Once

Well, tomorrow is “Thanksgiving” in the USA.

A celebration of the pioneering spirit of a group of Spanish sailors and their discovery of the land of the free and home of the brave, commemorated by eating a large bird. So, today, I get to practice The Big Lie.

“Plans for tomorrow, Once?”

“Oh, you know, just a quiet dinner with friends, some pumpkin pie, watch a little football.”

(“No, no plans at all, what a ridiculous holiday.”)

“Ok, well hey Once, have a Happy Thanksgiving!”

“Yeah, hey – You too!”

Go stuff yourself, hose head.

So, I’m browsing around this catholic website, and I found this:

19. Evolution and the Bible

How did the body of the first man originate? — According to the Bible, the body of the first man was made by God from the slime of the earth.

“And the Lord God formed man of the slime of the earth” (Gen. 2:7)

******************************************

Well. There you have it. Humanity is slime!

A 93 year old man named Bruno Dey is currently being tried in Germany for his role as a Nazi prison guard at Stutthoff concentration camp.

He is being tried for 5,230 counts of accessory to murder. He observed and I suppose assisted as innocent Jewish civilians were led into gas chambers to be murdered.

Because he began serving at age 17, he is being tried in juvenile court, and faces six months to ten years in prison, if convicted.

If.

Imagine – six months. Imagine -ten years.

Imagine – either sentence a mere slap on the wrist.

So what? What, if anything, is “justice” in this situation? The way I see it, there is nothing anyone can do or impose on this man to enact “justice.” Obviously, he deserves nothing less than a slow hanging, possibly hanging, drawing and quartering in front of his family, but how is justice served for this?

Wow.

there is great comfort in knowing that in less time than it takes to inhale a breath of polluted human air, it can all just end.

there is comfort here.

“one thousand one, one thou. . . ”

sigh. dream…

“here, there is no moon.”

There are advantages to depression and anxiety. . .

I am spineless and unable to establish boundaries and speak up for myself. As such, for the past seven years, have been pursued by a woman I briefly worked with at an animal shelter. I had no feelings for her beyond just being a casual work acquaintance. She would text me, drop by every now and then to chat about how unhappy she is in her marriage. Much of her unhappiness stemmed from lack of physical gratification, and her use of sexual innuendo was annoying to say the least.

Being the wuss I am, I was completely unable to say “(Name), I’m sorry that you’re unhappy, but I am not able to offer you anything beyond a casual friendship.” Spineless. So, I just put up with it, hoping it would stop at some point.

“No means yes”, and apparently no response at all is an invitation for more and more and more.

About three months ago, as I was dealing with the loss of a pet, I texted her several times during periods of intense grief. In these texts, I opened up about having suicidal thoughts as well as dealing with depression.  Like her, I just needed some validation, acknowledgement and comfort.

Her reply? Silence. Absolute, total, one hundred percent silence.

See, when you’re a man with depression, you might as well be wearing a huge glowing “L” on your forehead. You might as well have a highly contagious disease – a man who presents as being strong is not allowed weakness, of any sort.

Three months now of silence from (Name).

Oh well. When life hands you lemons, make lemonade!

“See you in a few hours, Curtis.”

(pause, deep deep struggling breath) “Ok.” (Faint as a whisper.)

Yeah. What real problems do I have?  Not that many. Seriously, dude, not that many. Wanna go for a walk? Wanna go to the store? Wanna. . . wanna. . . want to. . . Do you want to. . . What do you want? Most of it is readily and easily accessible, and here, where we are, that’s all that really matters.

You lucky s.o.b.

Count ’em up. You’re buried in blessings, my man.

Zzyzx. What the hell? I mean, who names a street this?

This is Raisin. She’s somewhere around three or four months old, and was abandoned at a park.

She’s helping me heal.  She’s a goofball.

The frustration and anger was building inside him. I could see it by his facial expressions and actions, yet he was holding back and not retaliating. Not yet, anyways.  He was biding his time, determined to exact his revenge, and he was not the only one, there were more. Still, I continued to antagonize them with childish insults and ridiculous behavior, knowing deep down that I was digging my own grave. Still, deep down, the anger and sadness drove me on, looking for a victim, looking for an outlet.

I didn’t know him, but didn’t like the way he looked. So I treated him like garbage, and instead of walking away, I continued my idiotic behavior, making them angrier and angrier with my insults and laughter.

And inside me the fear continued to build, the knowledge that I was getting myself into a situation that I wouldn’t be able to handle. But what the hell does it matter? I deserve to push back, docile passive aggressive ***** that I am, door-mat to the world that I am. I wanted to be the a**hole, the one pushing their buttons. I deserve my turn at the top, giving orders and making demands, having things go MY way, everyone else be damned.

Still, I’d have to answer to these very angry people, and soon.

That’s when I woke from the dream, an hour before my alarm would sound.

I’m a coward. I fear the world, I fear it’s inhabitants, their thoughts and their actions, their criticisms and opinions, their questions and their remarks. I fear much. I live a passive existence of taking what is given to me and pretending it’s all just fine.

Whatever.

Just a bad dream I had, one that startled me awake.

I will never stop missing you, buddy. Your loss has changed me. It has changed me, and in these three months, I have grown . . . angry. I rage at things that I once laughed off. I am becoming despondent, some would say. I am searching for another “you”, and maybe I shouldn’t be. You have become another voice in my repertoire of imaginary characters, now existing alongside Creature, Entity, Schrindleman, Miss Gwendolyn, Neck, Darnell and Chang, Viktor and Raja. Now there’s you, and we converse throughout the day, in an effort to quell this god forsaken loneliness. Imaginary friends. These are what I have to share my time with, and now you are one.

The dream that was you is over, and what’s left is all around – a bland, ugly world in which all I am doing is breathing, existing, and wondering what to do now.

I love you baby boy. I always will, that will NEVER change. I miss you with everything that I am. You were, and always will be, my heart and my soul, my life and my love, my world. I hope to see you again, Hooks.

Why do we assume that the limitations of our human brain will follow us into an afterlife? Why do we assume we will continue suffering as we are now, when we are dead?

Today is two weeks.

What is this thing, life? Just breathing, nothing more. It’s just weather, without you my little love, nothing more. I miss you.

March 2, 2012 – May 1, 2019

My little boy. Seven years was all we got together. I hoped and dreamed for more, but no, that can’t happen.

I will miss you eternally, Taco. Handsome-Perfect. Boogie. Bug. Hooks.

You changed my life, little boy. You taught me how to love, when noone else could.  You showed me what love feels like, when others failed. You are love. You are my eternal friend, my little kitty.

I’ll miss you from today until a time when whatever I am can no longer exist in any form, and then far, far beyond that.  I love you so much.

You’re my heart and my soul, my love and my life. You’re my world.

I have to give you back now.

Rest, little boy. I miss you. I love you. I love you.

Why?

My love. My heart. My soul. You’ve taken them all, and there is no answer why.

Why?

(Things are a bit somber here today, so leave it to the class clown to intervene with a bit of foolishness. Stupid is my strength. So, hopefully this helps lift a spirit or nine.)

At least one time before I go bye bye, I’d like to have the opportunity to use these phrases:

Yea, though it is written

In accordance with the scriptures

Avast ye scurvy knaves

Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war

Say hello to my little friend

Preferably at the grocery store, buying oatmeal, because that would be interesting.

If the person ahead of ME in line starts quoting pirates and Tony Montana, it’s time to find another checkout line.

Any other quotable quotes to add to the list?

Rosemary requested release, and the memories returned to the people. . .

Hmmm.

So I wonder what exactly is going through Jonas’s mind, knowing that.

No spoilers. Still reading. Good story.

– NOT SUICIDE RELATED.Just reminiscing. –

My dad could build. He wasn’t a contractor, per se, he was in the telecommunications business. But somewhere along the way, someone taught him how to build. Stuff, things.

My town recently passed an ordinance banning plastic grocery bags, because apparently they are evil and destructive and naughty, and the universe must be saved from them. So, today, I bought three cookies and a small bag of potato chips and left the store holding one of those extra gonzo size heavy duty paper grocery sacks designated as “1/6  BBL (70#)  with “Renewable, recyclable, sustainable, and contains minimum 40% post-consumer material” printed on the bottom. Whew. The future of Earth is now safe, for eons to come.

Now, I must decide what to do with my extra gonzo bag.

As a kid, my dad built this “thing” – it was a storage compartment and trash can combo. The bottom part of it featured an area into which this sort of bag could be installed and held in place utilizing a simple binder clip assembly, filled with garbage and removed and replaced as needed. It worked wonderfully. Above that, was a storage area just slightly larger than these extra gonzo bags, into which as many as a hundred or so could be stored, provided they were folded neatly.

This contraption was just one of many such contraptions that dad designed and built. He did the lions share of the work on an addition to our family home when I was young. It took years of work on weekends and evenings, after his full time job, and mom hated that he insisted on doing as much of the work as possible in order to save money, but one day many years later, it was. . . complete. Dad’s greatest accomplishment, a memorial and testament to his skill and ability.

Dad found a basketball goal post for me once. It was buried in someone’s back yard, and he talked them into selling it so I could have it. It took the better part of a Saturday to remove it, he and I working together under a sweltering southwest Texas desert sun. At one point, the use of a heavy metal bar and a sledge hammer was necessary to break up some concrete. I had never swung a sledge hammer at the miniscule end of a steel bar before, and at the age of 14, lacked a refined sense of hand – eye coordination, but dad held the bar in his hands, told me to “focus only on the end of the bar, and try not to miss and hit my arms.”

I did, and I didnt. And roughly two weeks later, I had a nice new goal post in my front yard.

Dad trusted me that day. Without resevation, without visible doubt. He just told me what to do, and waited for me to do it. And I did it.

So, today, I’m staring at this extra gonzo paper bag, and trying to figure out where I’ll store it when I get home, but I don’t build. I do other things, but unlike dad, I don’t build.

I’ll probably use it to dispose of my cats used litter, since my city now says I can no longer purchase groceries and place them in plastic bags, which I then filled with the same litter.

I’ve hated my dad, disliked my dad, liked my dad, loved my dad, ignored him, scoffed at and disrespected him, secretly imagined killing him, and cleaned him after he soiled himself a few years before alzheimers claimed him. I shaved his face in a hospital once, and listened to him ramble about nothing and everything as we sat eating fried chicken in a fast food joint, during the early days of alzheimers. And I’ve buried my dad. I pinned two of his military service medals on the lapels of his suit jacket as he lay in his casket, the day of his funeral, and fought back tears as he received a twenty one gun salute at the cemetery, under not a sweltering sun, but a mild October sun in the desert of southwest Texas.

Dad broke me down, along with mom, over a lot of years. It’s what parents do. It’s what humans do. They succesfully crushed my spirit, and stifled me through years of just being human. It’s everyone’s story, the only difference is the names, the places, the dates, yeah, the details. Parents crush child, child hates parents, child buries parents, child reconciles as best they can, or maybe not.

I suppose I can start a collection of 1/6 BBL (70#) bags now, thanks to a new municipal ordinance.

Chuckle. Sigh.

I miss you, Dad.

Occasionally I need to restore perspective to my kooky mind.

Carl Sagans speech helps.

It reminds me how darn big everything really is, and how insignificant I am.

A photo of Earth, taken from somewhere around four trillion miles away, I believe, by a Voyager spacecraft, many years ago. Just a pale blue dot, inhabited by weenies.

Pass the mustard.

I am a medical transport driver, driving people to and from doctors appointments.

I am learning to value simplicity these days. To see blessings where previously I saw nothing.

Don had a ride scheduled for 7:00 this morning. He lives in an assisted living facility, or as another passenger referred to them recently,  “a warehouse for the dying.”

I arrived at 7, and the staff was running a bit behind, so they didn’t have him quite ready. Rush, rush, rush, ok, he’s ready to go. Out the door and into the van and off we go. Don is in a wheelchair. He is probably in his seventies, and his hands are large, and you can see that at one time he did physical work with them. His voice is deep and gruff.

“You’re going to have about a half hour before your appointment, and then afterwards, I’ll be bringing you back, Don.” I told him. “Let’s just get it done.” was his quiet reply. 

At the doctors office at 7:45, the front desk informed Don someone had made a scheduling error, and his appointment had been moved out two weeks, “You should’ve received a call, we’re so sorry Don.”

So we get back in the van, Don and his wheelchair all secured down nice and tight, and we head back to his warehouse, uhh, sorry, assisted living facility. I’m craving pancakes, and I wonder if Don had breakfast. I did, but I’m craving pancakes, bacon, coffee, the works. Mmmm.

“Don, did your staff give you breakfast?” I inquire.

“No.” In his deep, stern voice. It belies disappointment and desire, but it confirms his reality – no breakfast, it’ll just have to wait, when in days past, it didn’t have to wait, because Don didn’t wait for anyone. He didn’t need to.

“No.”

It’s now after 8:00.  Don’s appointment wasn’t until 8:20, and his return ride was scheduled for 9:45. By the time he would’ve been back at the ware-  uhh, sorry, facility, it would’ve been after 10:00, and maybe he would’ve received breakfast, brunch, lunch, who the hell knows.

Don struck me as a withered version of his younger days, when HE ran the show. When schedules revolved around him, and things were made and maintained through his sweat and effort. He reminded me of a broken down mans-man. He has the attitude of a man who knows he is in decline, who knows he’s been placed in a warehouse for the dying, where he will wait. For everything. For food. For cleaning. For laundry, for visits, for rides, for sunrise, for sunset, for tedious routine that finally leads to a day when he just won’t have to wait any damn longer, because. . . well, because. Don knows this. Resignation and memory are his companions. 

I wheeled Don back inside, and joked with him that “at least we got to see some scenery and freeze our balls off.”(Its COLD here today.)

He chuckled.

“It was a good ride” was his reply, as he went inside to wait for his overdue breakfast.

I drove to a fast food place, and parked. As I walked across the parking lot, thinking of hot coffee and a baked apple pie, I realized that today, right now, RIGHT NOW, life is ok. It’s ok. It’s simple, it’s got everything I need, and that’s a good thing.

Simplicity. I have my independence, I come and go as I please, and I have two cats that I love. And I have coffee and an apple pie waiting for me.

I want the world and all its shallow, empty lying promises – but right now, I’ve got everything I need. I want much more than I need. We all do. We don’t know, CAN’T know, contentment. It’s not our nature. Sigh.  The world has been kicking my ass, all of our asses, and it will continue to, but for now, it can wait for me and my coffee.

What did I do with the darn cream? It was right here. . .

My job brings me into close contact with people with various illnesses and physical challenges. It’s interesting for me to interact with people both older and younger than me who are dealing with situations that I cannot imagine dealing with. You can learn a lot about a person’s character when you spend time with someone who is living a life of tremendous difficulty, brought about by physical trauma or disease.

This is not a passing of judgment on Janet. I met her for the first time today and spent about 45 minutes with her. She is missing a leg, and I am unsure what else is going on in her life. She is a chain smoker and I suspect she may have cancer, but am only basing that on her diminished appearance. I could be wrong, and I didn’t ask.

She is living in “transitional care.” The implication there to me is that this is where one lives until other accommodations can be made, until a sufficient  “transition” can be made. Wow. I’m smart, huh?

Janet said transitional care is where you go to die. She is on the first floor of her facility – the public entrance is on the second floor, and it is an attractive and we’ll maintained area. Administrative offices, a large community room, a well organized nurses station and brightly lit hallways decorated with engaging art greets each visitor at this entrance.

The entrance to the first floor, to the “transitional care” area, is on the rear of the building. Near a large metal structure, covered with a ragged green tarp, inside which is a few folding chairs and a long table – the smoking area. The door to transitional care is the type of door you’ve seen on walk in coolers. Big, thick, heavy – industrial white.

Right next to the tarped smoking area.

Janet described the quality of the food as very bad, the staff as mediocre and usually overworked and inattentive. She relayed other details about the facility, and we both agreed that hey, man, whether the business is about housing dying humans or putting satellites in space, lowest bidder gets the contract and profits must be top priority – spend as little as you can and make as much as you can, and let the chips fall where they may, everything else be damned.

She has one sister who visits occasionally, but their relationship is strained, so you know, it’s just whatever it is. “Tis what tis.” She has a few friends, but they’re all in similar situations in the same facility.

I’m not sure what my point is with all this. I sympathize with Janet. I feel for her. I can sense her frustration, I can sense her fear and sadness, I can sense her aloneness. But I cant do a thing to help her. This is her life. She is fading from the bright white of life through the grays of transition into the black of forgotten. She is alone, she knows she is dying, she accepts it. She regrets not doing more fun things, not spending more money on vacations, or on friends and family. She is sad.

As I drove away today, she sat inside the tarped smoking area and lit a smoke. She looked at me and smiled, and gave me a wave. I treated her well during our brief time together today, because she deserves it. We all deserve it.

And for the briefest moment, in her smile and wave, I saw Janet as I’d never seen her before – full of her life, alive, but “transitioning.”

Damn. Makes me happy for what I’ve got. Makes me ponder my control over how I live or . . . “transition.”

Yeah.