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One step after the next.
A day of completions.
A sequence of tasks completed.
I was happy and in the moment, things I'd delayed previously completed today.
Waiting was not a problem. Traffic was not a problem. In a long line, I chatted with others and joked around, we had fun; the reason for all this is that I was in a flow, or the flow. Whatever.
The point is that it can't be planned this well; after prayer, I just let if flow.
I was happy.
I was free.
Creative intelligence led the way.
A great day.
I don't know why it is that we don't get to be friends with our parents until later in life but I am goddamn sure glad that we do get there.
How otherwise could so much love and so much sacrifice and so much pain and so much confusion ever sum right?
I'm glad that my parents lived long enough for us to become friends, for them to know me as more than the sum of their influences, for all of us to mature enough to know each other.
The love was always there.
And now the friendship is also.
Resentment colors my soul, darkly.
Today a bleak reminder of that.
One persons cruel remarks last night found a target in my ego.
Typical lame bullshit - allowed my self the luxury of anger and payed for it. Lost a lot of my day. Thank god I can't harbor resentments too long any more; I spoke with a friend and found out I was caught in it.
This stuff operates in the shadows, hides in the dark spaces, and grows there, too.
I did not even realize I was angry.
All I needed was to see it and it was gone.
I painted all evening and into the early night, left here about ten or eleven, went to my favorite greaze-ball tex-mex joint, had great food and great fun, untying the gals aprons, generally giving them shit in any way that I can; given that they don't talk english and I don't talk mexican, we still have WAY too much fun. They like me a lot and I them, and I think a few of them may even be flirting with the 'grande gringo' but maybe not, they may be saying something about church and religious candles, or pinatas. No telling.
Tonight I read Brave New World by candlelight in a steaming hot bath, after a ten mile bike ride.
Two candles on each side, no more light than birthday candles.
You should do this.
I recommend it.
It wouldn't have to be Brave New World but you'll want something you love.
Marcus Aurelius would be great, or Cool Hand Luke.
I held the book high, and dunked my head. I alternated, holding the book close to the candles, holding a candle close to the page. Burned the corner of page forty-nine, for fun.
Don't forget to wash behind your ears!
Met with two men today, stepped deeply into their lives, one this afternoon, the other late tonight.
Only at the level that I show my humanity do they show theirs.
This trust takes time to build.
It is worth standing flawed in the presence of another - the reward is brotherhood, the family of man.
It is the best way to be in the world.
It runs totally counter to what I want.
I want to put on my brightest smile, hide all the trash in a closet, bolt the door.
I want to lie.
Today, I did not do so.
Take a huge mug, fill two thirds organic milk, one third organic soy milk, heat in the microwave, three minutes.
Jam the coffee - ground extremely fine, not quite dust but not far from it - into your expresso machine, which forces steam through it, creating a rich, thick coffee.
Then use the steam attachment to create a froth on top of the milk. Pour the expresso in. Stir. Then sprinkle a few bits fresh expresso grind on top of the froth.
Do this twice daily.
This will improve your life greatly.
You will be filled with a new joy.
Souls come closer than words.
Experience tells me it's chemistry and hope.
It all falls away, no one else in the room.
Experience tells me don't trust this.
Our hearts pouring through our eyes.
Experience tells me hearts can easily be broken.
Her hands in mine, time stops.
Experience tells me boundries drop, only to snap back in place later.
Hopeful, happy, confused. Awed. Humbled.
Experience tells me it's predictable, foolish, a young mans game.
The language of the heart.
Experience tells me walk slow.
Her smile is all; I try to voice this.
Experience tells me words cannot begin.
Painted til I couldn't paint any more, tired and flat and now I am faced with the words.
And I am tired of chasing colors around, trying to get where I've been before but which eludes me. I do create beauty, but I cannot do so in a predictable fashion.
I don't know my paint box.
I am angry about this.
I want it now.
I am working toward it.
I keep painting toward it.
But tomorrow I am going to just let it lay, I am going to paint straight from my heart with no stricture placed upon outcome.
My life has often been a lie, but this is not.
I believe in my colors.
I do not think they are daubs, I do not think they are wasted. Should no one elses eye ever land upon them, I still believe it to be a life well spent.
This is what I want.
I tell the truth with my knife.
I do not know if I will be able to bring my colors into the world but I wish this above all else.
It brings me joy.
I am good at this.
I believe in my colors, I believe in my eye.
My prayer is that I be allowed to bring this forth.
Sleep still jagged and I am still ragged.
Scattered, shattered, spattered, splattered - the whole show.
Seasonal affective disorder?
I think so. And the colors really do loose a storm and I paint at night. Late, usually.
And I write late, and often meditate late.
'Sleep wont come / The whole night through / My cheatin heart / etc and etc'
You know the drill.
My days a daze.
But then, come sundown, I awaken, my senses sharpen, I come to life.
This has been going on for thirty-five years, since I hit puberty.
It really sucks.
I can't recommend it.
It is for me the best way.
One day at a time.
It keeps me from being consumed with days and dates and how long since and how long til.
And now it is for me to listen when people call and offer help, whatever fashion in comes in, and difficult though that is; hopefully I will have the ability to set aside my ego and let the messengers give me a hand.
A continual gift, comes in like clockwork, as does my unwillingness to accept it.
It was a good run, a great time for me, a useful tool.
They mix completely different, titanium white completely changes the color while zinc white lightens it but keeps its warmth. Titanium white makes red look like pepto bismal, zinc white makes red look like a lighter red but clearly still red.
Titanium white would be good for some pastel feeling stuff, not like I'm gonna throw it out but Im gonna use it about 200 times less and gonna buy big fucking tubs of zinc white and smear them all over my body, gonna drink the shit, gonna pour it into my pants and get all excited about it, or something.....
The most important thing that happened to me today.
That is what I've committed to writing about here each day, and while Ive scattered about a time or two I mostly have hewed to that line if something big happened in my day, its usually found its way to the page.
Which leads to today.
I spent almost four hours there, bought new carpet, floor and wall tile, paint, a million and one other things to bring this place into perfect shape.
This is hardly glamourous stuff, though my place damn sure will be when its done.
Uno. Dos. Tres. Quatro. Cinco. Seis. Siete. Ocho. Neuve. Diez. Once. Dose. Trese. Quatorse. Quinse. Dieaiccis. Diezziete. Diesocho. Diesnueve. Viente. Viente-once. Viente-dose. Viente-trese. Viente-quatorse. Viente-quinse. Viente-dieaiccis. Viente-diezziete. Viente-diesocho. Viente-diesnueve. Treinto. Triento-once. Triento-dose. Triento-trese. Triento-quatorse. Triento-quinse. Triento-dieaiccis. Triento-diezziete. Triento-diesocho. Triento-diesnueve. Cuarento. Cuarento-once. Cuarento-dose. Cuarento-trese. Cuarento-quatorse. Cuarento-quinse. Cuarento-dieaiccis. Cuarento-diezziete. Cuarento-diesocho. Cuarento-diesnueve. Cinventa. Cinventa-once. Cinventa-dose. Cinventa-trese. Cinventa-quatorse. Cinventa-quinse. Cinventa-dieaiccis. Cinventa-diezziete. Cinventa-diesocho. Cinventa-diesnueve. Secente. Secente-once. Secente-dose. Secente-trese. Secente-quatorse. Secente-quinse. Secente-dieaiccis. Secente-diezziete. Secente-diesocho. Secente-diesnueve. Cetenta. Cetenta-once. Cetenta-dose. Cetenta-trese. Cetenta-quatorse. Cetenta-quinse. Cetenta-dieaiccis. Cetenta-diezziete. Cetenta-diesocho. Cetenta-diesnueve. Ochenta. Ochenta-once. Ochenta-dose. Ochenta-trese. Ochenta-quatorse. Ochenta-quinse. Ochenta-dieaiccis. Ochenta-diezziete. Ochenta-diesocho. Ochenta-diesnueve. Noventa. Noventa-once. Noventa-dose. Noventa-trese. Noventa-quatorse. Noventa-quinse. Noventa-dieaiccis. Noventa-diezziete. Noventa-diesocho. Noventa-diesnueve.
Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm. Overwhelm.
The first time I remember it happening was summer between fourth and fifth grade.
Those same feelings almost forty years later.
I still cannot do groups in an unstructured way, still cannot do dinners with those I do not know well or do not trust, still cannot work with those I do not know well or do not trust, cannot paint - absolutely cannot paint - in the presence of any kind of judgement or fear; I become completely blocked by that fear, almost an agony.
The only way I know out of it: cut and run.
A limited life.
Too much going on in my life and I am not handling it well, this goddamn remodel driving me nuts and taking lots more than I thought/hoped it would. It will be beautiful but I cannot seem to drive myself to make it go faster.
I am not sleeping at all and it is all starting to come in on me now.
This is fucked.
I cannot move.
Or not fast anyhow. Or so it seems to me, though maybe this is just how long it takes to remodel; I do not remember it taking me this long.
There I stood, filthy, sweaty, looking at the yet-to-be-painted ceiling with complete sincerity, cursing god with all my heart.
I hadn't yet meditated.
I needed to.
I know of few people who need close relationship to god as much as me.
Vexed, I cut myself from the one thing I need more than any other.
Railing at god is one of the most foolish things that I do. I do it less now than before, but it is still in me.
I do not think god cares, or is offended; it is me who suffers, cut from power.
I cannot tell what is in her heart.
The look in her eye is one thing; getting to know her past what shines in her eyes is what I need to know to determine if there is anywhere to go with the her.
But her eyes do pour out care, directly, and strong.
Little that I can say at this time. All will be known in due time.
Which does not take her off my mind. Nor should it.
She is lovely.
A pleasure to see her, and to be in her presence.
Are we to be more than friends?
Three of them came up to me, afterwards.
It is a pleasure.
One is lost, has not yet hit the end of his road, has not bottomed out.
One is happy, or shows happy anyhow, balanced on his feet easily, no anxiety around his eyes. He's getting laid, which helps.
The last I can almost see his roots growing fast and deep into new soil, wrapping around stones, whatever else may be there, spreading out. He is completely sincere. He will do the work, every last bit of it.
This is the fun part.
But sleep wont come \ The whole night through...
Slept early but then awoke cold, out from under the covers, and now cannot sleep.
Sleep problems have plagued me my entire life. No, that is not true - it has plagued me sinceI have been fourteen years old.
I have tremendous compassion for poeple who cannot easily sleep, I damn sure understand it. My father is now suffering horribly from it, and because of various health problems cannot take any sort of medication which would help ease him off to rest.
I was in bed early and now typing.
So that part of my day was fun, but much of the day leading up to that part of my day was not fun, because, as always, I refused to submit my self on the sacrifice. I wear a cross, and if you wear a cross you gotta be ready to hang on it, and what fucks me off the worst is that it is a daily thing, this is not a one time deal, where you get to hang on the cross then tossed in a cave and then BANG its easter and now you get to say hi to all your friends, though it is in fact like that but it is like that every day, without the nails.
No words, not a goddamn thing to say tonight.
Overwhelmed by inability to move in my home or in most any area of my life.
I want to call to someone - and I know that I am lucky to have people to call upon - but I do not know how exactly to do this.
I am stuck now.
Or so it seems.
All is moving slow, I am mired, I cannot get things to move at the pace I want them to move at. It is as though I expect someone will come along and help me.
I am stuck.
Resentments and fears and broken relationships.
It's always the same crap, always has been and always will be.
It is the dailiness that wears on me, how every day I must be on guard against me self, my huge and unruly and completely arrogant ego.
'We must, or it kills us.'
I was not even completed with the writing and the peace came, and is still here, is with me now.
I am at ease.
The restlessness started when I started work, when I hit puberty, thirteen years old.
The only ease that I know - pen and prayer.
Don told me today that the reason he has so much trouble sleeping is that he did not get up and face his day early, so he changed it by getting up and going, regardless he had one hour sleep or whatever, and now he is able to rest easy, nights. It took him a few weeks and he is not bipolar, I realize that I have additional challenges due to that, but it is sound advice from two of my friends now, I need to pay attention to it. It might not hurt if I began eating some, also...
I want to write here about the most important thing of my day. Today, that would have to be the meeting with Bob.
We both sprawled out, shot the shit for an hour, maybe a bit better. I need his counsel but dont know that Id ask for it, as I am not sure that I trust him that close to me, his directive nature in dealing with others a holdout for me. So we keep the friendship what it is, but I do listen closely to what he tells me, tentatively put things on the table from my end.
Just because great people are often misunderstood, it does not follow that misunderstood people are great.
This also: Misinformed people - usually misinformed bipolar people - believe that since so many people of great genius are bipolar, it follows that bipolar confers genius upon those with the disease; seen with a clearer eye, it is evident that it is not that bipolar disorder gives genius but rather that those fortunate (?) few bipolars who are bright have the energy, when in their manic phases, to create many works which display that genius, just as those that are dumb create potholders or Hollywood movies.
Going nowhere and getting there fast tonight, stepping on the paint from last night earlier tonight and stepping on it again just now and no matter what I do it turns to shit and I fucking hate this.
I also hate the idea, on nights like tonight, that I have told others that I write out here, what a pain in my ass to think that others might read these empty words about empty days. And I know it is not to them that I am writing or damn sure better not be but nights like this...
I am empty.
And prayer at church tonight was great also.
Maybe it was the great fun at the greezy texmex joint, taking in my translation books sos I can begin to give the folks there a hard time in their own tongue, and they in mine - THAT was real fun, a blast, such fun to see Maria and Mocosa so happy. And to get to sit next to Maria - now THAT was nice. Man. What a babe! Jesus...
And the chat with Miss Amy - it'd been a long while and it was great to catch up and just to schmooze with her.
A good month.
I did not paint every day but I did most days. Starting tomorrow, rise and shine early am and meditate, early morning meeting, then into my days - no more late nights, or, if there are more late nights, there will have to be naps in the afternoon to compensate because I am going to get up early.
I have wanted to make this change and got support and now will implement this.
I have to change my clock.
I've done this before, been much more a morning person and find it a good thing.
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