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Five years of hundreds.
I've not written every day, not posted every month, so many months I started, then faltered.
At least four months completed and not posted; inertia.
One month I just wouldn't post, too embarrassing, 28 days of foolishness, February 2004.
These hundreds primed the pump, this is the wellspring of my creativity.
Thank you, Mr. One Hundred Word Koyen.
I love reading back, the foolishnesses, all that goddamned pain, the fun in so much of it.
I hope I'm given five more years, that I write in those years, keep stacking these hundreds, days in the life.
...ɯɐǝɹp ǝbuɐɹʇs ɐ 'ʍou ʇsnظ ǝɟı1 ʎɯ buıʌı1 ɯ,ı ʍoɥ ɹoɟ ɹoɥdɐʇǝɯ ɐ ssǝnb ı sı ɥɔıɥʍ
.ɯɐǝɹp ǝɯɐs ʇɐɥʇ oʇuı ʞɔɐq puɐ 'dǝǝ1s oʇ ʞɔɐq ob 'ɯɐǝɹp ɐ ɯoɹɟ uǝʞɐʍɐ sǝɯıʇǝɯos uɐɔ ı ʇɐɥʇ ǝʞı1 ı -- ʇdǝ1s ı sɐ pǝʇıqɐɥuı ı p1ɹoʍɯɐǝɹp ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɯos ʎoظuǝ pıp ı ʇɐɥʇ ʎɐs oʇ ǝʌɐɥ ı ɥbnoɥʇ
.pǝʇooɟbuoɹʍ pǝnuıʇuoɔ puɐ 'pǝʇooɟbuoɹʍ ɟɟo pǝʇɹɐʇs 'ʎɐpoʇ ǝʇɐ1 ʇdǝ1s ı uǝɥʇ ʇnq
.ǝuop ʇo1 ɐ ʇǝb pıp ı puɐ 'ǝuop ɥɔnɯ os ʇǝb oʇ pǝuıɯɹǝʇǝp 'ʇɥbıu ʇsɐ1 ǝʇɐ1 dn pǝʎɐʇs ı 'ʎɐp ǝʌıʇɔnpoɹd ɐ pǝpuǝʇuı ı -- spɹɐʍʞɔɐq puɐ uʍop ǝpısdn sɐʍ ʎɐpoʇ
Here's why: I don't trust myself. I've been rude, crude, a motherfucker, I've blasted my blue-collar self into the faces and onto the souls of various fools who've let me get close enough to them to do so, and while I do what I can to keep from doing this it's in there, ready to come out at a seconds notice, or no notice -- RIGHT FUCKING NOW -- and I'd rather keep my fucking mouth shut, even if I'm hurting myself some by doing so; I've learned to shut the fuck up.
And I do. Best I can.
Perhaps write about Kelly and I, the difficulties we are having, our hopes of resolution of those, maybe our fears of not being able to do so.
Though the fact is that I couldn't write about 'our' hopes or 'our' fears, I'd have to get closer to home, write about 'my' hopes and fears.
Or maybe write about meeting with Yoga Mike, the fun in that, in the role of sponsor, spending time in that meeting room at Westlake, his courage in facing it all down.
Or maybe quit writing now, as word number one hundred is right ---> here <---.
Three years ago I was in my death throes, way into the heart attacks that killed me three years ago tomorrow; I thought it was the fumes from the oil paint giving me chest pains, I was in such good shape that the very last thing I would have considered was heart problems. I in fact didn't have heart problems; I had arterial problems, my cardiac artery blocked, it wasn't until it finally did kill me that I had heart problems; heart tissue dies when not oxygenated, and mine wasn't, for at least ten minutes. I'm lucky to be alive.
I must be better, more than I am, I must give more to life, I must contribute more than I am, I must paint or write or even if I was not depressed, not such a slob, even that would pay for the gift I've been given, this life I have, three years more than I would have had if I'd died, which I did, but I was then given life-- am I using it well?
This time a gift but a burden as well, I owe so much, I can't repay it, but I know I must try.
To debate anyone who bases their mindset upon primitive religions lends them undeserved credibility; better to keep at the forefront of any 'debate' that they're basing their argument on foolishnesses, the scientist is basing his argument upon peer-reviewed science.
No holds barred.
Why should we accommodate these idiots -- and they are idiots, fools of the highest order; we wouldn't debate someones 'faith' that the creator of the universe is a big fat fish that lives outside Salt Lake City in a gay-porn theater, surrounded by big dead dogs barking, festively, in Portuguese, "Our god is the only true god!"
Today would have been my fathers birthday.
What hurts worst, still, 18 months after his death, is how Alzheimer's tore into him.
A horror show.
This brave man, this funny, social, physically active man eaten alive in three years time, and turned fearful, terrified; an agonized human being.
From a hearty, hardy man to a stick figure.
I'm not going to let it take me -- if it starts, I'm waving goodbye, heading for the exits; that's why god made handguns.
I remember his laughing. His goodnesses, his fundamental decency; he wasn't perfect but he was a good man.
I miss him.
Twenty-five years ago to the minute I was probably close to my last drink of my last drunk. Jack Daniels. I don't know the exact time or anything; I drank till I passed out, that night and many others.
It's a big deal; an alcoholic goes twenty-five years not drinking -- Hey, far fucking out.
I'm so flat now that it's not as big a deal as it's been other years; I can't help but have it in mind but I'm not jumping up and down or anything; another day.
Who'd have guessed that I'd stay sober? Not me.
My nephew's new to twelve step recovery. We spoke tonight; I can't sponsor him but I damn sure intend to shove a Big Book up his ass, give him the tools of AA.
Having broached the topic that Kelly and I are having problems has vented the space we share, released some pressure. Having been so goddamned cruel in the past I don't trust myself; I move cautiously, slowly, maybe too much so. I don't know.
The fact of my AA anniversary tomorrow was big in my world today; it looms. It's loominescent, maybe, though I'd never write that.
A long time without a drink.
Sometimes it does come down to one minute at a time.
Life can be damned difficult.
And alcoholics like to drink.
I had a drinking solution; it's how I dealt -- didn't deal, actually -- with the pains of life.
Then -- it turned into a drinking problem; I drank but couldn't get drunk. But I couldn't stop drinking.
That's pretty goddamned frightening.
I was out of control.
Nowhere to run.
Nowhere to hide.
Fucked. Truly fucked.
Then -- Grace.
I currently know more about some German soldiers in World War Two than I know about the status of my checking account.
I've been reading about the grossdeutschland division, an elite Wehrmacht unit which served with high distinction in many of the battles in Russia. This reading started by reading one foot soldiers account of his experiences and has spread into my reading what I can find about these men.
The war in Russia makes the rest of the second world war look like a girl scouts picnic.
Had Hitler not invaded Russia we might all be driving VWs...
For the first time since I've started writing here, I'm entering these hundreds each day.
In the past I've mostly written and stored them using whatever puter was handy (on paper if I was traveling without a puter for whatever reason) and then entered them all in at the beginning of the following month.
It's a pain in my ass, esp if this entry or that one is on paper; I've got to round them all up, enter them all in at once.
It takes HOURS.
This month (so far) I've entered each hundred daily.
I like this.
I try to get out the way when I tell my AA story, try not to direct the course this way or that, do what I can to let it run as it will. I *lightly* direct the course; there are some things to steer clear of.
Mostly I let it run.
It's just all kinds of fun.
You almost can't imagine how much fun AA can be, not unless you're 'one of us'. And not even then, not there at the first, not until you find the peace.
Peace is joy, at rest.
Joy is peace, on the move.
My brother, who has for 32 years smoked large quantities of highly potent marijuana, set it all down. For good. And it's clear -- he's done.
There's more: He and his wife are expecting their first child, come February.
It was the best phone call I'd had in years, probably.
I was to the place where I thought he'd never set down that drug. Much less have a child, get along well with his strong and good wife.
That ache comes up, again; I'm too trashed to make it, unable to parent, to be a normal person, too broken, gone too far.
I went to bed EARLY, fell asleep, thankful that I am putting myself on a new regimen -- go to bed early, up early.
I awoke, and KNEW it was at least 3:30am, probably 5:30am or ??
I looked at the clock -- 12:30. I'd slept about ninety minutes.
And now I'm wide awake again, of course.
If you've never had insomnia you ought to be grateful. I've had it since this whole bipolar mess kicked off, summer between eighth grade and high school. That whole summer a huge manic run. And it's been with me since, greater or lesser degrees.
By far the best children I've ever known are my brothers twins, born late in his life, late in his wifes life. My brother and his wife had enough money (they weren't wealthy but they had enough to give the kids good experiences), they had enough time, they'd had enough life experience to really raise those children well. Of those three -- money, time, experience -- I believe that time and experience counted most, and of those two, I'd say that time spent with those children was the most important thing they gave them.
Those children turned out spectacularly well. Unbelievably well.
a soft morning
low cloud scud
seventy-five miles an hour
my beautiful white pickup
rain diamonds on the glass
loud as the speakers'll hold
she's spread out like a gift
a gleaming jewel
precious, lovely, rare
she's so goddamned wonderful
I love her
this sweet, kind, friendly beauty
I get to live here
somehow I fit here
I'm still surprised
it took me long years to fit
I learned it in Houston, mostly
but I fit here
and it's good as it can get for me
I can't help but wonder if she's dancing.
The guys -- and gals, maybe especially the gals, the switch-hitters and the lesbians -- would love her; she'd be an oddity in the clubs, unmarked, a sweet woman, flashing, beautiful eyes, deep and loving and intelligent.
It's good money -- great money -- but dangerous; easy to get caught in the life, to trash your soul.
Most dancers get marked.
If a dancer can continue to see herself as an entertainer -- and that's one big goddamned if -- if she can do that, she's got a chance at not getting broken down.
I hope I'm wrong.
It's raining, the morning is gray, almost green, the sky soft.
I love the sounds of rain, the smell of rain, the feel of a rainy day.
I've opened the door, some, and the window-shade, to allow the rain in.
Okay, not the rain, but the day.
I wish I lived out of the city. A small place, dirt road, live oaks, a spring, maybe a creek.
I'd love to sit on a porch in this day, and be part of it. Just in it. Just to sit in the silences of a rainy morning, a balm.
That's the dream.
I hope to get out of town soon. I ought to haul ass, go to Chicago for a few weeks, stay in my fave hotel downtown, take paint and canvas's and brushes and knives and paint in my hotel room, or even just wherever I went, paint as I bummed the city. I've thought of going to that artists community in San Angelo, not sure if they still have options they did a few years ago, when you could go for a week or a month and be in an artists community. Guess I need to call them and see........
She is lovely, though wetting her pants hadn't enhanced her beauty much.
Alcoholism is very ugly.
Her son's in AA; we've spent time talking this scene. He's doing well, especially considering the chaotic nightmare of a deeply alcoholic parent; families sicken, wilt, disintegrate.
You must give wet drunks huge, deep love.
Simultaneously, you've got to break their fucking shoes.
A balancing act.
She may die drunk.
Almost worse: She may live drunk.
She may never drink again.
Impossible to tell.
Confrontation. Understanding. Sincerity. Laughter. Hope. Camaraderie.
Love, is what it is. Hard as you can.
Pray for her.
Nonviolence is not to be confused, however, with being passive or complacent. Passivity -- like its opposite, aggression -- is a behavior of those controlled and dominated by fear.
---Claude Anshin Thomas
This beautifully expresses something I desperately need expressed.
Thomas gives words for that in myself that I loathe.
Now I can see it.
I've been violent -- I am violent -- but rather than move past fear I rotate upon it. To passivity.
It's good to call it by it's name.
It stings -- it's humiliating -- but it's good. Helpful. I now see the mechanism.
These words bring me hope.
Blow by blow:
Up early after almost no sleep, and stayed up.
Chat: Duff came in, challenged me to step outdoors and walk or swim.
Walking with Jimmy and Woodrow.
Breakfast with Jimmy.
Led the nooner at Bouldin; Tradition 2.
Then: Time with Metal Mike and Barry in role as sponsor. And then Camille walks up and we talked it all out, and then some.
Then the cell phone conversation with Kelly as I sat on top of my pickup on Congress Avenue watching Austin parade on by.
Then the phone call with Vee.
I am bone tired.
This day started good and just kept on that path and now it's gone, slid through my fingers on into the past, it's settled now, and can't be changed, and won't be, and even if I lied and said it was different than it really was that lie can't change the way it was, which, as noted, was good.
The day just was, actually, not good nor bad, good just my perception of it all, how I felt in the day, what I did in the day, and how well I did it, which, as noted, was good.
"Passivity -- like its opposite, aggression -- is a behavior of those controlled and dominated by fear."
---Claude Anshin Thomas
It's not that having the words will free me.
Words can clarify but rarely bring resolution.
Self-knowledge does avail something; I disagree with Wilson here. It doesn't give much but it does give some; I often can't see what I'm doing until I understand the mechanism.
But seeing it doesn't mean it's over.
It's just the start.
Dark Night of the Soul
Union with the Ultimate
The beautiful writing of Claude Anshin Thomas leads me to Awakening.
Up late last night and early this morning and not rested and I felt like dogshit, then out into the day and it wasn't fun and then slept and it wasn't restful or peaceful sleep but rather tormented, shitty dreams and tossing and turning.
In one of the dreams my father came through the door, his huge and happy smile, and I rushed to greet him -- I was so happy to see him.
But when I got to him he was gone and I was lost again and hurting and missing him, the dazzle of his smile, his festive happiness.
I took AA meetings into a detox.
That's where we met.
When I see a totally lost alcoholic, I tell them what time it is.
It's my responsibility.
"Will you sponsor me?"
Four years later...
His wife committed, a state mental hospital, and belongs there; alcoholism, mental illnesses.
He won't let her go. Keeps trying to save her. He can't. It's valiant. Also insane. He's destroying his life.
Their beautiful son with her mother, a liar, a vile human being.
Jobless. Homeless. Another DUI. Upcoming court dates. Broke. Broken.
"That our lives had become unmanageable."
Pray for him.
nothing to say, not a goddamn thing, or the fact is that I'm not saying it, that's all, not that there isn't something to say -- there is all kinds of things to say, there is baseball and cancer and Russia and aardvarks and black holes and stars gone nebulae and I don't know what all else, and neither do you, but what I do know is I am not writing about any of this crap tonight, I'm not even going to write these words, even though I already have, but I'm not going to write even one more, because it's
I found the words for what my life would be just now if it were a song.
The best I've heard it sung is by bluegrass women in ballads, or spirituals, but not all jesus-y, more like aching is all, heartbroke ballads or lifetorn spirituals.
I don't want to fuck or fight or bite or paint or ride that fucking bike and swim.
I miss wanting to fuck, fight, bite, paint, and ride and swim.
I'm not depressed but I'm kindof broken and thin and worn and flat and I'm sortof caught or stuck or trapped.
Weather: July, Austin, white-hot, Texas hot, blistering hot, bright white clouds, and even more humid than hot.
Society: Interactions with more people than I'll list, quality interactions to boot; sponsorship, friendships, flirtations with any number of beauties.
Chores: A productive day, not overwhelmingly so but enough, I'm contented.
Fun: Just all kinds of fun, starting out with my earthy metaphor for Scott, perfectly apt, more fun than any metaphor you came up with today, that's for sure, and the fun just continued on and on and it's still in my heart and still in my smile, I'm relaxed, at ease.
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