yobech505

Sitting in a vintage Morris chair.  Belonged to my Great Grandfather.  Half reclined and typing, I go thought chasing,  thinking about the Royal typewriter I had in a time considerably prior to the current life events. What am I putting my over digitized mind through as I allow it to comprehend a whole lot of what is so altered from what may be considered by large numbers of national citizenry;  that which was a much less electronized hysterical, or is that ‘historical’ (yes, I think) place in the life timeline.

Care.  I do care.  So much was missing during that series of yesteryears.  Stuff I couldn’t miss because it wasn’t invented to be missed yet.  But am I still wishing for it, and especially the follicles that disappeared atop my cranium, then alas, re-constructing inside the chamber beneath where those hair roots once lived, the tangled pulls of the boar’s hair brush after a long ride on the Triumph, and creating a trial to reconsideration.  

Nobody seems to remember the 650 TT Special.  Yellow tank, red ‘Triumph’ in cursive on the side?  Lucas electrics that seemed to flicker the most when I had the clutch in, coasting down the southern side of Twin Peaks towards Portola Drive?  At Night.   

Girlfriends.  Some I recollect with just the tiniest reminder, others  are pulled out with giant forceps that show their shape in the form of corners, curses and “why the hell did I do that, question mark, style repensing.  (Ooh, I like that word!   NEW VOCAB!)  

Minor hilariousness, some are still about in my built in RAM.  Some are live.  We still talk.  Others are, as I am, digitized in the modernized monitor access, to be seen only on the mini screen and talked with in chattable format when they, like me, can figure out how the whole thing operates.  Like red headed Rhonda from Mill Valley.  That early crush was unravelled by a trip to Beirut and then a move across Mr. Strauss’ bridge to the neighborhood adjacent to the previously implicated Portola Drive.  Or Shannon, who my mother adored but who I never really knew if I had a crush on or not.  Always liked her, so how is that defined?

From a single’s point of referred implication, I don’t know what lies after the next key stroke or my personalized style of stroll through the nuances for our generation, the shopping mall.  Who is there?  What connections will be made for the days I haven’t occupied a place on this oblique spheroid yet?  Unfold!  I command thee!   No.  Just kidding.  I can wait.  

Pretending Shadows

Page 42

            If she stops by and lets out the ever so miniscule sonic boom that says “I need you to spend time with me” as if it was something we did on some type of scheduled basis, then it is time to sit, breath, and think about the farthest thing from what the comment has even the slightest relationship to.

            Rather humorous, the brain.  Loki unleashed and set to mischief.  Maker up of things that might be, could be, and in some cases, probably should be, but just ain’t happnin’.  This, at an apex of interpretation, is something that I see in the shadows of the visitor and myself, that is different from what she sees in the very same shadow. 

            We are both looking at the same thing, but I see the Shetland pony and she sees the Clydesdale.  It clashes as the analysis transforms, and two versions of the same thing are two versions of two separate sides of an equilateral triangle.  The third side is somewhere else and nobody recognizes it.

            I think my body doesn’t want this.  By it’s reaction and response, in fact, I am pretty damn convinced it is in a state of rebellion.  Too long on the mono platonic verge of even a shadow of this one tells me with as clear a voice as can be vocalized; this shadow is not the one you perceive it is.  Tell her that.

            I want to accelerate, the walk being less brisk than is necessary.  If I can stay one step ahead of the light that allows the shadow to be there in the first place, then I can hide and not expose any emotion at all, using whatever is there as an excuse to pretend.  I’m good at that.

           Walls are built for protection, or to allow ivy to grow on.  I have some of them and I let the ivy grow when I can but the protection ones are rather difficult to scale.  A few have made it past, but it hasn’t been a recent occurrence, so I don’t make the barriers impassable.  I just load them with things like moats and dragon’s teeth so entry becomes a pain to those not dedicated to getting past them through to those shadowy parts of my inside heart.

            Depending on where my heart is perched in this castle, constructions of new drawbridges can happen quickly, even if the bottom of the new channel it has to cross is littered with the bones of dead fish and very dry rocks.

            I see an obvious hint here.  Am I the only one?  Months ago?  Weeks ago?  Last year?  Hello oh great one with impaired emotional vision.  Do you see?  My parts aren’t working.  The machine that runs them uses a different power source than the one you keep bringing and trying to use to start what just won’t start.   Nice chassis, smooth propulsion device, slick tranny but not even close to the right gear ratio. 

            A jumble of emotion coming from a source outside of my control cannot be stemmed.  Here, let me tell you how to feel.  Yeah, right!  People emotionalize, and if they don’t have control over it, then I’m damned sure I don’t.  Not theirs, anyway.   Can’t tell  your heart what path to follow?  So?  Neither can I.  Just know that the trek to me is not the simplistic path unless I want it to be.  And that,  petite aimee, is not yours to tread over or  make a determination on. 

            Can I even begin to figure out what makes me decide how thick the base of the stone wall has to be before I make it so tall even Sherpas need oxygen? No, or maybe. The calculation could be as unpredictable as the feelings discovered in the shadow of a kiss. 

         I have no inkling, miniscule or expansive, as to where my next shade of emotion might flourish.  It’s been sliding around the over greased pan for the last years or so, and at the same time remaining as uncooked as it was the moment I let it slide off the can lid and into the hot buttered skating rink.

         I’ve certainly not been in a quest for something solid and meaningful.  Not even the single cells that make up the ‘wants list’ inside my slightly protected skull seem receptive to ‘getting together’ with another, even each other, in the billion cell cavities of hidden left brain, right brain corners.

         Forty five years is a long time. 

         Every tiny action in a life, from adventurous to boredomness, impacts the memory chips and leaves fractions of marks too small for even microscopes to see.  All of them leave at least a scratch, and the scratch becomes an impact.  Some are large, but most are not visible, detectable or even allow us to be aware that they exist.  So why do they make us the irascible characters that we knowingly can be?  The changes over the different phases of our lives assemble us into who we are and we don’t even know how the hell it came to the intersection we just tried to sneak through undetected.

         So, there she was.  Not to be confused with the incredible views of San Francisco, but just a part of it, tiny, even miniscule, a fleck of sand in the playground box,  something that flew in because of a calling, predestined perhaps, needing to find an answer, solution, or a chance connection to something that was lost, or just missing. 

         And, after all, what was I there for in the first place?  No reason.  Ho hum.

         Click ding.  Where is this going?  Better yet, where did it come from? And why are you asking me that?  Do you think I really know?  Do you think I had even a clue?

         Malleable, and logistically awkward are indications.  So, here,  they show warning lights blinking at accelerating rates and setting off silent alarms in places where they blasted their annoying signals before, and saying, ‘are you serious’?

         Then there’s me, sitting on the edge of the bed wondering how to explain this to my psyche, and overcome warning tags that beat me on the tips of my memory blogs.  Do I jump off the low bridge, knowing I can survive the fall but aware in kind that the cold water will put my skin into extreme goose bump mode?   I might have the mega shivers when I have to get out of the river on this one. 

         Now, get out of the way, hold on to my shoes, and let me climb the railing.  Damn, that water looks coldly wet.   Can’t I just dip a toe first?  No?  Too high up.  Oh well.  Here goes.   Oh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii   (Splash sound effect here.)

            My Karma is my make believe, dragging along the floor, undetected and unable to find any balance, not even with a micro mini chip of harmony and less any sense of worth, a lesson that it won’t let me learn and if I did, wouldn’t let me keep it anyway. 

            There is reality, I experience the flow of it every day from the new degrees and old degrees of a circle as it engulfs sanity whenever I let that rational part of me float up through the melted whipped cream on the top of a cold cup of hot chocolate. 

            Things break.  They don’t work the way we’ve been promised they would.  People break.  They don’t see their own stupid actions, blinded to anything resembling a true human being as they let their religion slip out the leaks of their old and crusty radiators.

            And I curse my own inability to think when it is most important that I do so. 

            My gearing, the motors provided by the long history of genes that created me, has, as it has been doing for 63 years, chosen to take the proverbial dump on what thought processes I try to congeal, making all that I am inside nothing but a huge pot of rotten mush, left to dry and harden into some inedible state that doesn’t resemble digestible stuff at all.

            I don’t belong.  I can’t believe that I am included amongst the homo sapien.  I can’t understand them and I don’t want to be around most of them.  They’re too blind, too selfish, too idiotic to see their own image etched in the chrome bumper they stare into.  They deserve their own place where they can be human.  But not here.  Not around me.  They don’t deserve any of it.  None.  Not even a tiny piece.  They need to be in another world, another dimension where having the very basics of smarts isn’t desirable.  

            God needs to take them in the rapture and get them the hell out of here.  I wish them well but they need to go.  I want them to have their heart ‘s desires, but I want to live free of them.  I want them to be happy with their closed minded ignorance, somewhere on the multitude of planets circling other stars in the expanse of the universe. 

            Just not here.

            I am sure I am not human being.  I’m beyond that.  Not superior to the closed minded and non seeing.  Different.  Able to see the rare aspects of common sense, the logic of life ‘s actions, the whys and why nots of just existing. 

            I want so much to call them stupid.  Their actions prove that most of them are, but that would be arrogance which would put me at a similar level to them.  I should never do that.  

            To the like minded, I am sure we are part of the separate entity, the homo senses common, the new phyla, a step from the sapiens, and two or three from the erectus.  We suffer at their hands and err when we don’t know the proper way to handle their lack of anything capable of understanding what we are. 

            I don’t hate them, although doing so would be pretty easy.  I just wish they would go away.

            They won’t.  We’re stuck with them.  So we have to adapt.  The problem is, it puts all of this incredibly huge  burden on us.  An unfair task in an unfair world by supreme being who really just doesn’t care about it.

I  Gotta Be…Not You.

Who do I need to impress?  What, in a relationship, is the need for someone to be a character other than their “I’m not playin’, yo” self.  The lumps show up in the sifter.  The flour falls through the little holes and, high and be held, there are the clumps.  The actual person is uncloaked,  The real dude, or dudette as the investigation may point, is exposed, unable to hide the actual, for real ‘who am I.’

So play it up front, okay?  I am going to be me.  Just me.  I like me.  I like who I am.  I’m nice to people.  I don’t really like stupid, but I don’t hate the people who are just that.  I accept difference.  We are NOT the same, we will never be the same, and I don’t even want to ponder the possibilities that we some day may be.

I have something socio-investigators call ADD.  Attention Deficit Disorder.  Let me explain something to you.  It is misnamed.  It is only Attention Deficit.  AD.  There is nothing disorderly about it.  It doesn’t make me dangerous, crazy or off kilter.  It makes me forget stuff.  I makes me easily distracted and ‘poof’, I’m off on a tangent totally unrelated to whatever I was doing three minutes ago.   It makes me want to finish a task in the middle of a blizzard while the forest is on fire.

Stop taking it personally.  It is me.  It makes me creative, paying attention to everything about me, and…hold on a minute, I’ve got a text.

Three weeks later:  Where was I?  I found this on my computer.  Forgot I had started it.  (SIKE!)

I forget a birthday.  An important date.  There is NO malice there.  None.  No selfishness,   I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.   I forget to pick up the laundry, or make an appointment, I just forgot.  That’s it.  I write the note, put it in front of me, and never see it.  It has NOTHING to do with you.  It is characteristic of me.  Not an excuse, not a validation, just a fact.

To see the hurt in someone’s eyes is demolishing some times.  That’s when it becomes a real curse.  Sadness, discourse, a feeling by another party that this one doesn’t really care, is a puller of chunks from the heart. It’s a mood masher, a feeling fatality, the aggravation extraordinaire.

I am my own worst critic.  I am the punisher supreme, beating myself up much more than you ever could.  And I don’t deserve it.

Do the blind need to apologize for being blind?  Does the amputee need an excuse for not being able to scratch the bottom of her foot?  Does a child with Downs need to give an excuse for being the incredible soul that they are?  Ridiculous.

I won’t apologize for being the way I am.  If I were mean, a malcontent, malicious and mindless with intent, then you might qualify for an ‘I’m sorry’.  But I’m not.  So it isn’t on the play card.  Don’t expect it, and don’t expect me to change it.  It is the track I was handed at birth and I can’t jump the rails.

Also, don’t scramble the interpretation.  I can still grow.  I can improve as I learn new ways to cope with the rather implicative disorder that was stuffed into my RNA molecules by relatives who ignorantly left me out of the lottery for my genes.

I don’t embrace the structures of nature that make me the ‘flawed’ part individual you see.  But I don’t hate it, I won’t fight it, and, in truth, I don’t ever want to have a problem with it.  Acceptance.  It must have it’s advantages buried somewhere in my DNA.  It doesn’t go away.  I could cover it up with drugs, but that’s just what that is, covering it up.  Instead I want to don the only thing that seems to truly work, learn to deal with it.

It used to make me angry.  It doesn’t any more.  I get tinges of frustration that well up when it causes me pay a price I was not willing to and that has been the most obstinate obstacle.  But for the better part of what is going on now, I deal with it.

It is me.  If it is something you can’t deal with, tisk tisk.  But that is not my problem, and if you want to be in a relationship with me, it goes with this body and mind.  We have wrinkles in our maps.  This one is mine.

I love.  I can be intense.  I share, I care.  I forgive, overlook.  I will stand beside you, behind you and with you.  I will be there.  That’s just me.

Finding the Groove

I’m brain draining about all the compromises that become life, decisions, things that we do because we really let our still evolving head organs make the choice without loading the necessary data.  And to what finalizing result? We have what we thought we coveted but didn’t know, by any means, as absolute.

Time for the stimulated neurons to send a message to the muscles around the jaw and through the larynx, thus releasing a rather inquisitive “Huh?”
It’s the day after the wedding syndrome.  We wake up at 5:37 am, stare at the clock for a minute, then look at the sweet and contented someone next to us, and mutter in absolute silence of course, “what the hell happened?”

“How will I explain this to the person I love?  Oh, wait. This is the person I love.”  And here we are.

Right now, it’s all on a much lower scale.  Marriage is such a permanent thing, at least it is before the divorce attorneys get a hold of it.  But we do it on a much simpler scale when we search for the person we feel the ‘click” with.

Of course, we also can hear a click when the hammer of a pistol lands on an already fired shell after we squeeze the trigger.   Both make us flinch.

Does this make the relationship such a good idea?  If only we knew.  It’s one of those yes-no, maybe-alright, sort of-okay, I suppose-no way scenario programs.  It feels good.  Then it feels like, well,  sort of like, I dunno, not much?

I question you, Mr. Myself.  What are you willing to risk, what chances are you willing to take?  Do you REALLY know what you want?  Is this person it?  The it you’ve been seeking, but you just don’t know it yet?

There is just too many its.  It’s frustratingly annoyingly rather indecisive on my part.

No it isn’t.  You know when it isn’t there, or at least you think you do.  And the call you make is more than likely the right one if you say, then and at that moment, ‘ain’t feelin it.’

Who knows better for you, than you.  And maybe your mother, who you never listen to anyway so it is all moot.  Unless, as some of us know, she is the mom who lets you make all your own falsely stimulated boo boos then doesn’t gloat like she should.

Am I right or wrong in the decision I am going to make?  Who comprehends that one?  We don’t know.  The choice is a crap shoot.  We want that third ace.  All we can do is lessen the odds and pray that the one we finally decide to let sit behind the rider on the Suzuki is the one who will bring us the most happiness by being there.   But really, if we’re drawing with a pair of aces and a pair of deuces, another lowly deuce will beat that flush as well.

Looking for a way to fill that groove is not a light task.  Not necessarily difficult, but fraught with a necessary caution and a touch of sense that is always the most evasive thing to acquire when emotions get in the way.  Who is this person?  Why is this person here?  Is timing crucial, or irrelevant?

Don’t ask the heart.  It has no clue.  It just makes the determination based on the type of adrenalin the non emotional body creates and pushes into the working nerve and love centers.  It’s an amoeba with no brain of it’s own.  Yet it makes the decision that puts thing in motion.  And to love or not to love is the equation it attempts to solve.

Deceptions, Breakups, and Fibs

Often heard, yes?  “Be honest with me.  Tell me the truth.  I’m being upfront.  There’s no one else.  I need this, I need that, I need time for myself, I don’t want to be in a relationship right now.”

The myths of the breakup.  Blatant lies directed at us for reasons, sometimes with good intention, but more often with the purpose of getting out easy.  Or just getting out.   But, in truth, they are just that.  Lies.

Call it a fib, half truth,  misdirection, deception, it doesn’t really matter.

And I don’t give a rat’s fanny for any of it.   I would much rather just be told, “I don’t want to be with you.  We have nothing in common, I got what I needed out of this thing and you just ain’t part of my future.” It eliminates all the guesswork, the self doubt and the confusion.  No more “what the hell did I do wrong.?” No more worrying about what you have to change in your character,  behavior, or emotions.  Truth is, the other person is done, you’re toast and you will NEVER  be told the truth.  You aren’t even told when the decision came about.  And it isn’t something that happened over time.  It never is.  The die was cast on a rock one day a long before it was presented to you.  But the liar didn’t have the guts to tell you back then.

And don’t you just love the ‘subtle’ hints?  Mood changes, behavior flip flops, excuses.

It would still hurt like a finger in a car door for three months, but wouldn’t it be nice to get it all out of the way, honestly?

Nobody can do that.  They all wimp out, give excuses, then go out and disprove every damn one of them.  Hello!  Duh!   The injured party sits around in disbelief and injuring party goes out as if lying ones butt off is perfectly okay.

They can feign some sympathy, but it might as well be a comatose gesture because there is, except perhaps in some miniscule happenings, nothing above the boards about it. They lied.  End of sentence, end of paragraph, end of chapter, end of book, end of trilogy.

Nobody wants to tell the truth.  Stupid.  Breakups hurt anyway.  It doesn’t matter why it happens.  Tell the damn truth.

But most people are weaklings.  And they lie.  Then they become dumb too, because they don’t realize that it is as obvious as stink on a dead skunk, their actions are a scurrying contradiction of maximum quantity, disproving almost every word, every excuse they told you.

Busted!  Exposed!  They are standing outside the hen house with chicken guano all over their head and shoulders and their credibility goes down with used Charmin.

So take your excuses, your obvious lies, fibs, whatever, and slide them into the lowest vestige of your intestine.  Then go kiss a dead rat and curse yourself because of what you said, then did.  And know that you’re about as slick as concrete cinder blocks on asphalt.

Lie recipients just don’t want to process things right away. It don’t mean we’re stupid.

Okay.  I feel better now.

Shelves

Sometimes I’m lost in a section of my own history that leaves me in a mystic trance.  Not out of control, or oblivious, but wondering.  In the ‘deep end of the woods’ wondering.  What was the needing, why do emotions and hearts concur more with what didn’t happen than with what did?  Where, in all of this, is the reason for the person we have first, primary in the cell space between our ears?

Our purpose is more often analyzed as a subject of experts.  Religions, Materia Medica,  Science,  and the proverbial European or Eastern philosophy soothsayer tells us what it is, why it happens and where it is supposed to go.

Yet, what do they really comprehend?  How deep into the human emotion can someone who has never been inside any brain but his or her own really scoop into the inner thought rails of someone else.  They guess.  Some, I suppose, sell snake oil while others delve into research, asking tens, hundreds, or thousands, what is it that is really rolling around in the memory and purpose cage?

You can tell them whatever you want, by the way.  You never have to avoid fibbing.  Huge whoppers or mini truth benders are at your disposal.  The real inside story is yours alone.  Do with it what you wish.

Or, more than likely, it will do whatever in hell it wants to do.  And it has nothing or everything to do with what comes out of the mouth.

The inner thought is independent.  It doesn’t need anything but the heart.  And it decides what should come out as truth, based on need, desire, or the true strength of the heart to hold on to what only it can decide is necessary to share.

Emotions play a part.  They have to.  And so does maturity, in that same sense.  And that, too, determines what an ‘expert’ really needs to know.  Further, it’s translation is pure made up mumbo jumbo, subject to the point of view of the person who thinks the mind of the individual can be broached.

So I could say I love you, and I always will, and to you it could always be just words.  It could be to me as well.  But you, and your guru,  will never know in absolution.  Only my brain can go that deep.

Actions often make noise for us as we do our best to prove a point.  The partially used human brain can put on quite a show, making all kinds of neat attempts at overloading the target with propaganda filled praise. Self appointed pros could say they are nothing but attempts to influence favorably. And in this regard, we can only depend on trust from the other person that what we say is what is really true, based on what is collective in our neurons and memory storage device.

Do I say it in sincerity?  I’m telling you that I do.

Emotional maturity might keep me from announcing it, but, as this writing itself attests, that is not the case.

It is irrelevant through all that though.  I know how I feel.  I know what is going on.  I know what direction it can go, can’t go and probably will go.  I could tell the college trained expert the same thing.  This ‘psych’ title prefixed person will then analyze it, take it apart, rebuild it like a Lego fort, and tell me what I need to do.    I can be told ‘that it will go away’, ‘I will learn to handle it’, ‘it is part of growing up’, ‘learn from it’, and other endearing remedy quotes of expertise.

Advice offered with sincerity.  But only I will really know.  The true inscription is carved in a place only I can find.  So, if I say ‘I will love you always’, only on a shelf somewhere inside of me, do I keep the evidence that it is true.

The Memory Jar

I always had the inkling thing; memories, or so I pensively implied to myself, eventually went to their place and just kind of hung out there,  undisturbed, at least until you wanted it.  They were dropped into this jar that hides in the cerebrum somewhere, lid on so tight that it could only be removed with so much effort that towels from a drawer had to be used to wrangle it off.  I was safe from their impact, and the effects of what they were didn’t cause stir, or any kind of miscues to memory cells.

Didn’t figure the lid would come lose on it’s own.

Yep.  finagled it clean off, then misplaced it.  Not planned, but despite caution overdone, it occurred just the same.  And the content was laid out all over the area, bouncing off spots I was sure I had scrubbed thoroughly, leaving residue I was sure I had unremembered.

Slim kind of fat chance on that one.  I remembered, with a sort of impeccable vengeance. New things got pushed into muffled corners and old ones scattered about, taking charge with an abandon that makes reckless seem like a clawless and mellow stuffed toy kitten.

It’s not a ‘keep you tossing, going from blanket to sheet and back to blanket, then nothing, all night’, kind of memory.  It won’t be a stress revitalizer, or even a big mood changer,  but it did refresh the cells that playback that kind of stuff.  And it did peak a sense of what once was but isn’t any more.  The ‘sadness’ thing, I suppose.

I could try to back myself off, excuse myself from the feelings.  It would be futility, only a token attempt to allow myself to tell it, “I’m bigger than you,” which would be a fraudulent fib from my ego to my id, which both have tried playing before.

So here she was, on a day like it seemed she had never left.  But I needed her, not for myself, as least in the way that things once sauntered about, but for other reasons unrelated to the ‘used to be’ mode.  And here I was, in ‘behind the stone wall’ defensive mode, cool, aloof, in control of the situation.

Yeah, Right. Surface toast.  The burnt slices are underneath, their charcoal sides invisible to all.

Survival is not an option choice on the list of menued items.  It just is.  And I’m good at it.  After all, I’ve had scads of practice.  So I survive the encounter, and will eventually emerge without even a micro scar.  But I so underpredicted the inner ability of the event to remove the lid.  It popped off.  Easily.  And it allowed so much to break free from the leash, that I was, if not many more things, dumbfounded.

We all want what is best for others, especially those whom we love.  But we all need what is best for ourselves, which is just as hard, if not harder, to reconnoiter and acquire.  The problem that tends to attach itself to that, is that we don’t have a safe enough place to store it when things change.  No container is unopenable, just as no heart is immune to breakage.

I’m not sinking.  The training I’ve put the mind through the last time is keeping the ocean from busting through the waterproof doors.  Memories that kept me awake don’t.  Dreams that sent me off in distracted directions are dormant.  Gradually, the area will be resheveled  and the jar will be refilled and placed back into the nook that was built for it.  Maybe this time it will have some extra tape around the lid.  Won’t keep it shut, though, even if, in the most distant depths of me, I really wanted it to.