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Redheads really float my boat. Especially freckled-up redheads. Gawd. It's fun to play dot-to-dot on their skin, etc.
And I like tall women, I think it's just swell to be with a gal that can reach the top shelf; twice in my life I've dated women tall enough to wear the same pants I do, of course there were lots of lame jokes about getting into each others pants. Fun.
And I like short women, bitty gals, they sometimes wear these hats that no other woman can wear, their clothing is so small it's almost pretend clothing.
I'm quite annoyed that I didn't finish the hundreds for July, as July is a very important month to me, the anniversary of my getting clean and sober 1982 the anniversary of my dying and coming back 2004 the anniversary of my starting the hundreds 2002.
But I didn't finish.
Today confusion, sadness, the possible loss of a friendship; she's inconsiderate, perhaps dishonest. I don't have room in my life for dishonest. I don't know for a fact that it went down as I think it did but it appears that way. I intend to find out, and I can.
I intend to pick up a guitar and play like Stevie Ray, I can probably do it in four years, right, even though he started before he was ten, sneaking into his brothers room and listening to those old blues records and playing to them as best he could and it's the only job he's ever wanted or ever had and he practiced obsessively and slept with his guitars in his bed and he had fucking magic in his soul regardless all that, I figure I ought to be able to do it, easy, in four years time. Right? Right?
I knew I was having some sort of heart trouble in 1999, was in the rack with ol' Sandy from San Antone, always fun, but then things got too good, if you catch my drift.
I went to my physician, he did a EKG in his office and found nothing, sent me to Austin Heart Hospital and they put me on a stress test and found nothing, sent me on my way.
I stayed away from Sandy, for any number of reasons, from then on.
Four years later I'm dead as Dillinger, heart attacks, from a cardiac artery problem, congenital.
I was in all the dumb kid classes in high school, I got one A, in a dumb kid history class. (Did you know that America is named after Amerigo Vespucci, an Italian mapmaker? I did.) High school was a place to go meet my buddies and do drugs and goof off, I'm from a blue collar construction family, by my senior year I was making more money than my teachers (after school and weekends) and I damn sure knew more about work than they did. I did get very rudimentary typing skills in high school. But that was it.
The only way I could make a go of it anymore is with a duplex, have a door passing from one to the other that has a lock on both sides. Then I'd get to go to 'her place' and she could come over to 'my place' and we could have morning coffee and we could have pets together (the door could have a pet door in it) and be close and supportive of each other and be able to fight at a moments notice just like anyone who lives together, but we'd have our own space and time alone.
Why walk when you can roll? I've not lived there in many years so I can't fill you in on much, as all I've done in the years since I've left are brief visits. But on one of those visits I rented a bike and it makes it a lot easier to cover the miles. You're close to the street, close to the beat, you can pause as you'd like to see what you'd like, you're close to the pulse of it all, you're riding the pulse of it all. Chicago in the summer is my second favorite US city.
You can use your BA writing skills to write a book telling how becoming a doctor was such a horror show that you decided, just into your residency, to chuck the whole thing, default on your student loans, and teach hateful, ungrateful kids in Harlem to write things they don't give a damn about. That's the heroic path, and the fools.
You might not like other work any more than you like medicine. It's possible you're unhappy, or depressed. Though what you've gone through to become a doctor, and going through as a doctor, could of course lead to depression.
You wanna cry? Watch these movies:
"Breaking The Waves" -- Emily Watson in her film debut is spectacular, each time I watch the movie I sortof fall in love with her her naivet้ and love for and devotion to Jan. She is one hell of an actress who took this role as far as it could be taken.
"Dancer In The Dark" -- Bj๖rk is probably the only person who could make this happen, it's her only acting role but it's a performance of a lifetime.
von Triers is a savant, a neurotic mess who gets top performances out of his actors.
Meditations of Marcus Aurelius translated by Maxwell Staniforth
So many translations of Aurelius and you will think you're reading the most boring dope ever to walk this old ball of dirt and water, but under the pen of Staniforth Aurelius comes to life as warm, even poetic (which I bet he was) and not at all dry. I'm so thankful that this is the first translation I came across, I might otherwise have not gotten to know my old friend Marcus as well as I have, perhaps I'd not come to know him at all. Thank you so much, Maxwell.
Benjamin Franklin said his method of getting a person who had an adversarial view of him onto his side was to ask this person a favor, put himself in this persons debt, often by asking if he could borrow a book that he knew was in the other persons library -- books were a very precious commodity then; not only did they not have Amazon, they didn't even have the internet!
I think you're going to just have to wait it out. Maybe this guy will get hit by a bus, maybe you'll end up with one of your old bosses.
I've embarked upon a lifestyle, not a vacation from bad habits. This is how I live now, adopting and adapting to an intelligent diet and exercising my body isn't something that 'I'll do for two months' but rather something that I do, and will do.
My first yoga instructor used to laugh about this, that everyone wants to be fit but instead of changing their lives they're watching sportscenter, hoping that they can take a supplement (Like the one they just saw advertised!) rather than toss the chips and dip and drag ass off the couch and do the deal.
Are you interested in death?
Myself, I've always been interested in death, the whole NDE thing and all, it sounds cute, sortof fun, almost, zooming around over peoples heads, life review, The White Light, etc, etc. And depression -- yeah, sure, there's times I've considered leaping off a building, or what have you. But actually dying and stuff? It was somewhere after "Going to the coast" on the list of things I wanted to do, after that but before "Listening to rap music".
But I did die.
You can too.
I just can't recommend this.
I even wear seat belts now.
a 300 grain 45 round!
I've only seen 300 grain bullets in .44 mag, in fact I've considered buying some, and building some defensive rounds, slow moving and heavy that .44 mag of mine is heavy enough that regardless the weight of the bullet the pistol still isn't going to jump too badly in my hand...
I've even seen 320 grain in .44 mag. Unreal.
I'd rather get hit by a bus get one of these bullets moving slowly enough and they would blow someone across the room, rather than blowing through them like a full-house .44 mag does.
No one can make you do anything you don't want to do, short of them coming in and putting a knife to your throat, or having perfect tits and an innocent neediness about them. As far as I know, no one has put a knife to your throat recently, and I know for a fact that you're gaining an ability to step out in the face of perfect tits, an ability to hold to your ideals, regardless how hokey these ideals seem as said tits bounce, maybe a tear or two on them, coming from an innocent and needy eye...
So here's a hundred that I just flat don't give a fuck about it's late, I've had a shitty day though it surely did get better, here at the end of it, and I'm sortof gassed about that, but mostly I don't give a rats ass, I just want to pound out this hundred and hit the rack. I've taken my 'meds stew', my brain will be sloping down soon so it's best I don't try to create something of beauty or poetry, just pound out the fucking hundred and bag it, who cares, it's over, it's done, it's gone.
An old girlfriend has a cat that's completely insane; eyes like beautiful cracked yellow marbles, upwards of seventeen thousand neurotic and/or psychotic behaviors.
I sortof understand mental illness -- I have known a few schizophrenics, a few schizo-affectives, more than a few manic depressives. While none of them has (yet) pissed on my bed, I understand that the way that these people behave is, many times, beyond their control. Fortunately, many of these people are able to be helped, better living through chemistry, etc and etc. Unfortunately, I haven't yet seen any anti-psychotics marketed toward the feline population.
My 'cheat' day writing this on September 7th, as I enter these hundreds online. Phew! This is such a pain in the ass, you'd think I'd learn to enter them in daily, but no I won't do that.
So at least I'll have this month of hundreds up; I've written so many months of hundreds and not posted them, out of laziness or whatever, incompetence I suppose. I didn't want to deal with what I am dealing with right here right now, the work of putting these online.
I'm closing in on one hundred, closer with every word, each letter
Print out what you've written, hand it to the therapist, first thing, right after you shake hands and sit down in the chair. It'll show them (and you) that you've got guts. It'll give them a sense of who they are dealing with, and what you are dealing with.
If it is the first time you've really talked with someone about yourself, about your situation, just the fact that you've spoken about it can be a huge relief, it's almost physical, palpable, it's entirely possible that you'll walk out of there lighter, before you've hit on anything of any depth.
Faith doesn't have a goddamned thing to do with religion, some Jesus fuck taking a basket of bread and fish and making fish-sticks, it hasn't a goddamned thing to do with Leviticus and Mohamed or any of those fucks.
Comes through experience.
Clean up your past, best you can.
Pray. Ask for help, for direction, guidance. I pray on my knees; you do whatever the fuck you want.
Do that, maybe have a pretty good day. Do it again, another pretty good day. A stack of those, you'll have you some faith.
My water heater broke, and I didn't get it repaired for a few years, for fun -- you want to awaken fast, shower in cold water. Fun! Most fun of it was visitors, howling, shrieking, you could hear them leaping about -- you'd think someone was pulling out their fingernails. Because I'm wacky, I even showered in cold water when vacationing and/or staying at someones house, maintaining that discipline. Maybe I'll start that back again, only the cold water after shaving; I hope to remember to turn off the shower as I shave from now on, clean water a precious commodity.
I came within two feet of getting hit by a fast-moving car.
I was on my bicycle, had foolishly wandered halfway into the street, taking for granted that people would give a damn about me.
Mostly they do.
It only takes one.
I must be fifty times more careful. I must must assume that each and every car is driven by either an incompetent or a drunk or a very angry person.
I'm used to driving in that big pickup. A world of difference. This is as bad as a motorcycle, every bit as dangerous.
Life is so beautiful...
I've not a goddamned thing to say, and why would that take one hundred words to tell? How would it take one hundred words to tell? Why would I want to write one hundred words about nothing? And why would you read them these knowing that they are not but fucking drivel. Drivel.
I hate drivel.
I don't like it at all. Not one bit. Probably you feel the same.
I don't blame you.
So I'm stuck, here, now, in this sentence, not knowing how to finish this drivel. I'm close to home but not there yet but aching to
Half day at a spa: Take a shower, a swim, another shower, get a massage, get in the sauna, get in the steam room, another shower, sauna, steam room again, shower again, walk in the woods if the place is outdoorsy, take a favorite book of poetry and read under a tree, or take a sketch book and pencil and draw, meditate if that works for you, scratch yourself, what have you, and a nice lunch, good, healthy, pretty food -- you're clean, shiny as a new whistle, relaxed, you've had sun and water and words and care heaped upon yourself.
She wants to flirt. No, she is flirting.
I'd LOVE to flirt, and more she's a beauty, young, bright, neurotic, fun, a freckled-up red-head to boot.
But she had a few years clean/sober in AA, went back out drinking/drugging, and now she's back.
Bad karma to fuck a new-comer.
Hurts everyone involved.
Alcoholics need love, and lots of it. But many only know love through dropping their drawers, immediate enmeshment.
My ideal: I'm to look at her as a sister, love her as a sister.
That's lots easier when they're not red-headed ...
My joints ache, or maybe not ache, more like I can tell that I've used my body today. More like I can tell that I've used my body yesterday and then again today. Which is to say that I can feel that I've moved this old crate around, I can feel it in my muscles, I can feel it in my joints.
It feels good, sortof sore but good. More good than sore, or both, equally.
My body slowly opening up as I move further into Ashtanga. I expect that this will last a lifetime, and hope that it does.
I can attest that many people are more than willing to step over the line when they believe that you're 'too skinny' or 'you look sick' in a way that they never, ever would to anyone who they believe is perhaps 'too fat' or 'looks fat' -- it seems it's perfectly fine, perhaps even politically correct to jump a persons case if they are thin, absolutely A-OK if they are skinny. You can get scorned, shamed, you can get boatloads of shit from people if you lose weight (even if you were carrying a lot of fat), for being thin.
You can drop an AK-47 into mud, sand, water, rocks, dirt, dogshit, you can piss on it, have the dog and cat piss on it, pour filthy kitty litter in it, throw it on the ground, jump up and down on it, pick the son of a bitch up and it'll spit out streams of bullets in the general direction you've aimed it. (Not exactly where you aimed it, no, but in that direction.) They are cooler than hell, they are cheap, they have an amazingly simple design, which is why they don't fucking quit working no matter what.
You want this to stop? You're sure? Do this:
Put it on the table. Tell Mr. Crush that it is over. Get redneck about it, tell it like it is, say that yeah, you've felt this and yeah, he's felt this but that you have decided that you are with Mr. Significant Other and you are going to be with Mr. S.O. and you are not going to allow this any more room in your heart, and that you will not tolerate any further flirtations from him, that you will not engage in any flirtations from your end.
I'm wondering if this fuck has been lying to me very annoying.
I give these people as much as I know how to, I don't expect that much, not given what I expend, what I extend toward them.
And it appears now that this fuck has not been holding up his end.
Worse, he's been lying, saying that he has.
Worse still, he's a time suck.
I won't give at a high level unless they give all they have to this. Correction I won't give at all. I won't fuck around.
I'll fire his ass in a heartbeat.
I ended up here, running, stumble after tumble, it was and is a welcoming place -- so many in Texas come here running from, rather than running toward. I surely do feel that it's my home, I belong here, mostly I know it. Plus, I get to live in Austin, and living in Austin is like living in Disneyland for adults, there's festivals and parties and music and art all over the place, people come from everywhere to spend time in my neighborhood, and I don't blame them. I live on the river, dead across from downtown Austin; it's so beautiful.
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