HOW I RATE THINGS, ESPECIALLY MOVIES

If you're anything like me, here's how you'll react. Essentially.

• 0: You'll want to destroy it.
• 1: You will regret it.
• 2: You will forget it.
• 3: You will enjoy it.
• 4: You will talk about it.
• 5: You will buy it.
  

Prosthetic legs, please. Preferably titanium.

I've never been suicidal before. I've been drowning in depression. To the point of being catatonic, but I've never felt so much heaviness that I actively sought death.

Something about this year, though. Something about the added burden to the responsibilities of being a husband.

Before, any emotional turmoil was like beatings ending in broken bones. Incredibly painful. This, this was like looking down at your body after an especially nasty encounter, and not seeing your legs. Instead, you see your intestines spilled out where your legs should be. You can't imagine ever recovering. Ever being whole, complete, functional again. You wait, anticipating death's mercy. But it doesn't come. You should be dead by now. There's no way you should be able to survive this. Nobody should dare expect you to. The pain is so overpowering in its rawness, it's like you're choking on a cow's fresh heart, after it's been slapped against a cactus and dropped in the sand. Like you're a soul-scorched vampire drowning in a sea of blood.

A person in such a situation may conceivably find a way, just enough willpower, to drag their self to the cliff's edge. And over.

I just wanted to walk into the water and drift away. Like a broken walking stick, or arrow, or bow. My purpose lost.

It was a beautiful day, even I could see that. As such, the beach was overpopulated with swimmers, all too happy to deprive me of my leave.

That's when my survivor kicked in. I called for help from the professionals. Let's hope they find my legs. Or give me some titanium ones.

Burial

I've discovered yet another blessing disguised as a curse, if you will. As any of you fellow bloggers pr'y know, if you start a draft on say, June 11th, and publish it on, say August 31st, it won't post at the top of the blog or archives list; it won't be listed amongst August's posts. It'll be listed in June's. It is effectively buried.

This is a minor inconvenience if you wished for that particular blog to get attention. Just Copy/cut, paste, delete. However, for the posts that are a bit outta the box, the ones you had to write but probably shouldn't have posted, it effectively buries them. That way, if say, only the three most current posts are listed on your main page, few other than you will know of their existence. Seriously, when reading someone's blog, either you're up to date, needing to only read the most recent two or three; or you're a new follower. In which case, how many of you have ever read more than four posts in a row on a new favorite blog?

The important thing to remember is to have a lackluster title. Not No Title, those will draw attention, especially if all else are titled. No numbers, either. They stand out too.

So, next time you're feeling a bit wary of your post, save it as a draft. It'll always be there. If you publish it later, you get the victory of burying some demon without the potentially unpleasant fallout.

Joker

In an attempt to keep up with my bonfire brain, I recently purchased a digital recorder. Now I wish I could upload the sound bytes onto my blog for all to hear. Some are pretty silly!

Case in point:

"I think it's time my wife...got a buzz cut. That is...she uses one towel to wrap her body, and another towel, to wrap her hair. Like many women in this country, you know? Well, in the world. I don't know. And, anyway, you know, out in Arizona you do that and you hang up your towel, it's sopping wet, it comes out smelling like a, um, silicon-scorched summer breeze. But here, in New York, it comes out smelling like...mildew. And it's funny, 'cause she used the green towel. The manly green towel and left the purple towel. So, I'm using the purple towel. Not that...that should make me feel...emasculated or anything, but, you know. It's not my first choice.

"And it's funny, too, that I'm lookin' at green and purple towels and I'm thinkin', 'Those are the colors of the Joker!' Man! I've got Batman on the brain!"

Wish to Write

I hate how I'll have these fascinating insights and moments of clarity, which I simply must write down before they slip away, while I'm right in the middle of running an order at work. Or driving. Or grocery shopping.

I worry that my psychological profile would refer to my past as evidence that I indeed fit the bill for suicidal. I can see the finer points of that argument and why it's reasonable. However, in my case, I beg to differ: my thoughts of suicide are far more likely to be simply emotional implosions from a section of my soul that has yet to mature: Times are tough, draw in and refuse help; times are really tough, ponder suicide. Frustrated? Porn! Really frustrated? Punch something. That kind of immaturity. Though I do not possess--am not possessed by--all those attributes. I learned to stop punching things (for the most part) years ago, after I shattered my knuckles...(Ass!)

Speaking of Profiling, I'm reading Deaver's latest novel, The Broken Window, in hardback. A gift from my cherished wife. The creepy perpetrator uses identity theft to steal, rape, kill, and frame innocent people for his crimes. Here's hoping Rhyme and Sachs can bust his as by page 150. I'll know in a couple hours.

It got me thinking, though, about our habits. The ones we tend to overlook. The ones a spectator would come to find predictable. For instance:

• I always buy Folger's Columbian: Medium-Dark roast.
• When I break down and buy any pain medicine, it's Excedrin. Excedrin Extra-Strength. Excedrin Migraine. Excedrin Back & Body.
• I switch toothbrushes regularly.
  
• Irish Spring is my soap of choice.
• I NEVER adhere to the posted speed limit. EVER. Not even when a cop is present.
  
• It seems I love clocks and trash cans. I have two of each within eyesight everywhere in the apartment.
  
• I HATE going to the Doctor/hospital.
• I like dramas when I'm feeling upbeat and action flicks when I'm down. I think...
  
• I loathe gore in my movies, unless they are "Creature Features".
• Speaking of which, I dislike horror movies in the slasher sense, but opt for sci-fi themed horror--"Creature Features". (Alien, Predator...)
  
• I treat my car about as nice as I treat myself...
• I love to read, but I gravitate only toward a select few authors.
• I'm most content when COMPLETELY alone. Sucks for my wife; she thinks I'm always moody and NEVER happy. She's an extrovert--what can I say?!
• I cuss and complain more consistently and reliably than I breathe. Literally; sometimes I catch myself not breathing when I'm in deep thought.
  

My Chain/Chain of Thoughts

My Chain: It looks like a miniature bicycle chain. It sounds like a zipper being done and undone as my pendant slides to and fro while I stride. It feels like a serrated-knife gone dull as I run it through my fingers. It's warm as I move, retaining my body heat, but cold when I put it back on in the morning. It's heavy for a chain, but still quite light for it's durability. Sometimes, up close, it smells similar to a handful of pocket-change. When I clean it, it actually smells cold, with only a hint of the isopropyl I used as solvent. Sometimes, when I'm putting on a sweater or something, I hold it between my lips. It tastes gritty, and the metallic flavor is both foreign and familiar; it reminds me of the taste of flatware, only instead of delivering literal meat it delivers the meat of my memories.
=======
This chain is like a silent friend through the years. And like a true friend, it's stood with me through all my trials, beside me even through my mistakes. When the dirt of dusty roads was in my throat, it was in the gears of my chain. It hangs over my heart and knows its beatings better than I do. The tears that I have managed to shed didn't just fall onto my chest but were caught by my chain. It times my stride like the pendulum of a clock. If my chain were alive, it would be my closest friend; if it weren't for my wife, it would be my best friend.
===
Arizona. Terrain. Sand. Rock gardens. Avenues with no trees. Post-card sunsets. Mountain vistas too colorful for any painting. Authentic Mexican food. 125 degree heat - in the shade. Crickets - always the sound of crickets. Ruggedly beautiful - like how a little boy sees his dad. But everything is dangerous: the flowers worse than poison oak, scorpions, tarantulas, rattle-snakes, cacti, spikes hiding under the leaves of every tree, heat-strokes handed out like advice from a mother-in-law.
===
Beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder. Blood may be thicker than water, but I'd rather drink water. I developed a family out there: my wife Freeness; my spiritual parents Torch and Lighthouse, who guided me away from bitterness, providing me food and shelter - especially in a spiritual sense; Baguira and Raksha, my "aunt and uncle" who's stories assured me that someone always has it worse, and can always be better.
===
Cer Torch. Kept everyone at arms length, but warmed their hearts nonetheless. Called a jerk a jerk, and a salvageable heart a good one. Almonds in a bottomless bowl - dry but addictive. A man's man and a mentor's mentor. Happy despite his scars.
===
People try to hide their heartaches, and usually fail. Torch grew up in an orphanage, moved out at sixteen and lied about his age to enlist. Some people would be scared enough to call this a triumph; some, like Torch, acknowledged that something was missing - and pursued it. He strove to convey that you don't have to be a genius to look for the truth, and understand it.
===
Credulity. Apathy in borrowed robes. I recently realized it's nothing more than fear. People are afraid of what they don't know or understand. Most think it's childish to explore with round-eyed wonder, which is why they cease to learn, stagnating in intelligence. When something unknown comes along, rather than exploring for the truth, they'll accept the first idea presented to them so they don't have to feel so scared. This is precisely why these kind (most) of people guard their opinions so viciously - like an immature toddler with their dingy security-blanket.
===
Regarding dog-fighting in the news a while back, somebody actually said that Michael Vick was doing the world a favor by killing pit-bulls; that pit-bulls should be wiped out because they're dangerous. What a Nazi-without-a -cause. That's the exact equivalent to advocating genocide. And all because they know nothing of the virtues of a properly raised pit-bull and this terrifies them. They are too vain to admit ignorance and do some research, and so, latch on to the first idea to be handed to them. Credulous people might be excused due to their fear, but if that's the case, junkies should be excused for wanting to get away from it all for a while.

Anonymous said...

blink. blink. blink.

- - - close mouth - - -

so that's what's spinning around in that hot little head of yours.

i can honestly say that you are amazing. (and you're butt's not bad, either...)

March 5, 2008 9:49 AM

Anonymous said...

"Anonymous", you're a Goof ball! =) Thanks for maintaining you're anonymity.

March 5, 2008 9:59 PM

Handful of Philosophies

I have a collection of philosophies that I frequently refer to. I use my hand - or fingers, rather - as a mnemonic device.

Pinky
Pick your attitude: Derived from the famous "Fish Philosophy"'s Choose Your Own Attitude; You choose your attitude, not circumstance.

Communication: The Ring finger should symbolize relationship, and the cement in the foundation of ANY relationship is COMMUNICATION!

3 Reasons: 3 reasons to do--or not to do-- anything is plenty. Any more and you're thinking too hard.

Barber Pole: The red, white and blue of the barbershop pole is not patriotic in origin. When it was invented, few people were literate and symbols were needed. The colors instead stood for blood, bandages, and [bactericide]. This one is quite new and replaced a philosophy I never really adhered to anyway. It's to remind me that only blood matters in the long haul, laughter heals, and clean and safe prevents "the blues".

Thumb
Solution at Hand: To any problem/challenge at hand, there is ALWAYS a solution at hand. Even if it's gotta be a "band-aid fix" or "MacGyvered". You just gotta find it.

I. R. C.

IRC was developed in hopes of controlling my anger. When executed, it's actually quite humbling.

The acronym:
Injustice - or, to a lesser degree, blatant Inconsideration
Retardation - defined as the restriction of progress. Stay out of my way.
Credulity - people who [choose] to be duped. This especially applies to those who fit into their [negative] stereotypes.

The application:
For things that IRK me, first I try 10 deep breaths--seriously! Then, consider: does it measure up to I.R.C.? Would I be willing to write it down for fear of feeling silly later?

Minding P's and Q's

Here's a philosophy I came up with not too long after I started "swinging for the fences" as a Bible Student, around summer of '02

It'd be great if I could apply this again!

Minding your P's and Q's

(Similar to): Measure Twice, Cut Once
(Liken to): Two Ears, One Mouth

Sorry! Here it is:

Only speak to/in Praise or regarding Questions (asking/answering)

When speaking to somebody, you can reasonably use only speech that praises them, or the subject, or ask and respond to questions. P's and Q's. No negative speech is necessary. It helped me overcome my profusion of profanity for over three years. I slipped up in life a while back though. Nothing like violence or alcoholism. I just let bitterness take hold, got arrogant--proud. And so stumbled.

What's Eating Dusk Watchman

I'm not sure what to write. I'm worried. So worried... But what am I worried about? What's eating me all the time? We're doing quite well with finances as of late. Apartment is rather organized, if not clean.

Why don't I want a family of my own? I don't want a career. I don't want the house we'll be able to get finally, this year. I look forward to teaching my son or daughter in the future, but I don't look forward to coming home to my wife. It's not just her I don't think. I don't think I would like coming home to ANYBODY. I want to be Alone. To be able to have complete control over when I have to see someone. My wife, my friends, my future children. My boss and fellow workers.

But that's not acceptable. Not socially, not scripturally. Do I merely need more Alone time? How much? How often? How long? Is it safe to schedule it?

Clearly, work nights aren't available. Saturday night would be foolish not long before it became selfish. Friday night? Even with school Saturday morning, as life is at the moment, I only have to be awake enough to take notes.

Friday night seems safe. Now, about a bedtime. Should there be one? I don't think so. I think that sometimes I'll need more or less time than others. I can gauge myself by how late I find myself staying up. More, we all already look forward to Fridays anyway. Now I'll actually have a reason to.

I can do whatever I want, within reason. Bills, blogging, Stumbling through sites. Perhaps even a movie. If I weren't so introverted, I might think about a bar, but over three reasons not to ever do that instantly flash into my mind.


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Now playing: Nine Inch Nails - Every Day Is Exactly The Same (Sam Fog vs. Carlos D Mix)
via FoxyTunes

Absolutely Fantastic

Somehow, I'm in a fine mood. I've been in a fine mood almost all day. I'd like to think it's because of something as simple as drinking alcohol last night; but alas, it's something not so "simple" to maintain. My mood changed after I remembered how much I hated my former job contrasted with how much I miss it. I recalled that this process seems to be my modus operandi when it comes to just about anything long term. I start off all dazzle-eyed with high hopes only to have them dashed to pieces by my perfectionism and general disdain for the majority of humanity.

I post this in hopes that I will draw strength and inspiration from this introspection. And, cynic that I am, I truly fear that this “fine mood” will be harder to maintain with fine thought than with fine tequila.

Once Again, D:

I MUST STOP HATING THE PRESENT ( IT IS TANTAMOUNT TO HATING LIFE).
DON'T REGRET IT LATER AS YOU THINK FOND THOUGHTS OF THE PAST.
TO COMPLETE THE TRIAD: THIS WILL EMPOWER YOU FOR THE FUTURE

Degrees

Driving in snow is never fun, but it does appeal to my adventurous side. It is painfully beautiful outside. 35 degrees. Cold, quiet, calm. I sit in my car, running down the battery. Soaking in the music. I hope the neighbors don't mind the volume. This is too good to be played low. It's as delicious and moving as the silence of tonight. I watch the snowflakes fall slowly down, fluttering in the lamplight. They look a lot like the moths fluttering around the lamplight out in the desert. I miss the clean smell of the desert. But I like the cold. It tightens my skin. Makes my flesh feel leather-like. Like impenetrable armor. Maybe, maybe I can live here. Perhaps even thrive.