It takes a pretty fucked up mind to be able to handle the intricacies of College Statistics and still get tripped up on the weak-ass arguments that say that black opps guys ran a game on 330 million of us and took down the Trade Center towers ten years ago with C4 and godknowswhat, so they could tighten their grip on whatever and increase their control of HUH?
I know, I know. I have seen custody battles and estate fights. There is almost -- no nothing -- as desperate as an American who thinks they are one lie away from banking some sweet secret stash. And if there were a team of clowns who could conceive of a way to fake a foreign attack and capitalize, hell, there wouldn't even be any thought about it. Go!
History is written by the winners.
But come on. 3000 people in the buildings?
Another what, 400 in the planes? All not there? All in on the lie? Come on. No, it wasn't a missile that hit the fucking Pentagon. I don't care what the streetlights poles look like. 200 people saw the plane bounce into the building and then either ran away or ran in.
There is plenty of fucked up stuff going on now that we can do something about, and it says plenty that a mature, intelligent, streetwise woman can get this pretzelled over an obvious pass, but hey, what the hell, it doesn't make anybody any stupider to play devil's advocate.
There is always a chance that anything is true.
I am too tired to keep this drivel going.
I love my baby and I am hoping I get to have her again. That is enough to make those two towers stand back up and blow me.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Why I am like this.
Jaye saw it coming, A thousand years ago, soon after I moved into THE DEVONSHIRE HOUSE. I still expected to break 80 every time I teed it up and never did. My clubs suffered then as a result. I would throw them, whack them on the ground, and penalize THEM for shots I had hit. One time at Malibu (back when it was still PL) I ended up 2 and 12. Every club but my Armour 2 wood and Ironmaster putter (that I got straight from the hand of Chris Schock) was snapped in two over my left knee.
I worked it into a nice ritual: I would walk down the fairway to my drive and plan my second shot. If I didn't like the outcome, snap! One quick one over the knee and both pieces tossed in my Jones carry bag. By the time of the end of the round I almost couldn't carry the bag on account of it was so bottom heavy.
While untreated, my depression was like a wall a thousand feet tall. I didn't have the will to even consider trying to climb it. Yes, I know. Lazy. And I agree. And I hated myself for it and willed myself to change, and wrote lists and joined churches and fucked it all up with the greatest of intentions and what the hell do I do now that I am 52 and it is still going on and may be worse now? Suck it up, I say. TCB. Or like Alika used to say at quite high volume, "TAKE CARE OF YOUR SHIT, MAN!"
It is just that I have to try to explain it someway; the old shrug of the shoulders doesn't cut it with prospective employers. “What's with the last three years?” they want to know. Me, too. Add my wife to the list.
Jaye fixed them all. Pretty sure it was a set of Confidence IIs. Nice True Temper shafts (like there was anything else) and Green Victory grips. Until I couldn't pay him and then he took me on as apprentice. Allegedly I was a club repair technician in training, but I was really majoring in being a junior drug addict. I worked good for a while and then started moping around and he said, "Oh, no. Don't go getting blue on me!" I took a walk and came back a couple of weeks later. Just remembering that moment kind of makes my blood run cold. How could I know what the hell was going on with me? Shit. I still don't and it is thirty years later. If I had known, could I have done anything about it? I don't know. Maybe he does. I see where he is working at Sepulveda lately. Maybe I'll go out and see the old vulture.
I worked it into a nice ritual: I would walk down the fairway to my drive and plan my second shot. If I didn't like the outcome, snap! One quick one over the knee and both pieces tossed in my Jones carry bag. By the time of the end of the round I almost couldn't carry the bag on account of it was so bottom heavy.
While untreated, my depression was like a wall a thousand feet tall. I didn't have the will to even consider trying to climb it. Yes, I know. Lazy. And I agree. And I hated myself for it and willed myself to change, and wrote lists and joined churches and fucked it all up with the greatest of intentions and what the hell do I do now that I am 52 and it is still going on and may be worse now? Suck it up, I say. TCB. Or like Alika used to say at quite high volume, "TAKE CARE OF YOUR SHIT, MAN!"
It is just that I have to try to explain it someway; the old shrug of the shoulders doesn't cut it with prospective employers. “What's with the last three years?” they want to know. Me, too. Add my wife to the list.
Jaye fixed them all. Pretty sure it was a set of Confidence IIs. Nice True Temper shafts (like there was anything else) and Green Victory grips. Until I couldn't pay him and then he took me on as apprentice. Allegedly I was a club repair technician in training, but I was really majoring in being a junior drug addict. I worked good for a while and then started moping around and he said, "Oh, no. Don't go getting blue on me!" I took a walk and came back a couple of weeks later. Just remembering that moment kind of makes my blood run cold. How could I know what the hell was going on with me? Shit. I still don't and it is thirty years later. If I had known, could I have done anything about it? I don't know. Maybe he does. I see where he is working at Sepulveda lately. Maybe I'll go out and see the old vulture.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Free Association
I should be more bummed, but I'm not. I should be more stuck, but I'm not. I am one day deeper into this long, long string of unworkingness, and I now think I may get out of it. Maybe this is just that glow of warming just during final collapse under hypothermia.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Nam
Nam Myoh Renge Kyo
Nam Myoh Renge Kyo
I dedicate myself to the endlessly mysterious and vibrating earth
I thingk I can handle that. Let's see for sure. How many religions have you joined? Plans made? Lists started? Only to be dropped like a turd at the first distraction...
According to The Buddha in Your Mirror, there are ten levels of existence:
1) Hell
2) Hunger
3) Animality
4) Anger
5) Humanity
6) Heaven (rapture or temporary happiness)
7) Learning
8) Realization
9) Bodhisattva (compassion)
10) Buddhahood (enlightenment)
Okay, let's get this party started! Whadaya think about LEARNING being higher than HEAVEN?
Just for starters...
Nam Myoh Renge Kyo
I dedicate myself to the endlessly mysterious and vibrating earth
I thingk I can handle that. Let's see for sure. How many religions have you joined? Plans made? Lists started? Only to be dropped like a turd at the first distraction...
According to The Buddha in Your Mirror, there are ten levels of existence:
1) Hell
2) Hunger
3) Animality
4) Anger
5) Humanity
6) Heaven (rapture or temporary happiness)
7) Learning
8) Realization
9) Bodhisattva (compassion)
10) Buddhahood (enlightenment)
Okay, let's get this party started! Whadaya think about LEARNING being higher than HEAVEN?
Just for starters...
Sunday, July 18, 2010
concentration
I can't concentrate.
I mean I can, I just can't tell when I am going to do it. Currently this issue is the shining city on the hill of my life.
I remember a Dean Koontz book where several characters become obsessed with ideas about the moon. One, an adult male, became obsessed with the idea of purging this fixed and rooted idea from his consciousness. He tore down the shrine he had built - Dreyfuss Closes Encounters Style - to all things lunar. He carted out to the scrapheap the telescopes, books, posters, and models that he had accumulated previously with equal passion. After he had worked feverishly for hours - as his wife and family had insisted as a requisite for his participation in their lives - and then discovered that he had replaced all the shit back into the house. Triple quadruple take. Trash cans are empty. Study is overflowing again with stuff about orbits, tides, sea of tranquility, and the dark side of things. Anguish for the main guy.
I get what was scary about this. I just went through some files and found twenty writing projects and journals, and many, MANY more lists of life-changing behaviors that were written with passionate intensity, only to be dropped, lost, filed, forgotten and waylaid how many minutes after conception?
My fear is that my brain is failing. my memory worsening, my ability to cope shrinking inversely with the demands placed on me. Do I NEED someone to steer me to survive? Is risking the little time I have left to my own skewed view of things just asking for more calamity?
But I don't think that I really believe this. If I did I would be much more scared.
What I think is happening is that in the course of my dealing with my separation from my wife, I have gained a new perspective. I am able more now to see without focusing through her lens. I love my wife, and I have chosen to have no more important task than to be the partner that she needs to be in this world. To not have that ability is terrifying. The thought of her alone and scared is withering.
But I have to put on my own mask first. If I can't get through the week on my own, I won't be able to help her put her own on and get out of the damn plane. And how can I do that if I jump from the in-flight movie, to the crash instructions, to my own writing, to HIS philosophy or HER religion, to - oh yeah, putting on the oxygen masks and getting ourselves to relative safety.
I think, therefore I concentrate,
I think I can, I think I can
I know I can, I know I can
Concentrate, concentrate, concentrate!
I mean I can, I just can't tell when I am going to do it. Currently this issue is the shining city on the hill of my life.
I remember a Dean Koontz book where several characters become obsessed with ideas about the moon. One, an adult male, became obsessed with the idea of purging this fixed and rooted idea from his consciousness. He tore down the shrine he had built - Dreyfuss Closes Encounters Style - to all things lunar. He carted out to the scrapheap the telescopes, books, posters, and models that he had accumulated previously with equal passion. After he had worked feverishly for hours - as his wife and family had insisted as a requisite for his participation in their lives - and then discovered that he had replaced all the shit back into the house. Triple quadruple take. Trash cans are empty. Study is overflowing again with stuff about orbits, tides, sea of tranquility, and the dark side of things. Anguish for the main guy.
I get what was scary about this. I just went through some files and found twenty writing projects and journals, and many, MANY more lists of life-changing behaviors that were written with passionate intensity, only to be dropped, lost, filed, forgotten and waylaid how many minutes after conception?
My fear is that my brain is failing. my memory worsening, my ability to cope shrinking inversely with the demands placed on me. Do I NEED someone to steer me to survive? Is risking the little time I have left to my own skewed view of things just asking for more calamity?
But I don't think that I really believe this. If I did I would be much more scared.
What I think is happening is that in the course of my dealing with my separation from my wife, I have gained a new perspective. I am able more now to see without focusing through her lens. I love my wife, and I have chosen to have no more important task than to be the partner that she needs to be in this world. To not have that ability is terrifying. The thought of her alone and scared is withering.
But I have to put on my own mask first. If I can't get through the week on my own, I won't be able to help her put her own on and get out of the damn plane. And how can I do that if I jump from the in-flight movie, to the crash instructions, to my own writing, to HIS philosophy or HER religion, to - oh yeah, putting on the oxygen masks and getting ourselves to relative safety.
I think, therefore I concentrate,
I think I can, I think I can
I know I can, I know I can
Concentrate, concentrate, concentrate!
Friday, July 9, 2010
We all have strength enough to endure the misfortunes of others
Whoever La Rochefoucauld was, whatever. Rufus has got it right. I don't know shit about shit. I've eaten my last four meals out of the same plastic bowl, using somebody else's spoon. Last week I had a house. What the fuck is this all about anyway? I'm sleeping in someone's house, paying them $15 a day. $15 I don't have. I'm so underwater in debt, I am drowning just trying to drown. I can't tell the difference between shit and gold. Patrons of our recent garage sale benefited some from this particular imbalance. Don't know what I'm for. Don't know if I am good for my wife. Don't know if my wife wants me. I know I am not with her. She is 400 miles away. Worried, worried, worried. Fearful. Terrified. But is this really such a shock? Haven't they warned me enough of the doom of this place? Numb. Trying to be here now. Just trying to do this thing. Get the job. Make some money. One foot in front of the other. Keep facing up with the silence.
Fuck the Blog
Fornicate on this godamn assignment. I am empty of inspiration. I have about as much to write as a dry pen. Rufus is a good companion, though. Just not much of a critic...
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