this first one is titled the hidden benefit of packratism....
Ok, I'm a packrat. I collect all sorts of shit, with the thought that I *might* need it in the future. Some things hold sentimental value that cannot be replaced, other things are just strange and unusual and merit special considerations for their uniqueness. Other things I just forgot to throw away, and I enjoy a sick sense of amusement at myself when I find these things. I ask myself "why the fuck did I decide to keep this?"
Either way you look at it, collecting shit is a sort-of time capsule. Hot Wheels cars. Lighters. Pocket knives. Random pieces of ammunition. Brass buttons. Foreign currency. College ID cards. Hand-carved wooden boxes from India. Squashed coins from the railroad track. Old jewelry. Whether good or bad, each item has a story. Inherent within each story is at least one lesson. Do this, or don't do this again.
I bring this up because I was rummaging through one of my boxes of shit in my closet, trying to find the pocketknife I bought in Italy three years ago (still don't know why I was looking for it), and found something I hadn't thought of in years. My wedding band from my last marriage. I looked at it, and found it to be ugly. It reminded me of the woman who was attached to the other end, and all the negativity that came from that short period of my life.
In and of itself, it's a decent ring. White gold, simple band, no inscription. Just enough of a shiny little trinket to mark me, its former wearer, as a taken man.
Looking back on it now I still regret having taken that special step with that woman. However at the time it was the honest and decent manly thing to do. I won't go into details.
Back to the ring: for shits and giggles, I tried it on. Too fucking small! It only fits on the one pinky finger, next to the ring finger where it formerly was installed. This made me ponder... Also, the several beers I had prior to this discovery might have put me into an introspective state of mind... So I pondered this little gold band for a bit...
The logic went like this:
The ring doesn't fit. It's too small.
The ring didn't shrink, so I must have grown.
I've been the same weight (mostly) for 20 years, so the growth must be attributed to something other than, or in addition to, the fact that I use my hands to earn my living.
The growth IS mental as well as physical.
I have grown exponentially (in the mental sense) since I removed that ring from my finger.
The funny thing is that I really don't show it. I act like nothing has happened. I keep all those lessons-learned deep and close to my heart. Outwardly I might as well be a fresh college graduate; still full of passion for living. Young, but well educated. Inwardly, I know endless pain. It has aged me beyond my years.
Of course, I can't go bragging about the type of education I have. Most people shy away from such difficult lessons. Most people hope they never have to walk my path.
So here I am, well-versed and strategically silent. Listening to some hard rock and sipping my Redneck Martini. Waiting.
Either way you look at it, collecting shit is a sort-of time capsule. Hot Wheels cars. Lighters. Pocket knives. Random pieces of ammunition. Brass buttons. Foreign currency. College ID cards. Hand-carved wooden boxes from India. Squashed coins from the railroad track. Old jewelry. Whether good or bad, each item has a story. Inherent within each story is at least one lesson. Do this, or don't do this again.
I bring this up because I was rummaging through one of my boxes of shit in my closet, trying to find the pocketknife I bought in Italy three years ago (still don't know why I was looking for it), and found something I hadn't thought of in years. My wedding band from my last marriage. I looked at it, and found it to be ugly. It reminded me of the woman who was attached to the other end, and all the negativity that came from that short period of my life.
In and of itself, it's a decent ring. White gold, simple band, no inscription. Just enough of a shiny little trinket to mark me, its former wearer, as a taken man.
Looking back on it now I still regret having taken that special step with that woman. However at the time it was the honest and decent manly thing to do. I won't go into details.
Back to the ring: for shits and giggles, I tried it on. Too fucking small! It only fits on the one pinky finger, next to the ring finger where it formerly was installed. This made me ponder... Also, the several beers I had prior to this discovery might have put me into an introspective state of mind... So I pondered this little gold band for a bit...
The logic went like this:
The ring doesn't fit. It's too small.
The ring didn't shrink, so I must have grown.
I've been the same weight (mostly) for 20 years, so the growth must be attributed to something other than, or in addition to, the fact that I use my hands to earn my living.
The growth IS mental as well as physical.
I have grown exponentially (in the mental sense) since I removed that ring from my finger.
The funny thing is that I really don't show it. I act like nothing has happened. I keep all those lessons-learned deep and close to my heart. Outwardly I might as well be a fresh college graduate; still full of passion for living. Young, but well educated. Inwardly, I know endless pain. It has aged me beyond my years.
Of course, I can't go bragging about the type of education I have. Most people shy away from such difficult lessons. Most people hope they never have to walk my path.
So here I am, well-versed and strategically silent. Listening to some hard rock and sipping my Redneck Martini. Waiting.
and yet another from him....titled the jacksonville purpose.
Ok, so I eventually ended up back in my "hometown," and spent a few sleepless nights pondering why the fuck HERE, why the fuck NOW? Then a few more sleepless nights wondering how long it's going to be until I end up somewhere else.
Yeah, typical reactions of anyone moving to a new town. "Allright, I'm here. Now what?"
Some events during the past few days and weeks have hinted that I'm supposed to be here. That I am destined to be here. Why? I still don't fucking know. I'm sure that will be revealed to me when the time comes.
For now, I can relax a bit, knowing that there's a purpose. That's it. That's all I know, that there's a purpose. How am I so certain? Funny you should ask...
It all boils down to the phenomenon of Deja Vu.
Not that I've already done what I'm doing, or even stuck in a rut that *seems* like I've done it before, but that I am getting little clues that tell me yes, I am supposed to be here, supposed to be doing what I am doing.
Mostly it happens at work, in the shop, where I have absolutely no control over my immediate environment or what happens in it. In other words, I am not in any way influencing the timing or the placement of these clues I mentioned. They just happen. Mostly mundane, always brief (one or two seconds), and never expected. I can be doing absolutely anything, talking to absolutely anybody, and suddenly I feel like I'm watching my memories, looking back on them, from somewhere else.
My inference is this: I have evidently made it to another destination from where I am now. I'm not destined to remain at my current job, I know that for certain. But the funny thing is that I seem to have been *meant* to take this job, meet these people, and live where I live. And do what I do.
The part that stays with me constantly is the fact that I don't know where all this will lead. Am I riding a current? Yes and no. I'm flowing with something... Am I striking a path where there wasn't one before? Dunno. Can't tell yet.
All I can say is that it's interesting to consider where I've been, what I've done, and where I've landed for the moment. One big fucking circle. With some zig-zags thrown in for good measure.
ahhhh....this one might be the sweetest of them all....called [insert swordfight here]
So I am once again single. Dammit.
Backstory: I stole a woman's heart, she stole mine, we shared an amazing yet brief and intense love. But the "rightful heir" aka her husband, stepped in to steal her back.
Truthfully, I should never have been fooling around with a married woman to begin with. But if you knew the entire story you'd understand, and you'd want me to do something about it. If this were a movie, I'd gather damning proof against my foe and present it in defense of my case. I'd tell of my true love, of his false love. I'd tell of my empowerment of her, his imprisonment of her. Then there'd be the obligatory hollywood-style swordfight to the death. (hey, in hollywood it's always like that, thanks to Eroll Flynn.)
Flash Gordon saved whats-her-name. Westley saved Buttercup. Kurt Russel saved Kim Kattral in "Big Trouble in Little China." The list could continue, but writer's lube (aka beer) has fogged my movie memory just a bit.
Anyways, back to the issue at hand. The swordfight.
It simply cannot happen this time around. I'm too late. My love from long ago has willfuly entered into a marriage contract from which she cannot escape. Even someone as dastardly and as devious as myself will have no effect on her prison walls.
She was given an ultimatum, to either cease and decist, or to lose everything. I know deep down that her everything is her children, and she cannot bear the thought of having to live without them in her daily life. So the husband, evil fucker that he is, knows he has the leverage in his favor. She will continue to be his household prisoner. She'll cook and clean, take care of the kids, wipe up vomit, apply band-aids to cuts (he can't, since he's weak-stomached and faints when he sees blood), and be the good wife that he tells society she is.
All the while, she and I are in pain. I'll go on with my life, following my path wherever it takes me, always remembering her. She'll go on with her life, nurturing her kids, knowing that she is indeed loved, although not by the man who married her.
So much for a hollywood ending. The days of swordfights are long-gone.
Backstory: I stole a woman's heart, she stole mine, we shared an amazing yet brief and intense love. But the "rightful heir" aka her husband, stepped in to steal her back.
Truthfully, I should never have been fooling around with a married woman to begin with. But if you knew the entire story you'd understand, and you'd want me to do something about it. If this were a movie, I'd gather damning proof against my foe and present it in defense of my case. I'd tell of my true love, of his false love. I'd tell of my empowerment of her, his imprisonment of her. Then there'd be the obligatory hollywood-style swordfight to the death. (hey, in hollywood it's always like that, thanks to Eroll Flynn.)
Flash Gordon saved whats-her-name. Westley saved Buttercup. Kurt Russel saved Kim Kattral in "Big Trouble in Little China." The list could continue, but writer's lube (aka beer) has fogged my movie memory just a bit.
Anyways, back to the issue at hand. The swordfight.
It simply cannot happen this time around. I'm too late. My love from long ago has willfuly entered into a marriage contract from which she cannot escape. Even someone as dastardly and as devious as myself will have no effect on her prison walls.
She was given an ultimatum, to either cease and decist, or to lose everything. I know deep down that her everything is her children, and she cannot bear the thought of having to live without them in her daily life. So the husband, evil fucker that he is, knows he has the leverage in his favor. She will continue to be his household prisoner. She'll cook and clean, take care of the kids, wipe up vomit, apply band-aids to cuts (he can't, since he's weak-stomached and faints when he sees blood), and be the good wife that he tells society she is.
All the while, she and I are in pain. I'll go on with my life, following my path wherever it takes me, always remembering her. She'll go on with her life, nurturing her kids, knowing that she is indeed loved, although not by the man who married her.
So much for a hollywood ending. The days of swordfights are long-gone.
his ex-wife made a brief appearance, just enough to ruffle his feathers and this is what he wrote. i like it....i hate having to write about exes.
I hate having to write about exes.
Really, I do. I'm a believer in "what's done is done" and not crying over spilt milk and all that shit. But I hate that I feel the urge to write something about an ex.
For the past nine years I've been keeping written logs, journals if you will, about things that bug me. I write to get the white noise of the swirling nonsense out of my mind and onto paper where it can be forgotten. You know, feelings and shit. Get things out and move on.
The topic that has historically earned the most pen-time is that of a failed relationship. The loss, the confusion, the negativity, and finally the resolution. All neatly written down into a little book that can be stashed back on a shelf.
But the reason I despise giving pen-time to exes is a personal one. I hate that I have been driven to expel emotional bullshit that I had left for dead long ago. I hate that I let it get to me, and that it gets to the point of needing to let go all over again.
So I just won't do it. I won't acknowledge this issue, I won't dedicate any more of my precious time to feed the vanity of someone who isn't worth pissing on, even if on fire.
What I *will* do, however, is provide a brief recap of how full my life has been without her.
I left town, lived in Europe for a while, made some good friends there. I returned, set up house in a different town, made more friends and only a couple of enemies, and became a footnote in the local lore of that town.
Then my dog died, then I retired (became downsized due to the fucking recession), sold the car, moved to another town, came out of retirement, and became a pillar of strength and resolve for my family.
Peppered throughout this period are brief and intense love affairs (that have already been written about) that made me learn more about myself as a man.
I learned my capabilities, my tolerances, and my responsibilities to myself and my family. In short, I grew up. I have to admit that it really did sneak up on me, but I did in fact grow up.
i know what to do, how to act, whom to avoid, and with whom to forge alliances.
I rock. I really rock.
and this one, well, i love this man. i really love him.....titled good fucking weekend.
Yup, it's true. Finally had a really good fucking weekend. Three consecutive days of enjoyable and memorable good times, including a fully-involved sleepover dinner date with my sweetie, complete with home-cooked breakfast.
And even the weekend's finish was good; taking care of small chores around my house while outdoors in the kick-ass early-fall weather. Cleaned the windows on my truck, finished draining the pool, tore down and put away grandad's Topsy-Turvy Tomato planters, and helped catch a snake in my neighbor's pool. Lots of random do-nothing chores that somehow left me feeling like I have accomplished something.
Normally a Sunday evening means it's time to stop enjoying life and time to start preparing for the dreaded workday that follows. But not this time. I am ready to face tomorrow.
Normally a Sunday evening means it's time to stop enjoying life and time to start preparing for the dreaded workday that follows. But not this time. I am ready to face tomorrow.
It's a good change from the usual grind. Most of the time I work my shitty job, make no progress toward my goal of earning my Architect's license, and nightly ease my daily physical-labor pain with multiple Redneck Martinis. Then wake up the next day and start the whole wretched cycle again.
However this weekend has left me feeling like there's something good coming toward me. I won't return to my shitty job in the morning with the usual "fuck this, why the fuck am I here" attitude. Instead I feel renewed, and will walk into the shop tomorrow morning knowing that my days there are numbered. That there is a light at the end of the tunnel, and it's not an oncoming train.
I have a wonderful woman who believes in me. We both agree that I'm in the wrong line of work and that my talents are being wasted. It's one thing for me to think I have wasted my time and skill, but it's entirely another thing for someone else to see it. She encourages me. She validates me. She ensures me and comforts me. After a whole uninterrupted weekend with each other, I feel powerful. Invincible. Recharged. Loved.
I have what I need to start directing my life in the right direction.
To quote a member of the A-Team, "I love it when a plan comes together."
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