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One woman I took to on a date said that she felt it was a very good thing to live with roommates, and was critical of me because I lived alone, but she was critical of me for every possible reason, and I should have stabbed her with my fork. But I can see her point -- I know that when I've lived in close proximity with others I do better than I do alone, I tend toward isolation when alone, as I think you know.
I just don't know that I could live with anyone again, or if I even want to.
The best in the day the time with Yoga Mike, working out the circles, the fun in that. I love passing the baton, handing off to Yoga Mike what BobVP gave me those long years gone by, trying to give him the words, encapsulate the experience.
Fuck -- the second thing his father said to Heidi. It's an ache, it hurts to hear, it's visceral, not as bad as a kick in the guts but in that direction.
Rare that I don't speak with Kelly but didn't tonight -- I missed her, then left my phone in the truck, missed her callback.
I wonder if you realize how much art you inspire, how much comfort you've brought. I listen to your shows when I'm painting, nothing goes better with three am than your voice, maybe mixed with some fine Austin music. Regardless, your show is usually playing when I'm painting.
I met an artist online, probably the most creative woman I've ever known, maybe the craziest, damn sure the coolest; I found in short order that she also loves your art -- it helped open the door to that friendship, helped us to trust one another's judgment; your work is sortof a Rorschach.
Probably the majority of Americans are deeply religious, way past the point of stupidity, mostly a half-assed, uneven mix of Judaism (though without the little hats) and Christianity (though without forgiveness, or grace), based upon words written by primitives living in tents or caves, shitting in holes, often in dire need of anti-psychotics (read 'Revelations' when you're up for a chuckle), interpreted by an uptight, prudish, suspicious, frightened, gaseous, superstitious, poorly educated minister. It's a horror show, though it's also very, very funny. (They get fussy, like Zulus or something, when you point, or take pictures; don't be obvious.)
Old Timer --
Spend my life as you will. Show me the direction to go, I'll get there fast as I'm able.
I'll need your help.
Please help me remember to ask for it.
If and when you want me to do something, just let me know. You might have to holler -- I don't listen well sometimes.
Thanks for all the support, for sending these nice folks my way. Myself, I wish I didn't need that support, but whatever.
It is what it is.
Help me see that, if you will, if you can sneak past my big fat ego.
So I don't know what to think, still.
In days past I'd have left this relationship long ago. Or maybe not, though I think so. But I'm hanging in on this.
It's not been the same since our holiday trips, back to back, one to the coast to her mothers people, the other to Bowling Green KY to see her fathers people.
So we've spent more time apart, we've become distant, I've known it of course and so has she but it's been unspoken. Til tonight.
Speaking it didn't bring much clarity. If any.
I don't know what to do.
So I'm sitting here alone, Saturday night, actually early Sunday morning, 12:45am.
It has been a shit day.
Love is a fucked up mess sometimes.
Or. Rather. I'm a fucked up mess sometimes. And I can make a fucked up mess out of my love life, or just my life in general maybe.
It's looking that way right now.
I'm thinking I ought just give up on love, I'm thinking I've just wrung myself out too much, strung myself out too much, can't make it back to normal, nor even close by, can't even get in the neighborhood.
That MLK sermon, one year to the day prior to his getting killed -- I had no idea; I'd sortof seen MLK day as a day we'd given to the black people, sortof a 'token' holiday, I had no idea what a great man he was. No, not true -- I had of course seen 'I Have A Dream' speech; it is beautiful, amazingly powerful. But I hadn't understood the position he took on Viet Nam. It is great. He is great. Was. A great American. I consider Lincoln the best American, the finest person we've produced, other than Jim Morrison maybe.
Listening to an old cd, and old favorite, I thought of Alison, foolishly looked at a photo of her, blew my fucking heart apart. Yet again.
You'd think I'd learn.
You'd think it'd not sting anymore -- I can look at photos of Kathy, and not get stung, though I loved her and do love her.
My fucking heart is hammering.
It's been long, long years gone by.
I've loved her since that Tucson afternoon, her hurting, beautiful golden-brown eyes on mine, her kiss.
I am a goddamned fool, I'm out of control of my very own stupid heart.
I slept through this day, up WAY too late last night, and doing the same again now.
I surely do love deep in the night.
It's just different, is all. It feels different, it sounds different, it *is* different, that's all.
Mostly I think it feels different.
How can I 'feel' a time of day? If you asked that question, I'd bet dollars to dimes that you're reading this before 10pm. I bet you leave the show before the last set, which is always the best set, in large part because people like you have left. I'm glad you've gone.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing to talk about here tonight. I think I'm flat, or down, or depressed, or annoyed, or all of the above. My head hurts, my feet stink, and I don't love Jesus.
I've read today, and spoken on the telephone, and napped, and missed two appointments. I missed two appointments yesterday also, postponed rather than missed, all of these.
I sit in this place going out of my mind.
This isolation is not good for me. I'm not able to break free of it, a pattern I've had for many years, not all the time but sometimes.
I am mentally ill.
It's not my fault.
It's nothing I've done, it's genetic in nature. I'm smart as you are, maybe smarter, or maybe not as smart. But smart doesn't matter to an illness.
I suffer from depressions which you cannot even begin to imagine. Often these depressions are fueled by and driven with the power of the manic side of my illness.
Imagine having the mood (dark) and thought (despair) of a deeply depressed person, driven with manic energy. It's called 'mixed states', both depression and mania running full on at the same time.
It's hell on earth.
The noon meeting at the local tacky AA club; said hi to my friends, talked a long while with a woman who is really getting creamed by bipolar disorder, spent an hour, support, telling her what I know.
Telephone call; a guy I now sponsor, getting him lined out, step work. Then met with two other guys I sponsor, back to back, an hour each, and then another meeting, this one at St. David's horspital. After the meeting, I spent an hour with yet *another* guy I sponsor.
I sponsor a lot of people. It really helps me a lot.
Okay, so there's something to it. Not much, but something. A *little* something.
Not a big something.
We're dealing with ingrained habits, deep patterns of behavior, sometimes lifelong. If it's something that really does bother you (me) (us) (whoever), then it's not something that'll respond well to this 'treatment'.
'Affirm' that you *love* that loathsome part of yourself. 'Affirm' that what you can barely stand about yourself is a good thing.
Thus you'll learn to love yourself.
It's demoralizing, because if you (me) (who-the-fuck-ever) actually think something is going to come of it, you'll be sorely disappointed.
Awakened. Tired. Really zoned.
Kelly -- she's bright as a button. Asked if I wanted to get up. If I wanted coffee. If I wanted some goddamned, motherfucking oatmeal.
Then. The sane cat starts picking on the schizophrenicat, because the sane cat, while sane, is a jagoff.
I'm angry -- furious -- that Kelly doesn't step in; all the schizophrenicat wants is left alone.
I'm up. I dunk the sane cats head into the toilet. Coffee. Socks. Pants. Shirt. Boots.
I'm outta there.
I said nothing. I've been very mean in my past. Hopefully, someday I'll find the middle ground.
So I got up and got out, gonna meet two guys I sponsor. One just doesn't even show, the other calls, gives a couple hours notice.
It's annoying, but part of the deal.
On the other hand, the guy who does show up -- that time spent is great.
Sponsoring is such a good thing. It gives me a sense of purpose, it clears out my head, and my heart, I can move freely.
It's such an unusual mathematics -- receiving by giving. It seems illogical, maybe even nonsensical. But it surely does add up well, it sums nicely.
It gives peace.
So of course I waited until the very last hour to file my taxes -- not knowing, of course, if I owed them or they owed me or what -- and I find out I owe nothing.
I'm just ridiculous.
Why do I wait until the very end, why oh why do I not find out if I owe them or not? Why do I put everything off?
On an unrelated note, sponsoring was a fucking blast today, and so was driving around with 'Cinnamon Girl' blasting out the windows of my pickup, the soft-gray, rainy afternoon so easy on the eyes...
Many in recovery say they're grateful to be alcoholic or whatever, because otherwise they'd not have found a decent way of life.
I think that's completely berserk.
However, being as I am an addict, I am *very* grateful that I've found 12 step recovery.
I sponsor lots of guys. I have some friends that call me, for support, and some friends that I call.
Alone, I stay fucked up. Fucked.
Together, we recover. And find peace.
Peace is joy at standstill.
Joy is peace on the move.
Today, I've got peace.
It's really the only game going, for an alcoholic/addict.
Redon, that impossibly beautiful nude.
Two impossible Monet still lifes -- a bowl of fruit, flowers in a vase.
'Cypresses', that Van Gogh we've all seen images of, and that I'd seen in New York, 19 years ago; painted while he was in the asylum, to see it is to ache for the beauty that's in it.
Corot -- I have of course seen paintings but not at once, not a flood of them; he moves my heart.
A Renior, a little girl, huge shining blue eyes, painted to cheer her up.
I think I'm going to have to return, and soon.
So I'm re-reading 'The Book of Ruth', one of my very favorite books. It isn't a beautiful story, it's a human story told beautifully. Jane Hamilton is a magician, conjures images, word pictures, I'm awed; to me, this book, her first, is her best.
'Pluche' -- Dutourd
'Cool Hand Luke' -- Pearce
'Meditations' -- Marcus Aurelius
'Letters from The Earth' -- Twain
Brautigan; his last book particularly poignant, painful and beautiful and funny as only he could be.
'Call of The Wild' -- London
'Lonesome Dove' -- McMurtry
'The Godfather' -- Puzo
'All Quiet on The Western Front' -- Remarqe
'Catch-22' -- Heller
This is a start...
The AA text is not about drinking.
Nor about not drinking.
It's purpose is to help alcoholics find a way of living that brings peace.
Apply these principles, do these things. Results follow.
An American book, to be sure.
Written simply, in fact deceptively simple, you can (I did) read right past things that are of vast importance.
If you -- like me -- have trouble learning from textbooks (book learning), you're going to spend lots of time learning to understand this stuff, allowing it to sink in; it really was a struggle for me, and sometimes is a struggle for me.
Rather than cramming, which I surely did try to do, seems I do better with 'seeping', learning through time and experience.
The letter to Judith, and I must determine what to give her -- I want to give her a painting, or ?
But that's not all this day contained. It's probably half, but there was also meeting Jon, our second time talking together with me as his sponsor.
He's a hard worker, a good guy, sensitive, blue collar, creative as hell, a gifted musician who wants to get all he can from the steps, all that he can from AA, all that he can from me, and I want to give him all that I can, also.
It seems a good fit.
I spent time with two of my guys today, and it was good.
I sponsor guys who work to gain the rewards of the steps.
It is an unusual mathematics -- the more I give the more I receive.
Give to get.
Seems to me that's why we're here, to help one another walk, stumble the road.
We get pulled to pieces by our addictions. Defeated, we reach for grace, accept it when it shows.
It's a good life, but hell to get here -- I can't really recommend it. Take up chess, Parcheesi, whatever -- don't become an alcoholic.
Up til dawn this morning, foolishly, willfully almost I think, just not wanting to pack it in, messing around with this dang puter mostly, with the result being some new software (Mozilla Thunderbird open source email client) on the machine, with mail transferred from M$-Outlook. I intend to take ALL the M$ bloatware off this machine, sell it, use open source stuff only, intend to have this machine be able to boot from WinXP or Linux, so as to learn that OS, get free of the M$ tax.
I'm tired as hell.
What the fuck was I thinking?
Last nights hard rain washed the sky to a fine, clear blue, the sun present but gentle, low humidity.
Late lunch with Mike; we sat outside at Whole Paychecks (Foods) eating our healthy sandwiches, sitting right there as Austin happened as only it can.
I sat partly in the sun, the pleasant breeze blowing my hair around, the pleasant people walking by pleasantly, as pleasant people will.
Aside: I shop there at night, a mistake -- the place was overrun this afternoon, one beauty after another, droves of gorgeous women.
He left, I moved into the sun, basking, relaxing.
People who have carrot juice from this juicer find that they experience an unusual sense of peace in their lives -- a quiet yet profound joy -- and a fuller experience of art, beauty, and style. Their pants fit better. One womans hair -- which had been troublesome for the entire of her life -- her previously unreliable hair lay exactly as she'd always wished. She'd had love before -- she thought -- but a deeper love than she imagined possible soon came into her life, and stayed, and together she and her lover shared ecstatic union, a deep and abiding friendship, and a large inheritance.
I've not set foot outside my door today. Software stuff, web cruizing, reading, napping, farting with vigor -- I cooked a pot of 15 bean soup and ate enough of it to guarantee results; people think they are hearing sonic booms, and I guess that they are. All my windows are blown out, all the plants have died, the leather couch I napped on earlier now a smoldering ruin. I'm eating some toast as I write this, hoping to calm my stomach -- wish me luck.
I'm a third of the way through that biography of W.C. Fields and enjoying it.
So we sat down in that room and prayed together. First time. A guy I've just agreed to sponsor, and only because he agreed that there would be no wrestling -- I can't fucking stand someone waffling.
If I show up, if I give my time to this, you better give your time, you better show up.
Robert seems to be willing to show up.
Lots of fun -- we've just got to blast through the steps. He's got all the background down, he's sober ten or eleven years, he just wants a ram-jam run through the steps.
He knows I'll jam a Big Book up his ass.
I'm so goddamn tired, nothing's making any sense.
It's time for bed.
Up before six am, and it's now after midnight. A long day.
I met tonight with a guy I sponsor, kept losing the thread, I wasn't really capable of much. I called it a night, probably should have done so after fifteen minutes -- I saw I was just not home. My mind racing but I got no traction.
I've not missed writing hundreds this month, this could have been my one allotted 'missed' day. But what the fuck -- I can type, the puter is on.
Thus these words.
Houston -- a trashy, sweaty whore.
Dallas -- a shallow, callow cheerleader.
San Antone -- a pretty Mexican, quiet, religious, dumb.
Austin is the girl next door.
Intelligent, funky, stylish, artsy, a good-hearted, fundamentally decent beauty who doesn't wear make-up, eats right, takes vitamins, swims, rides a bike, looks you dead in the eye, doesn't fake orgasm.
Broken people run to Texas -- it's harsh but hospitable, and forgiving. The heat heals, sweat stings but salves wounds.
I need Texas, I need vast distances, heartfelt music, pickups, pistols, piss and vinegar, cold rivers, warm people.
Texas is home. Austin owns my heart.
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