Tuesday, January 30, 2018
Saturday, January 27, 2018
Concede Immediately
I think the best strategy that I have is to concede immediately.
Admit and then let go. Interesting; The two primary meanings of this word are the essence of steps one and three.
con·cedekənˈsēd/
"I had to concede that I'd overreacted"
synonyms: admit, acknowledge, accept, allow, grant, recognize, own, confess;
agree"I had to concede that I'd overreacted"
"to concede all the territory he'd won"
synonyms: surrender, yield, give up, relinquish, cede, hand over
"he conceded the Auvergne to the king"
Admit and then let go. Interesting; The two primary meanings of this word are the essence of steps one and three.
Friday, January 26, 2018
Knight Vision
"I have kind of strayed" said Arthur and so Guenever left. She did not want to but she really had no choice. Guenever's departure would not, however, deter Arthur from being Arthur. Her absence was of no consequence in the quest that Arthur would finally take.
When Arthur had met Guenever he had already had lost many battles. As he first laid eyes on Gwin he had yet engage in a battle he would eventually lose resulting in the loss of his wife Rhiannon. (See Arthur and Rhiannon) In that battle, all he had to do was ignore the daemons. Instead he not only did not ignore the demons but went on to try to fight them.
Now, in the wreckage, once again, he was alone and this time there was no lady for which to fight. Or was there.
When Arthur had met Guenever he had already had lost many battles. As he first laid eyes on Gwin he had yet engage in a battle he would eventually lose resulting in the loss of his wife Rhiannon. (See Arthur and Rhiannon) In that battle, all he had to do was ignore the daemons. Instead he not only did not ignore the demons but went on to try to fight them.
Now, in the wreckage, once again, he was alone and this time there was no lady for which to fight. Or was there.
Friday, January 19, 2018
Back in the day - after the previous "Back in the day"
Tuesday, January 16, 2018
Eternal Sunshine
I really hope this works.
The idea is, is to get me all hyped up about the fear. Get me all hyped up about the perceived situation for which I am catastrophizing. Get me thinking about it. Get me living it. Get me living it in my head right there as I am sitting in the therapy chair. And once I am in it, she comes in with a D9 Cat
and begins the long arduous process of tearing down the deeply flawed building that is in actuality my brain. And so the first swings were swung and the first tracks were made through my poorly constructed head.
Have you ever seen a building demolished? Have you ever been in one as it was being demolished? Have you ever lived in one that was being demolished. I have. It is weird. You can be at the other end of the house and you hear some creaking. You see some drywall dust stream down from the ceiling here and there. You'll feel the vibrations and maybe hear a far-off bang. But the room that you are in is not changing. There could be carpet in it. The walls could be painted nice. There could be furniture in it. Like a bed, a chair, a desk, and dresser. And to the room, it is just another day.
My dad remodeled our house when I was a kid. It started on a Sunday night with the bathroom. All he wanted to do was just renovate the downstairs bathroom. A hammer and a crowbar and the first bit of filthy carpet that was our bathroom floor began to peel away. In the end, no room would be untouched.
I remember being amazed at how my bedroom looked just as it always did while only two days ago so did the stairway. And now! There was no stairway - just a ladder down to the first floor. My dad did not consult OSHA.
You would open up my door and there was nothing — just air with the top of a step ladder about two feet below the door's threshold. So for the latter part of high school I climbed up to and "down-climbed" from my room.
And then through the end of my senior year to the time I left to go to college my bedroom became basically a loft. A ladder spanned the two to three foot gap that wasn't there because the first floor below my bedroom had been removed. This required that I learn to negotiate getting up to and down from my bedroom in a variety of states of mind both day and night. I managed quite well I think.
There is actually a lot more to tell here. Perhaps another time. I kind of digressed. I am thinking about putting a little bit of this on facebook.
Anyway the work has begun. The house actually never did get finished. It suffered from what I now understand as "Scope Creep" My dad just kept finding more and more shit to change. This can not happen here. We tore some stuff up today. Before I leave she kind of puts a bit of a band aide on it and tells me to put whatever trauma I talked about in a "little box" and we'll open it up again next week!
One day I will talk about the guy in the Dr. Seuss hat wearing, high heal boots, nylons and a sort of "Santa Costume" that a stripper might where during the Christmas holidays?
The idea is, is to get me all hyped up about the fear. Get me all hyped up about the perceived situation for which I am catastrophizing. Get me thinking about it. Get me living it. Get me living it in my head right there as I am sitting in the therapy chair. And once I am in it, she comes in with a D9 Cat
D9 Caterpillar Bull Dozer
And a wrecking ball
Wrecking Ball
and begins the long arduous process of tearing down the deeply flawed building that is in actuality my brain. And so the first swings were swung and the first tracks were made through my poorly constructed head.
Have you ever seen a building demolished? Have you ever been in one as it was being demolished? Have you ever lived in one that was being demolished. I have. It is weird. You can be at the other end of the house and you hear some creaking. You see some drywall dust stream down from the ceiling here and there. You'll feel the vibrations and maybe hear a far-off bang. But the room that you are in is not changing. There could be carpet in it. The walls could be painted nice. There could be furniture in it. Like a bed, a chair, a desk, and dresser. And to the room, it is just another day.
My dad remodeled our house when I was a kid. It started on a Sunday night with the bathroom. All he wanted to do was just renovate the downstairs bathroom. A hammer and a crowbar and the first bit of filthy carpet that was our bathroom floor began to peel away. In the end, no room would be untouched.
I remember being amazed at how my bedroom looked just as it always did while only two days ago so did the stairway. And now! There was no stairway - just a ladder down to the first floor. My dad did not consult OSHA.
You would open up my door and there was nothing — just air with the top of a step ladder about two feet below the door's threshold. So for the latter part of high school I climbed up to and "down-climbed" from my room.
There is actually a lot more to tell here. Perhaps another time. I kind of digressed. I am thinking about putting a little bit of this on facebook.
Anyway the work has begun. The house actually never did get finished. It suffered from what I now understand as "Scope Creep" My dad just kept finding more and more shit to change. This can not happen here. We tore some stuff up today. Before I leave she kind of puts a bit of a band aide on it and tells me to put whatever trauma I talked about in a "little box" and we'll open it up again next week!
One day I will talk about the guy in the Dr. Seuss hat wearing, high heal boots, nylons and a sort of "Santa Costume" that a stripper might where during the Christmas holidays?
Sunday, January 14, 2018
Sick again
I am.
Sick again is also a song by Led Zeppelin. It is interesting that the music composed primarily by Jimmy Page and John Paul Jones is now considered . . . . uh. . . taken seriously. John Paul Jones indeed has musical training. However Page is a self taught guitarist. Their music is being dissected and analyzed these days by music scholars and what they are finding is nothing short of genius.
Any way, I am sick again. It is a beautiful sunny day here. According to the national weather service we are going to have nothing but beautiful sunny days for the foreseeable future. Corroboration of anthropocentric global warming or just the weather?
I wrote on FB that I accidentally stopped drinking coffee because I hadn't gone into work the last two days - Thurs and Fri. I believe I came down with a head cold of sorts. It seems to have settled in my chest. About half way through Thurs. I started getting a headache. The kind where it feels like your head is going to explode. The kind that makes me contemplate drilling a hole in my head to relieve some of the fluid pressure. I imagine a geyser of blood shooting up or out of my head And as the arch of blood recedes so does my head ache. ahhhh. Should work? right?
In the back of my mind I knew what it was and on Saturday morning I conceded to the answer. Caf-fucking-fien. About 5 minutes after taking some pain relief medicine with caffeine in it, my head started to feel better. You know, I only drink about two cups of coffee a day. I make two shots of espresso, add some hot water, and that's it.
I put this on facebook and one of Wendy's friends suggested I have chicken soup for my head cold. Wendy said Jews call chicken soup Jewish penicillin. I am thinking that every ethnic group calls it their penicillin - like Hungarians call chicken soup Hungarian penicillin.
So this morning I started looking up the recipe for the soup. Wendy and I made it a number of times. We made the soup for the high holidays and then the broth for Passover. She had a little index card with the ingredients and instructions. So I went to the little wooden box where she kept it and started looking through the cards and the papers that were jamb packed into that little box. All the while, the feeling that I knew would come, started to come.
I went to the bookshelf to get her mom's cookbook. Her mom along with her mom's friends made this cook book "way back when." I suppose it was probably in the eighties when their lives were full. I imagined her and her friends writing up the recipes, putting them together and going down to Kinko's to get the pages bound. The names of some of the recipes hinted at fun times, like "Party Tuna Salad" (Okay, party and tuna salad really don't go together but for them it did) There are sections in there like "Breads","Deserts", "Holiday Dishes" "Fish, Meat, and Poultry", etc. All of these dishes Kosher of course. I imagined meals being prepared in the hustling bustling kitchen of the Zalut house hold. The humid heat from water boiling, the rich smells of poultry seasoning, or cinnamon filling the air. Wendy and her two brothers running around. Playing. Maybe playing hide and seek or building a fort with chairs, books, blankets while her mom and grandmother cooked appetizers, entres, and desserts out of this cookbook. These were my memories of family get together's. And then it hit me.
All of this was gone. Her mother did not like the fact that I was not Jewish but I think she eventually liked me. I had met her at Sam's Bar Mitzvah. I was afraid of her. She was luke warm to me. Both Wendy and I watched as her health declined and then we witness her death. When she died, Wendy was reading a story from Kitchen Table Wisdom by Naomi Rachel Remen. Wendy was holding her hand while reading a story out of the book and I think she felt the texture of her hand change. She told her dad and her dad started talking to her but quickly realize Beverly Zalut had left this world. I couldn't imagine what he was feeling. Relatively speaking all I could say about how I was feeling was just sad, that is all, just sad. Not profoundly so. In fact, I probably felt simply somber. Probably the most emotive thought I had was, "Holy shit, she's gone." I suppose I might have been a little stunned.
A year and a half later Wendy would pass.
And now today I read what was. I read about the plannings for getting together with friends. I read about the things that at one time were prepared for people that are no longer here.
And as I looked for the chicken soup recipe I began to cry. The damn broke and the tears came.
I went back to the box for a closer inspection of the pieces of paper and found nothing but recipes with her hand writing. I found dishes that she would lovingly make for her children. I found dishes that she would lovingly make for her ex-husband. I found dishes that we would make together. I found recipes for dishes that I would end up making for her.
And I realized that now I do hate cooking. Cooking is something I told her I hated to do until I started cooking with her. And then even for her. I loved cooking for her. I actually really did like it. Now, I don't give a fuck about what or how I eat. I hate cooking.
For vanities' sake, I just don't want to eat a lot and get fat. Requirements on what I eat now are primarily related to time as in, "five minutes is the maximum amount of time that I want to spend screwing around with food." As I found out today trying to cook from a recipe that she and I loved is just fucking painful.
I cried on and off for about three fucking hours. I never did find the recipe for the soup and ended up going on line and found one similar to what I had in my memory. Chicken soup and chicken seem to be big in the Jewish diet and I could not find any recipe for chicken soup in the house. All I found was a flood of tears.
Sick again is also a song by Led Zeppelin. It is interesting that the music composed primarily by Jimmy Page and John Paul Jones is now considered . . . . uh. . . taken seriously. John Paul Jones indeed has musical training. However Page is a self taught guitarist. Their music is being dissected and analyzed these days by music scholars and what they are finding is nothing short of genius.
Any way, I am sick again. It is a beautiful sunny day here. According to the national weather service we are going to have nothing but beautiful sunny days for the foreseeable future. Corroboration of anthropocentric global warming or just the weather?
I wrote on FB that I accidentally stopped drinking coffee because I hadn't gone into work the last two days - Thurs and Fri. I believe I came down with a head cold of sorts. It seems to have settled in my chest. About half way through Thurs. I started getting a headache. The kind where it feels like your head is going to explode. The kind that makes me contemplate drilling a hole in my head to relieve some of the fluid pressure. I imagine a geyser of blood shooting up or out of my head And as the arch of blood recedes so does my head ache. ahhhh. Should work? right?
In the back of my mind I knew what it was and on Saturday morning I conceded to the answer. Caf-fucking-fien. About 5 minutes after taking some pain relief medicine with caffeine in it, my head started to feel better. You know, I only drink about two cups of coffee a day. I make two shots of espresso, add some hot water, and that's it.
I put this on facebook and one of Wendy's friends suggested I have chicken soup for my head cold. Wendy said Jews call chicken soup Jewish penicillin. I am thinking that every ethnic group calls it their penicillin - like Hungarians call chicken soup Hungarian penicillin.
So this morning I started looking up the recipe for the soup. Wendy and I made it a number of times. We made the soup for the high holidays and then the broth for Passover. She had a little index card with the ingredients and instructions. So I went to the little wooden box where she kept it and started looking through the cards and the papers that were jamb packed into that little box. All the while, the feeling that I knew would come, started to come.
I went to the bookshelf to get her mom's cookbook. Her mom along with her mom's friends made this cook book "way back when." I suppose it was probably in the eighties when their lives were full. I imagined her and her friends writing up the recipes, putting them together and going down to Kinko's to get the pages bound. The names of some of the recipes hinted at fun times, like "Party Tuna Salad" (Okay, party and tuna salad really don't go together but for them it did) There are sections in there like "Breads","Deserts", "Holiday Dishes" "Fish, Meat, and Poultry", etc. All of these dishes Kosher of course. I imagined meals being prepared in the hustling bustling kitchen of the Zalut house hold. The humid heat from water boiling, the rich smells of poultry seasoning, or cinnamon filling the air. Wendy and her two brothers running around. Playing. Maybe playing hide and seek or building a fort with chairs, books, blankets while her mom and grandmother cooked appetizers, entres, and desserts out of this cookbook. These were my memories of family get together's. And then it hit me.
All of this was gone. Her mother did not like the fact that I was not Jewish but I think she eventually liked me. I had met her at Sam's Bar Mitzvah. I was afraid of her. She was luke warm to me. Both Wendy and I watched as her health declined and then we witness her death. When she died, Wendy was reading a story from Kitchen Table Wisdom by Naomi Rachel Remen. Wendy was holding her hand while reading a story out of the book and I think she felt the texture of her hand change. She told her dad and her dad started talking to her but quickly realize Beverly Zalut had left this world. I couldn't imagine what he was feeling. Relatively speaking all I could say about how I was feeling was just sad, that is all, just sad. Not profoundly so. In fact, I probably felt simply somber. Probably the most emotive thought I had was, "Holy shit, she's gone." I suppose I might have been a little stunned.
A year and a half later Wendy would pass.
And now today I read what was. I read about the plannings for getting together with friends. I read about the things that at one time were prepared for people that are no longer here.
And as I looked for the chicken soup recipe I began to cry. The damn broke and the tears came.
I went back to the box for a closer inspection of the pieces of paper and found nothing but recipes with her hand writing. I found dishes that she would lovingly make for her children. I found dishes that she would lovingly make for her ex-husband. I found dishes that we would make together. I found recipes for dishes that I would end up making for her.
And I realized that now I do hate cooking. Cooking is something I told her I hated to do until I started cooking with her. And then even for her. I loved cooking for her. I actually really did like it. Now, I don't give a fuck about what or how I eat. I hate cooking.
For vanities' sake, I just don't want to eat a lot and get fat. Requirements on what I eat now are primarily related to time as in, "five minutes is the maximum amount of time that I want to spend screwing around with food." As I found out today trying to cook from a recipe that she and I loved is just fucking painful.
I cried on and off for about three fucking hours. I never did find the recipe for the soup and ended up going on line and found one similar to what I had in my memory. Chicken soup and chicken seem to be big in the Jewish diet and I could not find any recipe for chicken soup in the house. All I found was a flood of tears.
Sunday, January 07, 2018
When I talk to her.
When I talk with her time passes. It passes faster than the speed of time itself. Okay, yeah, that makes no sense but to bring it home more clearly time passes really really really fast like some "thing" that goes really really fast. Or maybe time itself ceases to exist. From the time I say "Hi" to the time I say "Goodbye." time goes away.
She doesn't like small talk. Neither do I. So we don't do small talk. It's wonderful. This is what I could do with Wendy. I hear a lot of other women talk about how their boyfriend's or husbands are just on the surface. That is so weird to me. I can't do that.
My ex-wife stays on the surface.
Enough of that.
I feel as though we are trying to . . . Okay, I would like to think that we are trying to come together as slowly and as controlled as possible. Both of us are broken. I think a lot of people are broken; they just don't know it. They get together with another person who is broken. That person doesn't know they are broken either and then they have this horrible fucking relationship all the while they believe they are in love with one another. They do and say awful things to one another that wouldn't even come to the minds of two mortal enemies. I would like to think she is wanting to avoid that.
She doesn't like small talk. Neither do I. So we don't do small talk. It's wonderful. This is what I could do with Wendy. I hear a lot of other women talk about how their boyfriend's or husbands are just on the surface. That is so weird to me. I can't do that.
My ex-wife stays on the surface.
Enough of that.
I feel as though we are trying to . . . Okay, I would like to think that we are trying to come together as slowly and as controlled as possible. Both of us are broken. I think a lot of people are broken; they just don't know it. They get together with another person who is broken. That person doesn't know they are broken either and then they have this horrible fucking relationship all the while they believe they are in love with one another. They do and say awful things to one another that wouldn't even come to the minds of two mortal enemies. I would like to think she is wanting to avoid that.
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