I had walked this route at least three times a week and never noticed all these blacks socks before. Suddenly there were black socks EVERYWHERE. All over the sidewalks and in the streets. I stopped walking and looked  around. Cars were driving over the black socks and people walked past them as if they were not there. No one except myself seemed to notice all the discarded black socks all over the place. I let out a little giggle because finally I was seeing something that no one else saw. And then like all smart and logical married men on a budget, I proceeded to put aside my pride, bend over and start picking up and putting as many black socks as I could fit into my pockets.

The Loneliest Place On Earth

imagesThis holiday season I will be surrounded by people who love me and who I love. I will be given gifts and give gifts. I will feel grateful for everything that I am experiencing. I will drink and eat too much and I will laugh more than I normally do. I will engage in superficial conversation and talk to people that I would be happy never having to talk to again. I will give a lot of hugs. I will try and open my heart, have no judgement and relax into the Christmas celebration. My wife, whom I love more than anything in this universe, will tell me to smile more and she will probably take a beer out of my hand and tell me that I have had enough. I will have fun. I will try to appear like a confident and happy guy. However, despite all of this, one thing that no one will notice about me this Christmas day is that even though I will be attending a party filled with friends and strangers- I will be in the loneliest place on earth.

If you want to know where the loneliest place on earth is, find a Jew on Christmas day and then there you are (if you find this Jew you would be doing him or her a great favor by giving them a hug and telling them that you love them even though they will pretend everything is fine). Being Jewish at this time of year kind of feels like attending a party in where you are not really sure if you were invited. Or maybe it is more accurate to say that being Jewish at this time of year is like traveling in a foreign country. When in a foreign country you can enjoy the sights, sounds, the language, the food and everything else that makes up the experience of being in a foreign place but you can not escape from the deep loneliness that you feel as a result of no longer being in familiar territory. There is a photograph that I always like to look at when I use the urinal at one of my favorite pubs. It is a picture of an eastern European man holding up a big sign in a crowd of people. There is a sad smile on the mans face and his eyes are wide open in anticipation. His face is the face of loneliness. His sign reads: “Waiting For My People.” This is how I feel on Christmas day.

However are not my people the family and friends that I will happily be surrounded by on Christmas day? I love these people and even though they are my wife’s family they are my family. I feel more accepted and supported by my wife’s parents than I ever have by my own parents. The love that my wife gives me is so strong that I literally can feel it penetrating my skin. So with all this love, support, celebration, gratitude and gift giving why the long face?

Maybe it stems from growing up as a Jew in America. Christmas day was always the elephant in the room. I had to pretend that it was not there. No one really talked about it. While all the other families that I lived around decorated their homes with lights, Christmas trees and scarey blow up Santa Clauses my house remained dark. I remember being a kid and feeling that I was being left out of something important that was going on. On television there would be Christmas shows, at school there would be Christmas parties, all over my neighborhood there would be Christmas celebrations and I was stuck in the middle of it all, kept arms length from all the festivities. I felt like my parents were sheltering me from a potential threat. My father always expressed a certain kind of disapproval towards all the “Christmas crap.” Over time there was this feeling of isolation that developed in me as a result of not not getting to participate in the Christmas celebration festivities. By the time I was in college, I got used to spending Christmas eve and Christmas day alone. I got used to wondering the streets on Christmas eve and noticing that everything was closed (except Chinese food restaurants). I got used to feeling like I was in the loneliest place on earth.

But maybe this is not quit it. The Christmas season always makes me unpleasantly aware of just how Christian of a country I am living in. During Hanukkah which ends a week or so before Christmas I will see very few signs of the holiday in my culture. Maybe a star of David being sold in a boutique gift shop or Hanukkah candles for sale at Target. Other than this there are no gratuitous displays of the Jewish holiday anywhere. This can make a Jew think that they are a member of a secret cult. That their holiday is somehow hidden away, deviant and maybe even unimportant compared to the significant place Christmas holds in people’s hearts. I can not tell you the last time that I celebrated Hanukkah with my sister, my parents, friends and my extended family all together. Hanukkah for me has become a holiday that is more apart of my past than it is apart of my future and maybe on Christmas day when I am with my wife and her family it is hard to forget what is missing.

Loneliness is a strange thing. You can be lonely in a huge crowd, you can be lonely when you are surrounded by people who love you, you can be lonely when you are lying in bed at night with someone you love. Loneliness is not always a rational thing. It is an emotion that begs for attention and arises in response to something that you are feeling or thinking. We can not always control what we feel and think, sometimes feelings and thoughts just happen in relation to something we smelled, ate, drank, noticed or heard. Just as we do not always know why we caught a cold, we do not always know why we feel lonely. It is just there. This is what happens to me on Christmas day. There is this deep emotion that settles in my bones in response to a certain feeling. I try and push it away and keep a smile on my face. I drink beer and eat. I am happy for my wife who loves this time of year and I am happy that I get to be apart of the festivities. I try and have fun. But still I will feel like something is missing. Still I will feel like I am in the loneliest place on earth. Still I will release a sigh of great relief when all the Christmas lights start to come down.

The Prostitute and I

Two blocks from where I live there is a prostitute who spends her afternoons standing on a busy street corner. I noticed her when I first moved into my suburban neighborhood. I thought it was strange that a woman dressed in a tight mini skirt would stand in the same place, every day for an entire afternoon. Every time I drove past that street corner I would check and see if she was there. I was not doing this because I desired this woman and wanted to have a sexual experience with her. No, I was not attracted to her at all. From an objective perspective there was little to be attracted to. I was interested in this prostitute because I thought it was very odd that there would be a prostitute standing on a street corner in the middle of a middle class suburban neighborhood. I had lived in the ghetto of Oakland, California for a long time. Seeing prostitutes there was as familiar to me as seeing bullets flying in the sky. It was a daily occurrence. But in this Los Angeles suburb, she was the first and only prostitute I ever saw. She had my full attention.

A month after my wife and I moved into our new home we bought a German shepherd. I started walking my dog everyday past the street corner where the prostitute stood. Sometimes she would not be there but most of the time she was standing there, waiting. Toyota Priuses, Jettas, Ford mini vans and various other symbols of the middle class on wheels would drive past pretending not to notice that there was a prostitute standing on a middle class street corner. A block away was a school. Across the street was a Starbucks. Was I the only one that found it so strange that there was a prostitute hanging out there? I became obsessed. I started walking my dog twice a day. I would sit on a bench across the street from her and observe. Even my dog knew that something strange was going on across the street.

She would wave at cars with single men in them. Often times these men would look shocked. They were either young men driving there parents car who had yet to experience the sexual transgression of being with a prostitute or they were middle aged men who had been locked up in an office someplace and were utterly startled to notice that a middle aged woman on a street corner was waving at them. Rarely did any of these men stop and pick her up. She looked treacherous and scarred by an unfair life. There was something frightening about her. But occasionally a man would slam on his breaks and make a hand motion for her to get in the car.  She would run up to the passenger side car window, bend down to check the man out and then jump into the car with the fluidity of a gust of wind.

If it was raining out she would be standing on the street corner dressed in a shabby raincoat and holding a cheap umbrella. Her long grayish red strands of hair would stick out of what looked like a hand knitted ski hat with flower patterns. On the days that the sun would be out, her long hair would blow freely in the afternoon breeze created by all the passing middle class cars. She would wear a black min-skirt with some kind of shirt that would almost always reveal her aging stomach. I could see some sort of piercing on her belly button and I also noticed a tattoo that ran down the side of her legs and into the blue high heel shoes that she was always wearing.

After a month of observing the prostitute I decided to confront her. I was so fascinated by the life that she seemed to be living. I made up all kinds of stories about her. Was she a middle class homeowner who had lost her home in the great recession? Did she have a family? What she was doing for work was so outside of the middle class norm that gradually ate away at the souls of almost everyone that I lived around. I have always had a certain fascination with deviants and those who decide to live way outside of the norm, I just never thought I would become fascinated with a prostitute that was working on a street corner two blocks down from where I lived.

The first time that I approached the prostitute I remember having the thought that it was life, not drugs that had worn her out. She did not have that familiar drug abused gauntness in her face that most aging drug addicts display. Her skin and eyes looked hydrated and unravished by any kind of drug addiction. There were no dilated pupils or bags under her eyes, just a sadness that tried to hide the fact that she had fallen upon difficult times. Before I could say anything to her she shouted, “please keep your dog away from me! I am terrified of dogs!” I apologized and told her that my dog did not have a mean bone in her body. “But she is a German shepherd. Those dogs are viscous,” she pleaded. “That is a huge misconception. They are trained to be viscous but naturally they are one of the sweetest breeds of dogs,” I said. She looked at my dog as if she was thinking about what she should do next. She was in a contemplative kind of deliberation. I heard a car horn. She looked up to wave and then looked back down at the dog. “Ok,” she said. “What the hell, but hold on to her tight.”

After the initial cautious greeting, the prostitute and my dog were like close friends. Before I even had a chance to introduce myself, the prostitute was crouching down hugging my dog and enjoying the disgusting privilege of being licked by a dog that is obsessive compulsive about cleaning her own private parts. She hugged my dog and rubbed her face in my dog’s furry neck. It was as if this was the first time in a long time that the prostitute had given or received love. I watched the prostitute and my dog exchange loving gestures in the same way that you may watch a person getting the help that they are in desperate need of. After a few minutes of this the prostitute stood up, looked at me and said, “so what is with the fascination, huh?”

I was surprised and caught off guard. What did she mean by fascination? I was silent and noticed myself stepping away from her. The prostitute then smiled and said, “what took you so long?” “What took me so long?” I replied. “Yeah, I have noticed you sitting over there across the street for more than a month now. Seems like you just sit there and watch me.” How could I be so inept to not think she would notice me sitting on the bench across the street? At first I thought about denying it but then I realized this would be like denying the obvious. Only unstable people do this sort of thing. And even though I had spent the past month obsessing about a prostitute on a street corner- I was not unstable. So I looked her in the eyes and said……….nothing.

“Look honey, you do not have to be shy. Wanting to get off is a natural human impulse. So what, you want to get off with no strings attached. Big deal. I know what it is like to be shy and all, but let me promise you that once you break through your shyness you will feel like you parted the waters of the Dead Sea.” The prostitute said this to me with a promiscuous smile that revealed a need for some dental work. I giggled a bit and to be honest, it took me a second to realize what was going on. The prostitute was thinking that I wanted to hire her for a sexual experience but could not get up the nerve, so I sat on the bench across the street too afraid to approach her! “And honey your dog, well you do not need to bring her for protection. I got all the protection you’ll need in my purse.” Then she laughed.

You know what they say about finding yourself stiff and unable to articulate words when you are in a moment of shock? Well that is what happened to me. Every nerve in my vocal cords wanted to tell her that I was not interested in her in that way but it was as if someone had put a tight sheet of plastic, saran wrap or wax paper over my face and I was desperately trying to break through. You got it all wrong lady, I kept thinking to myself but for some ridiculous reason (the answer of which can probably be found in my childhood), I was unable to talk. It was at that moment that a black Toyota Prius pulled up to the curb. A white balding man in a white collard shirt rolled down the window and said, “it is four o’clock baby.” The prostitute turned towards the man in the car and said, “I’ll be right there.” She then turned to me and said, “look I got to go honey, but come find me tomorrow and I’ll show you what all that shyness has been cheating you out of.” She then bent down and gave my dog another love starved hug and then disappeared into the black Prius.

I stood there on that corner with my dog sitting by my side. I watched the black Prius get smaller and smaller in the distance. I felt like a failure for not having had the courage to tell her that she was all wrong about what she was thinking about me. I did not want the prostitute to think that I wanted her services, because then I would never be able to come observe her again. I really wanted to ask her why she was standing on this particular street corner, day after day, but I was unable to get a single word out. My month long stretch of curiosity had resulted in nothing but shame and embarrassment. I stood on that corner until the sun fell behind the busy Starbucks across the street. My dog did not put up too much of a fuss about standing there with me. It was as if she knew that I needed some time to myself. I stood there on that corner and watched the cars pass by. I imagined what it would be like to be her standing in that very spot. I noticed all the men who were driving in their cars alone as they passed by. I felt the breeze created by the numerous passing cars blowing my hair.

When I finally returned home that evening my wife confronted me and said, “where have you been?” I took the dog off the leash and opened the back door for her to go run around in the yard. I looked at my wife and did not know what to say.