Creature of Habit

I really want to exist on that plane where the big picture exists. Unfortunately the mundane is where I reside today. The absolute bleakness that is my medical condition has driven me to the point of banana-splithood. Coming out of the arthritis doctor and calling about having a weight loss surgery made me alternately angry and fearful. Many would say that one begets the other, but I am much more comfortable with separating the two states of being in that I have reactions to both that manifest both separately and in concert. Having the disease of addiction has let me know, through the gift of recovery, the path I will usually take in a given situation. Chief amongst the blemish’s exhibited though and by my psyche is obsession followed closely by compulsion. Each a bothersome symptom of a greater malady while at the same time being, in and of themselves, devastating. Medicine can not give respite, and the patient direction I might seek from others on the road to recovery proves at its best irksome, and at its worst a major pain in the ass.

Going back to the desire to think great thoughts, I realized the events of the day made me strongly yearn for relief in the most unhealthy of manners. The first visit with the doctor treating my arthritis elicited a decision to go under the knife and receive bariatric assistance for the ever expanding universe that is my girth, and corpulence. I phoned my health care insurer who informed me that I would have to perform like a circus seal if I wish to have this drastic procedure. Weight loss programs, treatment from a psychologist, and several correspondences for various purveyors of the Hippocratic arts were among the actions that I must accomplish before they would pay the eighty percent payment which I have contractually engaged them to provide. The last smidgen of information they would require is an affidavit that I have ceased the annoying habit of increasing in size. I am perplexed with this last requirement. The entire purpose of having surgery of this sort is to cease the annoying habit of increasing my size. When am I supposed to be able to provide such enlightenment? Before or after my morbid obesity puts me in front of St Peter at the Pearly Gates?

Now before the naysayers begin, I will speak plainly to those who read this. I am not feeling sorry for myself. Any one who has followed this blog for a while has read the other posts where I have reported on the difficulties of my size. Some reading this will probably stop reading and not open this page any more when notified. The hindrances of my immensity come in more then one area. First, there are the physical realities of not being able to perform functions the more svelte of the population can execute with ease. Then there is the attitude of many of those selfsame svelte sons of bitches who will not want to listen to the whining of a fat man.

This is my problem; I am not the jolly old fat man, nor am I a shrinking violet where it comes to being told that I lack self control. I have a condition that can be treated, except the treatment is mired in bureaucracy and fiscal posturing on the part of a company that is denying me services that I pay them to provide. I am tired of living in a world where the color of my skin is protected by the constitution that I served to protect when I was a soldier, and the size of my body is not. It is not politically correct to allow fat people protection under the law. Not when the First Lady of the country has demonized being obese, and the rest of the drones who are fascinated by her follow suit.

Do not get me wrong. I am extremely impressed by the First lady for her intelligence and caring manner. I openly voiced my support for her husband and continue to, even when he screws up like he did when he fired the commanding general in Afghanistan for exercising his supposed right to free speech. (Although, I do recognize that a serving soldier gives up his constitutional right to speak his opinion freely when he takes his entrance oath)

What I really take exception to, is my own reaction to the events of this day. I discovered the difficulty with having this weight reducing procedure, and instantly went in search of the biggest banana split I could find. Not the healthiest thing to do would be the first protest coming from the sylphlike inhabitants of the world who believe that the fat man should shut up and go on a diet. Then again, I do not give a good rat’s ass what the skinny bastards think. I got hit with obsession right in the face, and I had to take action before the action turned into a compulsion. Thank God for my phone and my home group. (Those who don’t know what a home group is, can Google it) I did not get the banana split and I did not overeat at all as a result of my anger and frustration. I got mad. Yet another issue in my life that can do as much harm as the fifty pound banana split I desired can.

What is the answer? It was suggested to me that I write about my feelings. There is power in the pen (Keyboard?) my brothers and sisters in recovery tell me. A friend told me that I might find the answer. Did I? Well for the love of Jesus, Mary, and holy St. Joseph, I do not know. If that piece of information was readily handy, then I wouldn’t be sitting at my keyboard at midnight cussing people out. Protesting the inequity I face as a person of girth (That sounds pretty sexy…Person of Girth…hmmm…perhaps I will start another blog) is what the muse in me has produced today. As much as I am a recovering person, I am, and shall always be, a writer. That is the purpose of this blog. To let the universe, and any other interested parties know that I am a wordsmith. I would like to do nothing else and regardless of whether I find fame and fortune as a scribe, or even make a living at it. I am a writer and this is what I wrote today. Peace

Irritation

Looking for something to write today, I came upon a juicy topic. Well, I don’t know as it is juicy as much as it just pisses me off. As many of you know, I am easily irked. Most of the time, I would rather be angry then happy. I find voice and muse in fury, and have made little excuse for it. Well, perhaps I am somewhat remorseful when my irritation leads to discomfiture or I succeed in acting like the south end of a northbound equine method of transportation.

Regardless, fuming is the call of the day, and I will lead the charge with fervor and attention to all that is just. The focus of this days annoyance is the government of the State of Arizona, and the horrible example of governance it displayed by passing the immigration debacle they call a bill.

The governor is incensed over the fact that the two top officials in the federal government have made statements against a law that is both prejudicial and most likely unconstitutional. Scheduled to take effect sometime this August, it has been the focal point of many news items and comments from a myriad of people for whom this law will never affect their personal life. (Unless it means that their groundskeeper or maid will get deported) The commentary, both fore and against this issue is at its best speculation, and that speculation has an ugly tilt to it. There seems to be those who feel that illegal immigration has become the very definition of evil in this country, and should be eradicated. The other side of the coin speaks to the discrimination and injustice that they believe will occur as a result of the enforcement of same decree. What makes me livid is the idea that with all the things we have to fret over, this issue has been demonized and blown way out of proportion.

We have real problems that deserve more of our attention. We are currently fighting TWO wars with no end in sight. I just experienced one of my former students being deployed to Iraq, and have seen pictures of another, in full combat gear, smiling as he gets ready to go out on patrol in Afghanistan. They have no issue with illegal immigration. They both know that we are a nation of immigrants and they are happy to serve the cause of ensuring that we remain a country of immigrants.

There is an oil spill that can be seen from space which is threatening the wildlife and livelihood of states that have already experienced massive catastrophes that they are still not recovered from. Who is going to clean it up? Well, a friend of mine went to the corner on the north side of my town to pick up a crew of Hispanic illegal aliens last week. Why you ask? Why to go and clean up the mess for an average of fifty dollars a day and room and board. I know people, good card carrying Americans, who are looking to make a bundle overcharging for their services just like they did when Katrina and Rita hit the same area. They are embarking on this grand adventure in their brand new pickups that they paid for in cash made from previous disasters.

We have children who are attempting to enroll in college who can not read. I have friend who is a professor at the largest community college in America who tells me that he has to write his course syllabuses on a sixth grade level so that everyone can understand the requirements of his class. I remember a professor of mine when I was a graduate student showing me a paper written by a fellow graduate student that wouldn’t pass in my eighth grade English class, and it was turned in for a senior level college course. He wanted me to work with the guy so that he could pass the class. That same student is now a PhD level administrator at a community college. I had a conversation with that administrator recently and listened while he complained about the immigration problem and how it will create a class of second class students in our educational system.

We live in a world where tens of thousands of children die every day from diseases we cured fifty years ago, and who can’t get treatment because it is not cost effective for pharmaceutical to give the medicine necessary out at an affordable rate. We live in a country that kills a half a million people every year with cigarettes, yet won’t allow terminal patients to legally end their lives in a dignified, merciful manner.

We refuse to accept a person’s right to live and love who they choose because it is a biblical abomination. At the same time we seem totally okay with ignoring the words of the chief biblical character who teaches that we should love each other, and that compassion is more important then governance.

We are screaming at the entire world to stay out of our country, while the rest of the world is desperately seeking to come to this country. Why? Is it because it is a land where a person can advance their station in life with hard work and determination, or is it because they think we are cool because we can bitch at the top of our lungs over how we can stop the influx of people into the country and not get arrested, beaten, or shot?

Arizona wants to stop, or seriously curtail people from coming to a country that used to belong to their ancestors that had been stolen by our ancestors. They want to use the same tactics that were used by countries we went to war with because they used those selfsame tactics. Went to war and lost American lives for the specific reason to stop the same type of behavior that Arizona wants to exhibit.
I say we put the people that wrote and passed this law into the same jail cells that they would send their enemies. Or better yet, deport them to the land of their ancestry.

Peace.

Misconstrued Approximation

What is counting but looking for the end? Searching for a topic for today’s ponderings discernment is the whim that has struck my fancy at this moment in time. It is a curious word. The thesaurus in Microsoft Word which is the short form, for me, of looking up a word says that it is judgment, acumen, discrimination, perspicacity, taste, shrewdness, and sensitivity. Curious in the range of words used as synonyms, and the thought that one must engage in order to glean the manner in which each of these words fit the description of the word. Certainly judgment is not a stretch in that it implies a choice, or decision as to quality.

Real dictionary has discernment as – “The act or process of exhibiting keen insight and good judgment.” Insight is a talent and natural in its application, regardless of any thought to the contrary. Insight is not a learned behavior, but a capacity for comprehension. It is an aptitude or ability to envisage that which others seek and search, and occurs naturally in those who possess it. But to what end? Do I want to be able to see the future? I am not capable of prestidigitation where it comes to my feelings, and a measure of ability to willfully separate the truth from fiction is something I have been alternately blessed or cursed with. I have had time when the obvious result of a situation appears disastrous and is, in fact thus. Other times I find myself quite merry over the discovery that my discernment of a situation is erroneous.

Acumen elicits an entire page in itself given the cacophony of seemingly differing synonyms that pop up when I hit Shift F7. For my purposes it means expertise. Again a conflict in that insight, the main symptom of discernment, is not a quantifiable quality. It just is. Acumen might also elicit thoughts of ability, and therein offers justification for the synonymonic response. Synonymonic being a word I just made up that I will be submitting for inclusion to Webster’s…as soon as I figure out what it means as opposed to how cool it sounded in that sentence.
On a side note, I have submitted a number of items for publication this last week that have yet to come to fruition and I am in need of said publishing if just to ease my trepidation as to my future as the next Great American Author. Ego is not necessarily synonymous conceit, in this case it covers a variety of sins; low self esteem, depression, or delusionary psychosis
.
I am writing this piece as a part of the daily writing I engage in and it’s original purpose, or title sentence is a function of what I seek in my daily writing which is seven hundred and fifty words. The style sheet for my daily writing taught that one should start every day by writing three pages in order to get the creative juices flowing. There were no instructions as to what that writing should be as long as it is written. Well, my handwriting is, as my father once declared (accurately I might add), “chicken scratch.” When I do hand write anything more then two or three lines I myself can not read the lexis of my efforts. As a teacher I know that a handwritten page, if properly spaced, contains approximately two hundred and fifty words.

Hence, when I sit at the keyboard and type that translates into one single spaced typewritten page. Each typewritten page contains forty lines. When I have no true inspiration I have a tendency to type random words until I reach a topic. Sometimes that works and other time it is an exercise in futility. When I do find myself in that horrid dwelling that holds no reasonable thought, I count lines. I spent the better part of an afternoon researching this quantity and discovering how that might be displayed on the screen before me. This is another example of the uselessness that is counting. Here I sit, or did sit trying to see something that would allow me to count lines and it was already a default setting on the software readily visible to me if I had but looked, with discernment, at the screen before me and not put my self into the trap that counting will place one in the literary arts. What cause can there be to count the words and lines of a truly inspired work of prose? Today, it was to the make it the end of the page. Hmmm…seven hundred and seventy two words. The end.

It’s Mommy’s Fault – The Popeye Encumbrance – Pt. 2

I wrote this piece the other day and thought that I should leave it on my hard drive. It has much to do with my recovery from the horrors of addiction, and I thought it might be an impediment to my pursuit of gainful employment in the writing field. As a part of my daily routine I write a page of just unrestricted prose. An exercise I have mentioned before and a great aid to the flow of my writing. I have recently begun this exercise again and have increased my daily word count dramatically. The last time I used this kind of task, I wrote two books for a total of 170,000 words in about eight months.

I added the piece to the page you are reading so that there can be some substance to what I write. I left it on that page and then did another today. Today’s piece had been performing double duty as it was intended to be posted. If you do not get bored and read the piece I post after this, you will find the reason I have offered this one.

Gobbledygook

Does anyone else see the futility of trying to be in the moment when the moment only lasts a moment? The moment is a valued commodity to me in that my participation in a Twelve Step Program teaches me the purpose of it. Unfortunately it does little to address the impatience that is a part of everyone who seeks aid and comfort through the ideals discovered by Bill Wilson and Dr. Bob. It is and always will be a stumbling block in the treatment of a disease that in reality denies description when thought of in the same circumstance as more popular maladies.
It is certainly not definable as the common cold is, and the treatment cannot be readily found in over the counter remedies. It is most assuredly as deadly as cancer, yet chemotherapy will avail one naught. There is little by way of description on treatment that may be considered universal. I find relief in the Twelve Steps where others find alternative methods to their panacea. I will admit to engaging in an arrogance of sorts in the therapy used to combat my disease, and that is only due to the fact in my life that the process I use employ has shown such positive results in my life. I discover answers to difficulties that range far outside of the scope of the symptoms that are the foremost indications that one has the disease of addiction.

Where it comes to obsessive and compulsive behavior there has no pill the physician can prescribe. As a matter of fact, a pill would probably just be another way to exhibit the very actions that brought one to seek treatment in the first place. There is no physical therapy for the fanatical need to destroy ones self, which can and does occur in the course of the disorder. Unfortunately, even with the most rigorous of effort in any treatment there are certain aspects that contribute to continued need for the healing strategies a person uses.

Impatience and the desire to look to the future for relief for today’s pain is an easy method of resisting that which is key to recovery. I find myself making plans for times in the future when I am fully aware of the fact that the future does not exist but as an abstraction in my mind. Tomorrow is not going to happen unless I live this moment, and then live this moment, and then live this moment…until it is tomorrow. I speak on this page many times of the desire, need, or dream of making a living as a writer of words. My desire is due to a poverty in me where it come to expressing myself. I can find the words on a page where in verbal pursuits they elude me. It is, I am aware, an annoyance to read this blog due to the prodigious use of large words, alliteration, rhymes, and abstract thinking. It is equally difficult for me to write in that my need to make a living at this trade has come as a result of poor decisions in earlier times. I am approaching the age of retirement and have not prepared myself in a manner where I can expect to live an adequate lifestyle. For whatever reason, I need to earn more and that is irritating in that I have to live this moment, and another moment, and another moment until that comes to pass. I have seen the way others have lived in retirement and it has frightened me.

I am and have tried to avoid following in my fathers footsteps in many ways. I didn’t know my father very well, and have some regret in that. He was a hard man to know and died when he was but a year older then I am now. I have almost all of the maladies he suffered when he died, and it brings fear to me when I think of the future.

There again, I resist the safety of the known for the angst of the future. My dream is anchored solely in the past. I remember that young boy who read his cousin’s comic books and was enraptured by the words and not the pictures. I cannot recall a time when I did not think in terms of the story, and how I could tell it.

This does not bode well for me in my pursuit of recovery, or, perhaps it does. One of the things I have found the most comfort in, as I attend meetings, and perform the tasks that are associated with a twelve step program, are the unique necessity of learning the same lessons over and over again. Some find it irritating, while I find comfort in it. It tells me that I am still alive. It tells me that the ability to remain teachable is a valued commodity. Those who are reading that are my brothers and sisters in recovery will recognize this well. Those who are not versed in the program might find it irksome to have to read this guy whine about his life.

The only answer I have for those who find fault with today’s tome is to retreat to earlier in this page and that is my arrogance. They do not charge me for this blog so I get to write what I want. You opened the e-mail notifying you that I had spewed words on the page again, so I get to write what I want. I recognized my need to work on my recovery first thing this morning and get double duty from my words, so I get to write what I want. I have gotten to live a few more moments on the way to that place that does not exist…the future, so I get to write what I want. And lastly, I get to share this with people I love, and some who I would like to love, so I get to write what I want. Peace.

It’s Mommy’s Fault – The Popeye Encumbrance

Surfing the web the other day, I stopped by this page to see if some person of import had deemed it germane to leave a comment on my most recent declarations. I found one which irritatingly enough was listed as anonymous, and caused some feeling in me demanding a reply. Given that it is an anonymous comment, reply comments do not create an automatic reply emails as a result of my riposte. It has given me some deeper thought in the ensuing days, hours, and minutes. It irked me and I feel need to expound on that irking.

The comment suggested that my recent post’s in this “It’s Mommy’s Fault” genre had been motivated by an article on a website where a woman enlightened the cyberverse on the affliction she called “Shopping Addiction.” I was of the belief that this malady had a twelve step program associated with it that deals with obsessive shopping. I returned to the cyberverse for insight as to this particular program. Wikipedia did not list it but did have thirty two others and six “programs partially patterned after Alcoholics Anonymous.” 12step.com did not have it, but suggested that there were over 50 distinct programs using the twelve steps. Another site claimed that there are thousands. I did find a “Shopaholics Anonymous” run by a lawyer with a whole slew of letters behind his name and the promise of relief, but no reference to any kind of steps. I retreated from this website because I got the feeling that at some point in the investigation I would have gotten to a page that would want me to enter a credit card number. So much for the investigation into the unrestrained and hysterical compulsion to spend money…it is a week before payday, and I think I need a meeting.

I put a stop to this pursuit as I found myself obsessing over the search and truly did not wish to bother my sponsor with this banal pursuit while he was in the middle of providing sustenance for his family. I did find the humor in it, however. One enlightening entry by way of a question on Answerbag.com – “How do I get over my addiction to chocolate chip cookie dough and strawberry cheesecake Ice Cream?” Really now. What kind of a sick son-of-a-b*tch would want to give up any kind of ice cream? (And so enters my Dear Sainted Mother)

The one piece of information that returned me to reality and the underlying principle for this page came, once more, from Answerbag.com. The question; “How many 12 Step group are there?” The answer; “Just 12 to many.”

Now let us get to the crux of the situation. The person commenting on my page implied that my inspiration came from, or was in reply to, some external stimulation garnered from some kind of nonsense analogous to that which you are currently reading. It made me think that my ramblings are not being taken seriously, or that I have little by way of imagination. The idea of such a shallow point of view on my prose could funnel into that most wondrous of places a fellow such as myself might find himself. That lonesome station along the train tracks of intelligent thought where one gets to be, wait, listen for it, IRATE .

Well, incensed, infuriated, or just plain mad will not do for the stream I am writing having to do with my Mother Dear. I liken many of my experiences to something that had creation in the lessons learned at that great woman’s skirt because it is what I am made of. I was sculpted by my experience and much of that I alternately blame, or regale you with originated from the groundwork laid by my Dear Sainted Mother in the chiseling of the persona that is T. Lloyd Reilly. Therein lays the rub. I do not try to be more or less then the way I happen to be at the moment. I could write for decades on the memories of my mother, but only do so as a means to and end. It is up to the reader to discover whatever that might be. “I am what I am and that’s all that I am” is my motto. I have played many roles in my life, and hope to have the opportunity to star as many more. Each day is a new discovery on this journey and a true thinking man does not have to plagiarize ideas.

When I speak of an addiction to shopping, I mean shopping at those fickle sisters that reside in my home town, Wal-Mart South, Wal-Mart Southeast, and Wal-Mart West. Ruminations on the world of the Sage from Bentonville exist for the purpose of giving location for the greater experience of circumnavigating the complex world we find ourselves in. I do not go to the mall because of the prices they charge. I do not buy groceries at other food chains because the same prices can be had at my Mercantile-Of-Choice, and I get to see more people and, thereby, find revelation and insight. I once met a Leprechaun in Wal-Mart, and I do not care if you believe me. I once met the woman of my dreams at a Wal-Mart, and it turned into a nightmare. I once met Jesus Christ in a Wal-Mart, and he told me to smile at all the children I meet in the world. I once met Popeye in the mirror in the restroom, and, given that I was taught how to properly shop, it was all Mommy’s fault.
Peace

It’s Mommy’s Fault…I Want Lobster!

Conversing with my Sweet Deifiúr this afternoon I found muse in me to, once more, regale the masses with words of wit and wisdom. This being the middle of the week, I am not accustomed to the luxury of losing myself to my thoughts and the page before you. I work most of the time, and it is good work, but it tends to dampen the mood for words. Once I arrive at that most sacred of places, the six or seven hundred square foot piece of the universe that I claim ownership over (well…okay…rent) it is about all I can do to just negotiate food and the evenings entertainment found within the electronic contrivance controlling the mysterious world of phantasmagoria made by Panasonic Corporation. To be inspired to write is a distinct gift this twentieth day of May.

I was speaking to my homegirl about something having to do with my financial condition, and how it might improve in the near future when she spouted “I want Lobster!” This term, being a standard gag between us, made me realize the absurdity of what was said. First illogicality, that I would soon be rich due to some reason I’ll remember as I write, and because she does not like to eat lobster.

Back in the ancient days of my secondary education there was this lassie who granted me the honor of her company at my Senior Prom. I do not remember her name, vaguely remember her face, and probably never will. The event was less then joyous for me, and I probably could have lived the rest of my life without recalling that infamous night, but for the hilarity of the situation. We went to the ball and did everything we were supposed to do; tangoed, fox-trotted, waltzed and rumbaed. We drank the spiked punch, smoked the appropriate amount of weed out back of the building, and went to a fancy restaurant afterwards. At the time, I had what had to of been the worst toothache and cold in history. I could not hold down the spiked punch, or the Pagan Pink Ripple Wine my buddy had in his back pocket. Had it not been for the cost incurred for the tuxedo and the wrist flower, I would have told the girl to stay home. I did not, and had a terrible time.

At the restaurant, an overpriced culinary mill with a South Sea motif my companion for the evening, not being the most cosmopolitan of ladies I had (or have) ever met, upon perusing the menu, asked me how much money I had brought with me. Thinking to impress her in the hopes of engaging in some rather physical extracurricular activity later in the evening, I proclaimed for all to know that I had “One Hundred Dollars!” Her swift reply came out as if from a bullhorn, “I WANT LOBSTER!!!

Now, the retelling of this incident at the family table that Sunday, elicited a cacophony of laughter, and a howling from my family pet that, quite honestly, I have never lived down. I long since have surrendered to the fact that it gives my Sweet Deifiúr joy to repeat this phrase, and that is more important then the irritation I feel when recollection of this event comes my way. I love my sibling with all my heart and soul, and I am more then happy to offer her some delight at the expense of letting me know that at the tender age of seventeen, I once made a poor choice in picking a dinner companion on what should have been a night to fondly remember.

The other point I make this evening is the “One Hundred Dollar!” thing. To the best of my aged and feeble mind, that Ben Franklin constituted my entire savings account, and delayed the purchase of a car which I desperately wanted more then the extracurricular activity I never got from that winsome lass with the mercenary appetite. As a matter of fact, it was several years later before I was able to purchase a vehicle that would allow me the Kerouacian delight of the open road. The idea of a hundred dollars has always been a pivotal amount of cash for me. An acquaintance of my once lamented the fact that we (himself and I) could not keep a “f___ng damn hundred dollars in our pocket. This turned out to be a universal truth in my life. I am, and do make many hundreds of dollars in the course of my business in the academic and literary discipline, but I spend most of my time without any more then twenty dollars to my name. “It’s Mommy’s fault.”

I have written of my acumen at shopping as learned at the skirt of my Dear Sainted Mother, and my affinity (addiction?) to the Bentonville, Arkansas based retail Goliath. I must go and spend money there. It is almost as if something calls to me in my sleep. I received payment for a piece of writing today, a massive sum of money…$38.53. My truck drove to Wal-Mart as if drawn by some cosmic magnet, and I proceeded to spend thirty three dollars of that money for items I already possessed but would have need eventually anyway. There were the toiletries that I needed, but had not run out of. There was a new book; well okay that is a necessity. And the gooey chocolate cake by that famous Food Channel chef with the big smile and the deep sexy southern accent who works with her two sons. (I have a cooking fork with her name on it that my sister probably paid too much for…spend more time in Wal-Mart, sweetheart, they cost half what they do in the mall, Mía) I did buy some groceries that I needed, but the gooey cake wasn’t one of them. Along the way, I noticed some comic books. They were/are EIGHT DOLLARS AND NINETY FIVE CENTS!!!!!!! On what strange planet did I land? When did superheroes start charging for their services?!?!?!? And here I sat with only five dollars left to my name!

I was left with only the true shopper’s mantra; I do not have a problem with shopping. I can stop anytime I want, I do not have a problem with shopping, I can stop anytime I want, I do not have a problem with shopping, I can stop anytime I want, I do not have a problem with shopping, I can stop anytime I want! It is not a problem in my life, It is not a problem in my life, It is not a problem in my life, It is not a problem in my life, It is not a problem in my life! So, now you know, and if you disagree, just remember…It’s Mommy’s Fault!

It’s Mommy’s fault!

“I enter the perambulator of maroon tint that serves as my current chariot and search for egress from the mystical empire of the Sage from Bentonville. As I embark on the next segment in my journey to enlightenment, I flip open my communicator to converse with the orbiting starship in search of transport out of an uncertain reality. The voice eliciting from the ethereal queries me as to what the difficulty might be.”

Okay, perhaps a bit haughty, or the beginning of a science fiction tale, this first paragraph has quenched my thirst for the copious use of a thesaurus that I normally engage in. Here is the real skinny. I am leaving Wal-Mart and decide to call my sweet Deifiúr to complain about the events of the previous hour. I have given up the proverbial ghost and finally surrendered to the inevitable. I bought a day of the week pill dispenser. Final proof and absolute solidification of my senior citizenship, this episode produced a need to complain, once more, about my encroaching senility. The flip open communicator was my cell phone and the orbiting starship is the reality my Deifiúr and I live in…My Dear Sainted Mother.

I have this idea of composing a series of commentaries on the massive influence this woman has in my life. Perhaps a feminine version of the wildly popular Facebook phenomenon “Sh*t my Dad says.” Without, of course, any use of the “F” word. Not a totally original idea I realize, but my fingers aren’t doing anything else that is constructive at the moment. The memory of the conversation makes me smile, and, laugh out loud.

I dial the number (that ought to tell you how freaking old I am) and receive on the second ring the greeting my Deifiúr give all who call her place of business. I immediately inform her that I have finally and officially entered the realm of “senior-decrepitude-useless-senile-son-of-a-bitching-citizenship. She takes this in stride, as she has been listening to me complain on this issue for some time now, and replies, “What did you do…join AARP?” I inform her that my AARP membership occurred last month, and told her of the pill distributor for which she takes exception to my complaint in the face of her own use of said dispensing assistance.

In the course of the ensuing conversation we “speak of many things…”, as the Walrus says, and the subject of my romantic endeavors is broached. In the calendar year of 2009 I dated 15 different women. All of which I met at Wal-Mart. Being the champion of all things “T. Lloyd Reilly” she felt that this was a good thing. I remarked that it was not a good thing, and that it was, at best, a dismal failure. We spoke of several reasons why this might be before I informed her that it was my Dear Sainted Mother’s fault.

Growing up, my magnificent máthair had a talent that not many have. She consistently saw to our needs without the necessary financial backing. We lived good lives and did not want for anything we really needed. We were broke…not poor is what she taught us. Anyone who has seen the length and breadth of my girth can tell you that I never went to bed hungry. She was a master at the use of a grocery store. She could shop like no one I have ever met, and she taught this skill to her “Timmy.” Consequently, I also have conquered the mercantile realm and continue to live and eat well. Being of the advanced age that I am, and given the frugality of my upbringing, I search for deals on victuals. I use Wal-Mart because of its policy of matching any other advertised prices. I spend much time at said establishment. My Deifiúr spoke to me of her “quarterly” trip to said establishment and it makes me laugh. If I go three days without a trip to my MOC (“merchant of choice”) they feel a disturbance in the Force up in Bentonville. After four days I receive, by overnight I truly believe, a sale paper from a business that has no need of advertisement. Everyone knows that there are no better prices then Wal-Mart, so why advertise?

Well, in the course of my commerce, I have gotten into the habit of perusing the female patrons of my preferred commercial entity. I might be old, but I am not dead. The female form still has appeal, and the company of said forms is still of considerable interest to me. The shopping thing has been the avenue of admission into a number of interesting experiences outside of the business-related environs for this scribe. I lament the days of my misspent youth where there seemed a more noble method of charming the fairer sex. Who doesn’t miss the days of going to a bar to pick up a girl? It is in this chauvinistic mindset that my memory vengefully returns. I do not necessarily remember the romantic trysts as well as I retain information on the incalculable amount of times when I prayed at the porcelain God that if he helped me feel better…I would be a good boy for him. I never met Princess Grace in a bar, or if I did, she never went home with me. Why would I think that, almost forty years after my first attempt to elicit affection at the end of a Budweiser bottle, I would have any luck finding a lasting and meaningful relationship in the produce section of a behemoth grocery store I find myself assuredly as addicted to as any mind altering-mood changing substance? Do I need an intervention? Is there a twelve step group for people with my malady? Sex and Wal-Mart Lovers Anonymous?

I am already a staunch and passionate member of one twelve step fellowship and, as such, feel comfortable in this boorish humor. If I have offended any members of any twelve groups with this writing…call your freaking sponsor. I have a problem here and can only find relief in humor. Whose fault is this malady? Well, it is certainly not Wal-Mart’s. It would not do me any good to complain about the level of service I receive from the dating pool in their store. Not, that is, unless someone in Bentonville reads this and decides that a contract with Match.com would increase the bottom line, and starts placing dating kiosks in between the produce and the bakery.

Is it the women I meet? Well, I can’t lay any claim to being the catch of the century with my electric-cart-riding- senior citizen-acting, feeble attempts at being the Don Juan of the geriatric set. The best I can do is admitting to the obvious truth. I am an old Irish guy who is as full of shit as a Christmas turkey. That’s what my Dear Sainted Mother would and did say to me many times in my life. Being reasonably well read and having some acumen with the written word, I could attempt to cover it all up by claiming it is just a Bit O’ Blarney. Again, the honest truth is that I can not hide behind words, and my magnificent máthair wouldn’t want me to.

So where does that lead us at this juncture? I guess it is back to the place where I blame it all on my mother. If I were a normal bachelor, I could go to the grocery store and stock up on Banquet frozen dinners, microwaveable hot dogs, Oscar Meyer Lunchables, and Top Ramen noodles, , and of course, the occasional (look at the prices…even at Wal-Mart) t-bone or sirloin strip. While I eat all those foods, I do cook most of the time. If I cook, I must find deals because it is what my mother taught me. Any ancillary actions that occur as a result of this requirement to properly shop must be included in any blame I allocate to my dereliction and disillusionment. Assigning culpability for ones defects of character is central in the denial of personal responsibility.

Fortunately, I have surpassed that most particular of shortcomings. I blame my mother not for my inability to maintain a healthy relationship. I blame my mother for teaching me the kindness, respect, and loving manner that seems to attract women in grocery stores. Not a talent I really have anywhere else. I suppose it is better then going to the bar. I guess that it is better to then going to church to find a wife (OH MY GOD!!! DID I SAY WIFE!!!). One should seek God in holy places. I guess that the word blame is a misnomer of the worst kind. I really want to express the gratitude to my magnificent máthair for the gift of being able to be kind and loving. The blame lays with me for how little I seem to display those traits. Realistically I should look for girlfriends where everyone else seems to be finding them nowadays…Eharmony.com.

I love you Mommy. Peace

A Little Something

Up and at ‘em on a Sunday morning. It is Mother’s day, and I have a melancholy about me. My Dear Sainted Mother is with Jesus, and I have nothing to do today. I dashed about town yesterday attempting to finish my bi-monthly business only to find myself in the gigantic domain of the Sage from Bentonville. My bank rents space there and, being Saturday, was packed to the rafters with legions in search of those infamous Rollback prices on those items both necessary or unnecessary for the both the prolonging and nourishment of life. Riding my electric steed towards the pharmacy, I run into the gentleman who provides me with the chariots I use to do battle with life. He is holding a bouquet of roses and perusing a shelf with vases. We greet and I realized, in my single minded pursuit of goods and items that today was the day we celebrate the wondrous women who have given us vivacity and verve.

I woke to this reality this morn, and felt the need to honor my magnificent máthair. This usually gives muse to those words I regale the world with on this blog. I sat and put finger to key only to find little to write. I spoke to a friend last night who told me about having breakfast with his mother yesterday, and it brought sadness to my soul. I, being the Irish Catholic that I am, wanted to retreat into the guilt and shame we are so famous for. That does not accurately reflect my feelings this morning. I miss her, and I want to hold her and tell her I love her, but that is just the natural desire for someone who has lost a person from there life. I think what I really want to do is tell everyone about her. I did this once before and believe a reprinting is in order. There are those of you that have not heard of Helen Pearsall and anyone who knew her would tell you that your life is incomplete. That is the power of my mother. The world is not complete without her. So, ladies and gentlemen, I give you my mother:

All she ever wanted to be was somebody’s mother. Born in 1921 and raised during the Great Depression, she always just wanted to grow up and have kids. She waited while the world went insane and tried to destroy itself during WWII. She watched as her brothers and cousins and friends went off to fight and come home terribly damaged from the experience. She worked in a cigarette factory that supplied cigarettes to the troops and lost lose her job because they caught her throwing double handfuls of non-filter smokes to the hobos hanging around the railroad tracks outside the window where she worked. She married and had children, and married again and had some more children when the first marriage failed. She gave birth to two girls and two boys. Two died and two lived. The two that lived, were five years apart, and when her second husband left, the three of them grew up as a family. She taught the girl to care for her younger brother, and went to work at a hospital on the 11 to 7 shift so that she would be home when the kids came home from school. She met and formed a lifelong friendship with two small Italian women who embraced the Irish Catholic girl and her two fatherless children. All three women had a boy and a girl each, and the children thought of each other as brothers and sisters. When her two friends died, she fell easily into the mother position for the children of her friends.

She had two brothers and each had fought bravely and returned damaged from the war. She had two sisters-in-law that filled the role of sister for each other. When her oldest brother divorced, she kept his ex-wife in her heart as if the divorce had never happened. All three had been "Rosie the Riveters” in WWII, and all three worked hard to raised there children with love and understanding. That was probably the thing about this woman that anyone would remember the most…the love and understanding. Nobody came to her house and spent the night that they were not fed to the point of bursting, and received a hug and a kiss before they went to bed.

She never met a stranger. The family joke had always been that if she found herself stranded on a desert island, the monkeys would talk to her. She made friends just by walking in the door. Very few people ever responded to her by pulling away, and if someone did, that was usually a sign that that person probably was not anyone you wanted to know. She believed in her heart and soul that people were just people and everyone deserved to be loved. She taught her children this, much more by example than through instruction

She went to church on a regular basis and her third husband became a Knight of Columbus. She stayed active in church and adhered to the tenets of the religion. Dogma aside, she really just tried to live as her God taught. She was an Irish Roman Catholic from the day she was born, and never stopped. She said a rosary every day, and taught her children the same. Her daughter grew up to be just like her, and her son had a kindness to him that could only have come from her.

She had a knack for making friends. She would talk to people wherever she went and, make a friend. She always wanted to know about their family, and what they did for a living. She cared little for the external realities of life. You were a person to her. Long before it became politically correct to be open-minded and willing to accept people for who they were, she had friends that would never fit into society’s idea of social acceptability. The gay Janitor at the hospital she worked at in the 1950’s and 60’s became a fast friend. The nun who left the order to marry a neurotic ex-monk and have kids became life-long extended family members. Single mothers raising mentally challenged children always had a special place in her heart. The ex-wife of her second husbands adopted cousin, Joan, became her best friend when her friend Nancy died. The daughter of Nancy’s sister, Rae, became as a daughter to her, and her five children grandchildren.

She married a third time to a man that her children did not like, and stayed married to him for the rest of his life. He was not an easy man to live with, but everyone should have someone to love him or her. He was an extremely fortunate man in the person who loved him. He accepted her children as his, and the result was two decent, caring people.

She worked many different jobs in her life. Her two friends and she would assemble mechanical pencils at home. There were bags of parts and wooden boards to stack them in for the assembly all over the house. She and all the children of her and her friends were put to work helping. When school was not in session, there was always the trip to the pencil factory to deliver their weekly work. It became a field trip of sorts. On the return trip they would always stop at MacDonald’s for lunch. One time, sitting in the front seat, Aunt Nancy poured a soda on her lap when asked what time it was. She just looked at her watch and did not realize that the soda cup was in her hand, drenching herself in Coca Cola. They laughed the rest of the day. To this day, it is still a favorite story in the family.

If there was a single thing that held the family together it had to be the stories. How they would go out and get Chinese food when the men went to North Carolina every year on business. Aunt Nancy’s husband did not allow Chinese food or pizza in the house. They would have to hide the garbage when he got back. When her son came home one day and told them that he had asked the nun at the catholic school he attended if his name was an Irish name, they all laughed uproariously. He had spent so much time staying at, and eating at, Aunt Nancy and Rae’s house, that he thought he was Italian in spite of the fact that his regular name was the most common Irish surname in the world. That story stayed with them forever. He was asked that question every birthday for the rest of his life.

There was a soft-serve ice cream chain indigenous to where they lived that served the best ice cream around. Whenever they got near one, she would always tap her chest with her fist and proclaim, “got a little heartburn” before pulling into the parking lot. She would drive whoever walked in to get the treats, especially her second husband, crazy by asking them “find out what the special flavor is.”

Cooking and eating was her gig. She always related any situation to eating. She had been raised during the Great Depression, and would not allow her refrigerator, freezer, or pantry to get too low on food. Holiday meals were grand events. Thanksgiving always meant huge turkey’s with her dressing and so many vegetables that it was near impossible to move around the table for fear of spilling something. Not that anything went to waste. If something fell on the floor all you had to do was “Kiss it up to God” and pop it in your mouth before the germs took a hold. Lot’s of potatoes and cabbage to honor the fact that she, and her brood, were Irish. Italian pasta was served a couple of nights a week to give homage to her dear friends of Italian lineage. At every big meal with guests every one would be admonished for not having eaten enough in spite of being full to the point of bursting. In all situations, food was the answer. Comfort food had an entirely different meaning in her house. It meant eating to the point of discomfort. “Thank God for that little bite, that many a man would call a meal” was the mantra after every repast. It was a favorite memory of one of her Aunt’s.

She worked in the maternity ward of a Catholic hospital. She met and became fast friends with everyone. She would baptize the babies she cared for regardless of their nationality or family religion. “Their goes another good Catholic” she would say. It was not that she thought other religions were wrong, it was just her way of keeping the children safe and loved. God knew what he wanted from people, and she felt that it was her duty to help him. She made friends with the doctors and nurses and they became part of the family. She introduced one girl to Aunt Nancy’s son, and they married and stayed that way raising four kids and becoming grandparents. They brought the first grandchild to visit her, and she sat holding the baby singing the same songs she sang to her son and daughter when they were babies.

She faced adversity of some sort all her life. She kept it in its pace. She loved to move, and in some other life would have been a great explorer. She would have been perfect company for Marco Polo, or Lief Erickson, or Lewis and Clark. In truth, she probably would have made things a much easier for them in their journeys. The first thing she would do is make friends with the frightening natives they discovered, and put together a feast that would leave everyone too stuffed with food to argue or fight. In reality, if she were on those noble expeditions into the unknown, history would ultimately record them as Helen’s Expedition, and the principle players would take a back seat to the force of nature who always asked everyone she met if she could give them “a little something.”

When faced with life, good or bad, she beat it back with an apron, a stovetop full of pots, and an oven full of massive hunks of meat.


When she could not pay the bills because she made less than it cost her and the kids to live, she fed and clothed her kids before paying the rent, and somehow things got taken care of. When her daughter came to her to tell her she was getting a divorce the same month the wedding bill had finally been paid off, her reply was “don’t worry about it dear, it was a good party.” When she rode in the car with her son and someone raced passed them, her comment was, “go ahead, you son of a bitch, hell ain’t half full.”

She is everywhere in my life, in the grocery store buying Ragu spaghetti sauce, in a woman sitting in the park singing to her infant child, in the eyes of a woman at work that sits at lunch and says a rosary and in the Corning ware I use to cook meatloaf. I looked in my refrigerator the other day, and remembered the recipe for “Ann Mack Casserole.” All I need is some cheese and I can make it tonight. It will not be hers, but it can live on. I get this vision of her placing it on a table and answering the front door. Standing there is Jesus and His Mother. She gives them a big hug and says, “Come, have a little something.”

Noir

Searching the book rack at a nearby satellite location of the giant merchant chain founded by the Retail Sage from Bentonville I discovered a disturbing notion. The world has gone dark. Given my love for the written word, I never pass a collection of written material that I do not stop and peruse the offerings. This is what I term an “Artist Date.” I first began this pastime as a part of a writing curriculum I participate in that has been most beneficial in my pursuit of fame and fortune as an outlet of written insight or, depending on the given moment, gobbledygook.

It has taken me many places, this distraction, and I find much comfort in it. I will admit that I probably would do better if I chased literature at an actual book store, but I find myself miserly in the dispersal of funds as well as lazy. There are no electric carts available in Barnes and Noble to ride and I, in my advancing infirmity, do not stand or walk as well as in years gone by. Besides, it is spring and the advent of scantily clad members of the fairer sex abounds. I can chase more women at Wal-Mart with the least amount of rejection or effort. Not that there is hope in me of catching anything, I have been, woefully, outdistanced by the fairer sex for many years now.

Disgusting chauvinism aside, I noticed a trend in the literature available that disturbed me greatly. The cosmos has apparently been taken hostage by legions of vampires and zombies. There is also a multitude of diabolical schemes and conspiracies being perpetrated on the One True Church by secret societies and cabals wishing to enslave or enchain the true believers of Jesus Christ. Volume upon volume of demonic conspiracies, founded in ancient writings or eliciting from practices of all sorts of arcane organizations have engulfed the literary world as well as the cinematic arts. I peruse the DVD racks as well as the book shelves only to find gritty, gruesome, and gory tales that adulate the horrific, and idolize the shedding of blood.

The books my students revere all have dark tones to there narratives. We recently took a field trip to that bastion of literature with no electric conveyances for the purpose of increasing our school library. Books on the military arts and the treatises on the art of war (not Sun Tsu) now fill our shelves. During a recent absence of mine these young future captains of industry were shown an end-of-times film that is currently popular. It was apparently not possible for them to view the film in its entirety, and they wanted me to show them the remainder of the movie. I did not have it as it was a rental that had to be returned, and received much derision from the future members of Time magazines list of the top 100 most influential people. I fielded numerous questions on the authenticity of the prediction that gave foundation to the script of the teleplay. When I attempted to teach a lesson on historical predictors of the future (Nostradamus, et al) I received even more scorn for my efforts. I finally had to plead ignorance of said matters and move on to the much maligned scheduled lesson on Earth Day.

I can not fully scorn this trend, it is a fact that the well read instigator of this blog had his foundation in comic books. So much so that he suffered a broken wrist one time while attempting to practice the art of flying because his cousin had informed him that he would grow up to be Superman. I recognize the draw of fantasy, and revel in the imagination of the young. I do take umbrage with the content. In my time villains were much more intelligent. Lex Luthor (not the charlatan that is portrayed on “Smallvile”) had vast intelligence. Criminal masterminds actually had minds. I yearn for the diabolical ingenuity of Doctor Moriarty, or the alliterative capabilities of the Riddler.

I seek the mesmeric abilities of Count Dracula and not the pseudo intellectual claptrap that speaks of differing powers and abilities then that envisaged by that Irish dramatist of much import, Bram Stoker. Twilight be dammed! Give me Igor or Van Helsing any day. Body snatching and a good old fashioned stake in the heart in place of the walking dead going to algebra class is what the true nature of a horror story should be.

My preferences aside, it is a curiosity of where this proclivity for the Dark Side comes from. My kids are not of an age where they could appreciate the nuances of the dynamic between Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, or the universally HOT (particularly in the slave outfit) Princess Leia. Bela Legosi is just two strange words that no one knows the meaning to, and entrance into the Fortress of Solitude was impossible unless you could perambulate your way around the huge freaking key.
The lone venue I find in current fictional culture is those animated features that find their way to the Big Screen. Walt Disney is still alive, Pixar is amazing, and Shrek rules! Hope springs eternal! The salvation of mankind can be found in these gigantanormous cartoons.

This still does not give relief in my vexation with the publishing world. I find a great amount of women holding place on bestseller lists, and that is encouraging. The originators of bestseller lists seem to be open to narrowing the gender gap, or is it the content? I wonder if there are really that many police detectives, coroners, private investigators, F.B.I agents, C.I.A. operatives, or Navy S.E.A.L’s out there who are actually women. I wonder why the world has demonized the Muslim world in, well, both fiction and everywhere else. Maybe that is because believers of Allah have a tendency to be the guilty parties in many atrocities. What happened to demon bikers, where is La Cosa Nostra, and what of my beloved heritage…the IRA? Who is there to replaced the Knight in Slightly Tarnished Armor that John D. MacDonald detailed in his should-have-been-honored books. Where is the next generation of Steinbeck’s, Hemingway’s, or Pearl S. Buck’s? I wonder who laments the loss of Robert Heinlen? I wonder if there are answers for my questions, or if there is anyone reading who has the first idea of what I write?

Perhaps it is that yearning for things past feels nostalgic and comfortable, or a need to move my fingers across the keys, but I do believe that I can get past the umbrage I take with today’s genre noir. Or maybe it is the hope that some one will heed the message that I send today and want to publish that amazing fiction locked deep in the vault of my desktop computer. Hope does spring eternal, as does the alternative which is certainly just around the corner…in the cast they select for the next installment of the Twilight series.
Peace

Ephemerality

I experienced a most somber moment this week. I arranged for my own funeral. I have no diagnoses requiring said action. There exists no expectation, or epistemological evidence, or even any factual elucidation informing me that I will be departing this mortal coil in the foreseeable future. I simply took some direction from God, and got about the business of dealing with the inevitable. I glanced into bathroom mirror and, after asking God what his desire for the handsome visage staring out from the mystical realm that exists within all said devices, discovered the requisite impetus to begin the process of dealing with both the inevitable march of time and the certainty that my time in this reality is… impermanent

This perhaps might have been provoked by a rendezvous with yet another purveyor of Hippocratic dogma. Presence at the headquarters of a variety of aficionado’s within the jurisdiction of the curative arts has become a paramount concern in the preparation of my daily, weekly, monthly, and annual schedule of events. Long gone are the days when I could look out either the fore or aft egress of that bastion of banality which is my domicile and choose direction of travel based on the foolishness of the free, or the desire of the dimwitted. Engaging the motorized stallion I have possession of (not, unfortunately, ownership given the balance on loan agreement) to begin the process of imbibing massive amounts of fossil fuel cocktails is not the joy it once was. I have to do battle with the healthcare industry much too often for this scribes liking. Hence, the sovereignty of the open road is devalued by the brief jaunts to this healer or that medicine show maven. This is a particularly wretched state of affairs for a free thinker such as me to find himself in.

Once more digression abounds. Onward we must go to find the justification for this encyclical. In the midst of this seemingly depressing duty there came a jewel and a gift. One I wish to share with those who find themselves enraptured and held hostage to the ramblings of this tired old pain in the ass.
I met with an insurance salesman at a local eatery to negotiate the disposition of my mortal remains. It had been my intention to sit in a local café to conduct said business, only to find the establishment closed. At 3:00 PM. I live in a state that has but one star, and where the drinking of coffee at a café was a God given right in days gone by. I learned this after relocating from a more frigid environ located in the northeastern section of this great land of ours. 3:00 PM was coffee time down at the café much as 4:00 PM is tea time for those citizens of the empire that never experiences nightfall. I found myself at a self service pizza joint with particularly agonizing wooden seating that aggravated my recent (about an hour prior to this morbid meeting of the minds) diagnosis of Bursitis.

The gentleman I met was of a sort that is in a rather distinct minority within the world of legalized gaming that is the insurance industry. He travels to his clients instead of working over the phone or within cyberspace. A memory arises from my misspent youth of a gentleman that would come to my Dear Sainted Mother’s kitchen and drink coffee with her and collect the weekly or monthly premium on some sort of insurance. At least I think that was what he was doing. My sweet Deifiúr might correct that inconsistency in my memory, but probably not. She is content to let her kid brother enjoy his senility. Much as this gentleman before me is content to travel to his clients.

We conducted our commerce and, after many signatures and writing of checks, I was assured that my passing onto the Great Reward would not be a burden to my friends and family. We were concluding our trade and engaging in the small talk that people do when he asked me what I do for a living. This began a conversation on the merits of being employed in a profession that gives aid and comfort to our fellow man, and the great rewards we each have received. He then looked at me and asked if he could ask me a personal question. Here it comes I thought. “Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior?”

Fortunately he did not, given the color of my hair and the obvious display of orthopedic distress, call me “son.” He looked at me as a coiled rattlesnake peers at a threat. I answered in the appropriate manner. I do believe Jesus to be the originator and focus of my metaphysical well being. Probably not in an equivalent scope as the fine Christian gentleman before me does, but to the extent that it is His face I wish to encounter once St. Peter bestows upon me access to the wonders contained behind the Pearly Gates.

My beliefs exist in a different realm from the average, run-of-the-mill Christian. I am Roman Catholic due to the impossibility of ever escaping the One True Religion (I am, after all, as Irish as Patty’s pig). The state of that church and the monumental scandal it is now experiencing has created a situation that prevents me, mentally, spiritually, and moralistically from participation. I have studied the precepts of many religions, and spiritualities in a search for the One to believe in, and found Jesus Christ to be that One. I incorporate other rituals in my daily quest for enlightenment, and feel quite comfortable with my personal brand of theology. Part of this theological dogma I practice is the acceptance of the beliefs of others. This might be the influence of the Twelve Step program I am a passionate member of, or it is the lessons at my Dear Sainted Mother’s knee having to do with the equality of all beings. Wherever it comes from, I listen to others thoughts on God. Mother Dear always taught me to be a gentleman.

My compatriot in the business of my demise tells me of a part of the Old Testament that has helped him greatly. He gives me the reference and simply tells me that he repeats the prayer several times daily, and it gives him great peace. End of story. He did not invite me to dinner, or Sunday and Wednesday services at the church he attends. He simply gave me the prayer and sent me on my way. I will do the same for you, my faithful readers. 1 Chronicles 4:10.
Peace

Back in Black

Once upon a time there was this famous scribe who regaled the cosmos with wonderful words of wit, persuasive and pervasive prose, unparalleled political punditry, wisdom for the ages, and healthy doses of good old fashioned Irish Blarney. This scrivener of all that is noble and honorable has once again appeared out of this otherworldly domain to divert the attention of the masses. This originator of essays, this ink slinger of note, this purveyor of the seemingly mundane unpoetical, and rhymeless elucidation, enucleation, enunciation, exegesis, explication, and exposé returns to the page. Or, for lack of any more big words to use, this lazy assed little and known (but hopeful) dupe is back at the keyboard.

I have been absent before you since prior to the celebration of the birth of Our Lord. I have had time, but little muse. I have spent time in many pursuits of note. Gainful employment, research into the mysteries of the cyber world, waiting with baited breath to see if they were finally going to let Clark Kent fly this season, and attending to the realities of my disintegrating health.

I have delved into the possibility of becoming an amanuensisist in order to supplement my income. I have tried to locate some being with the proficiency and competence to take my words and translate them into numbers that can thus increase the “available balance” section of my bank account. My aptitude in the world of sales and marketing lacks the vim and vigor necessary to accomplish this task. In reality, I could not sell a thirsty man a drink of water if he possessed a pocketful of Benjamin’s. I also do not possess the patience to listen to those of a motivational demeanor who would tell me that it is within me to be everything I wish to be. Anthony Robbins, and Norman Vincent Peale have never been my heroes. My heroes have always taught me that I was sufficient in and of myself. They have also counseled me to know my limitations, like the one where I can’t sell shit.

I have asked those who I know that do, in fact, hold proficiency in convincing people to procure goods and services that might be of an intangible disposition. Like my propensity to use big words that might better be communicated with simpler language. They have declined almost to the man. My Sweet Deifiúr has offered to investigate this situation, and I have faith in my champion.

Alliteration aside, I wish to commune in all that is simple. The path to this gallant pursuit calls for me to continue exercising my fingers and my wit. It cries for me to do battle with the dragon that is my sloth and indifference. I have posted several pieces in the last few days and am just now finding the audacity to report as such. So, my faithful followers, and those who stumble upon it in Etherspace, enjoy.

Cookies and Milk

I was listening to an inspirational speaker recently that spoke a great deal of the realm of spiritual principles. Spiritual being those ideals or beliefs that connect one to that which is holy, sacred, or divine to a person or group of persons. Principles being those matters in life that are important, central, essential or valuable to that same individual or faction of individuals. At least, this is the way I have come to understand the words making up the term "spiritual principle."

Any number of things can become important in life. Certainly the avenue one travels to earn a living to sustain life is a matter of great import. After that, much is left to the idiosyncratic in us all. This man I listened to felt strongly that a most important ideal was the spiritual principle of being nice. Not an easy feat to accomplish. The world today offers many opportunities for numerous levels of action and interaction. I see that all of it can be done with kindness.

What does it cost to practice this "matter of importance?" Nothing but a simple choice, and a hard choice at that...if the evidence before us is to be accepted. We spend every day in a world bereft of examples sufficient enough to allow the good feeling of kindness. It is a learned behavior. As children we are taught to be polite and nice. We then move out into the world and encounter that which is negative. Since my entrance into society, some fifty-plus years, I have seen atrocity, crime, murder, violence, and cruelty near everyday I maintain, or attempt to maintain vim and vigor. I have grown jaded and disappointed with the world. I want things to be the way they were when I attended kindergarten. Back then, life seemed easy. You said "yes sir", and held doors for ladies, and if you did these and a few other simple practices they gave you milk and cookies and let you take a nap in the afternoon. Life should be like milk and cookies. I know few people who do not like milk and cookies. Those who don't need to be given whatever it is they like. As long, that is, as it is not harmful to them or others.

It comes to me that kindness is the most simple of practices. I wish I did it more. It takes no inspiration and not much effort if your heart is in the right place. I left work yesterday and passed a young man walking down a highway with a gas can in his hand. I believe in the power of random acts of kindness and, as such, stopped and brought him to a gas station. Upon arrival back at his vehicle it would not start. The man had thanked me when he got in my car, telling me that both a police county constable and a state trooper had passed him without stopping. Now that he had no working vehicle, the constable showed up. As I sat waiting to see if the car would start the constable questioned me extensively. Only after explain that I was a school teacher and thus a "Decent" citizen did he leave me alone. He warned me of the danger of picking up strangers on the side of the road. I wondered when things got this way. I simply tried to be nice, and now I had come under suspicion for being kind. I waited until the constable warned the kid of leaving the car on the side of the road, and being a burden to the public. I then took the kid's mother down the road to get some help from her husband. She thanked me for going out of my way, and tried to pay me. I thought of the constable who actually was getting paid to help people and declined the remuneration.

I worried over the incident all the way back to town. I decided that the best thing I could do, if it happened again, was say "Yes sir" to whatever cop who thought threatening a downed motorist was the best way to help, and hold the door for the lady that actually needed the help. Then go home and give myself some cookies and milk...

The Drubbing

“Every government that exists — or ever existed, or ever will exist — is a kleptocracy…” L. Neil Smith

Okay I am pretty pissed. I am under the impression that I live in a compassionate, caring, and kind nation that genuinely care about mankind in its whole. Certainly there is ample evidence in the relief effort launched in the wake of the staggeringly horrific situation in Haiti. People and resources pouring into the country as fast as possible, celebrities writing songs, donating money, hosting concerts, and the 82nd Airborne on the ground with no intention to leave anytime soon. All of this is exactly what I knew in my soul would happen in the aftermath of the catastrophe. We are Americans. When there is trouble anywhere in the world, our citizens step up and make things better without regard to consequences.
My ire comes from an indignation over the fact that we are woefully and ignorantly incapable of providing the same for our own citizens in time of need.

To wit. Health care reform. To wit. Conducting the business of government. To wit. The unadulterated treason being perpetrated by the Republican faction within our government!

Once more they have shown themselves to be the bribe taking, deceitful, mendacious, duplicitous, double-dealing, fallacious, erroneous criminals that they are! I have much stronger language in my voluminous vocabulary but will refrain in the face of convention, and the fact that I have difficulty spelling some of my ancillary yet most applicable invectives.

Now I am not talking about those misguided (IMHO) citizens of this nation I still consider to be the panacea for the ills of the world who, in their ill-advised bliss, vote Republican. We have the right to be wrong at any given time, or the right to accuse other folks of being irrational. That is the beauty of this country. We have the equal ability to succeed or fail without the loss of our guaranteed rights and privileges…as do the policymakers of this most noble homeland.

I am speaking of those medicine show mavens who have sold their snake oil to the public and couched their sales pitch with a fabricated testimony on the glory of this wonderful nation. The ideals set forth by our Founding Fathers. Said iconoclasts that were instrumental in the development of this country had to originate it within the confines of what they knew to be true. In the 1700’s AIDS, Multiple Sclerosis, Alzheimer’s, schizophrenia, psychosis, neurosis, influenza, hepatitis, obsessive compulsive disorder, Ebola, ALS, Hodgkin’s, and irritable bowel syndrome did not exist as we know it. Well, these maladies and the other 111,000,000 referenced by Google probably did exist, but the treatment was significantly different. Back then healthcare was simple. If you were not able to fight an illness off at home, you called a doctor. If after using the state of the art technology at the time (leeches, bleeding) you did not get better, then you died. It was the same for the rich and the poor. You get sick beyond the skills and abilities of whatever healthcare provider comes available and what you received was (hopefully) a eulogy, and a faceful of dirt.

Today panaceas abound. We have cures for many disease, remedy for mental difficulties, surgery to completely restructure your inner and outer appearance, medication to ease the symptoms of everything from cancer to the most annoying disorder in the world…erectile dysfunction. What was once a simple truth, you get sick and either you get better or die, has now become a quagmire of HMO’s, PPO’s, experimental procedures, and cosmetic enhancement. Unfortunately in amongst of all this liposuction and medicinal therapy there are real illnesses that can be treated, if, that is, you can afford it. The Congress and Senate do not have to worry about this. Once elected, they receive the best of care, on the American people’s nickel. They have healthcare professionals on staff at the Capital building. They don’t even have to take a sick day if they don’t want it. All they have to do is walk down the hall and see a doctor. Right then, when they want it. When they are at home they can walk into any federal or military hospitable and show them their “I’m a congressman\Senator” badge, and a nurse instantly asks them if they would like a cup of coffee or a pillow while they wait. (Okay that might be an exaggeration…the coffee thing, that is)They also receive a salary that places new hires in the 33% tax bracket. Pretty good work if you can get it.

Criminal? Treason? He must be out of his ever-loving mind. Well in the first place, my mind is most definitely not of an ever loving disposition. To my detriment, I have not learned to love all men as my God instructs. I do not love people who hurt others intentionally. I do not love bigots. I do not love hypocrites, I do not love snake oil salesman that play with the wellbeing of people not fortunate enough to live a life as sheltered and nurturing as the congress and senate. I did not capitalize these last two words. This is not a simple grammatical error, it is intentional due to the fact that, given their actions, these organizations do not deserve special recognition. They deserve to be fired, and possibly imprisoned.

But how is that valid you might say. Well here it is. Every person chosen to serve in the congress or senate must take an oath. Here are the words to that oath;

“I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter: So help me God.”

These ignoble purveyors of spurious and blasphemous rhetoric swear these oaths, purportedly in the name of principled governance. Not to assert, insist, confirm, avow, announce, establish, verify, pronounce, acknowledge, uphold, encourage, or sustain anything, but to augment personal agenda’s that are long on speechifying and short on warrant. They have taken these undertaking with specific mental reservation and most certainly for the purpose of evasion. They exempt themselves from laws and regulations the American public must comply with. There is no true faith and allegiance to this country while they aggressively pursuing an obstructionist course of action for a serving President’s diagram for effective governance.

I went looking for the duties of the congress and found many words on what they are supposed to do, but little on what they are required to do. The Constitution give them powers to do much, all of which is administered by the Executive Branch except, that is, those things the congress decides to butt their noses in. The chief instruction given them in Article 1 Section 8 of the constitution is; “The Congress shall have power to lay and collect taxes, duties, imposts and excises, to pay the debts and provide for the common defense and general welfare of the United States; but all duties, imposts and excises shall be uniform throughout the United States…”

I ask you, how well are they looking after the general welfare of the millions of people without health care? People who work and pay taxes but cannot afford insurance. And how exactly are they providing for the general welfare when they take money from insurance companies in the guise of Lobbyists and actively work against healthcare reform. How loyal are they to their oath when most of their time in the House of Representatives is spent getting themselves re-elected with PAC and lobby funds? How is that not treason?

Criminal? I tried to find substantive evidence for the criminal actions of congress, but could not find any. Hmmm…

Perhaps a RICO investigation might be in order. The Mafia came tumbling down under this statute once there was evidence provided my informants, who were criminals who guilty and made deals to avoid prosecution. Where are the rats in congress? They are enjoying the largesse of those who elected them, and the protection of their positions. Crime is defined as: “an action or an instance of negligence that is deemed injurious to the public welfare or morals or to the interests of the state and that is legally prohibited.” Except that there is no legal prohibition for what they are doing. That might be because when the legislative branch and the executive branch create laws that hold restrictions to personal action of any sort add caveats to those selfsame laws that exclude them from compliance.

The logjam that is Washington cannot be in the best interest of or even associated with the public welfare. We have elected a group of individuals that, upon taking residence in the nation’s capital, seemingly forget that they were elected by the people, most of whom cannot afford healthcare. The absolute refusal of the Republican members of congress to work for the good of the people is criminal. Allowing people to suffer and possibly die for lack of proper health care is negligent and injurious to those members of the population without the resources to obtain said care. This is a violation of the law. Article 1Section 8 of the Constitution, which they swore to uphold, calls for the providing of the common defense and general welfare of the United States which is populated by many people whose welfare and defense from sickness is not being furnished.

So, they are acting in both a treasonous and criminal manner under the same part of the law, and we refuse to do anything about it. This is not just a Republican crime, it is a Democratic crime. First in that the Democrats have allowed it to happen. Next is the general cowardice of the same Democrats to stand up for what they are sworn to do. So we can add cowardice to the list of transgressions.

Except, that is, for the President. He is charging into the face of the enemy and refuses to back down. If JFK were writing “Profiles in Courage” today Obama would have a chapter. I will say that I am not pleased that he has had to surrender to some of the realities of Washington. I do applaud his determination in the face of adversity. He walked into the Oval Office and after the first photograph of him shaking some Republicans hand had to go to war on yet another front. Washington.

It has come to this. I have been writing this piece for about three months, and I am weary of the process. I keep charging off to research my points and watching the news for ammunition in my literary skirmish, and have grown somnolent and disenchanted. I will leave this battle to the noble warriors and reprehensible fiends we engage in battle. It is lunch time and I must take some medicine. Medicine paid for (mostly) by the prescription drug benefit of my healthcare insurance provider.

I will leave you with two quotes I garnered from the research for this paper;

“…The average age of the world’s greatest civilizations from the beginning of history, has been about 200 years. During those 200 years, these nations always progressed through the following sequence:
From Bondage to spiritual faith;
From spiritual faith to great courage;
From courage to liberty;
From liberty to abundance;
From abundance to complacency
From complacency to apathy;
From apathy to dependence;
From dependence back into bondage”
Alexander Tyler

I do not know, given my fatigue and lowering blood sugar, if bondage is inevitable, or that the bond holder might be Republican or Democrat. I do know that our greatest President (IMHO) had an answer for those who would pervert our country with treasonous, criminal, and cowardly actions;

“If you love wealth more than liberty, the tranquility of servitude better than the animating contest of freedom, depart from us in peace. We ask not your counsel nor your arms. Crouch down and lick the hand that feeds you. May your chains rest lightly upon you and may posterity forget that you were our countrymen.”
Samuel Adams, (1722-1803)

Deciding to Love or Hate: Which Will You Choose?

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. Well, at least that is how Shakespeare put it. I do not really know what there is to love and whether it is feasible to find something to love in this world. I do know that as a feeling, love is the most disturbing of emotions. It has no rhyme or reason to exist in humankind, yet it does. I read book upon book on the subject and stay in a quandary over what exactly this unsettling pursuit is supposed to be in my life.

I find it much simpler to hate. For some raison d’être there is much more of this most negative manifestation in all we do in this world. There is war, and crime, and abuse, and prejudice, and intolerance, and disdain for all that is kind and true. How can one see the need for tenderness in the face of callous disregard for the very humanness we all share? The answer is fully plain. We live in a society programmed to do instead of feel. As an emotion, hate always drives some manner of action, and deeds resulting are more interesting than those emerging out of benevolence and concern. Hate grows out of anger and anger grows out of indignation.

As imperfect organisms, we tend to embrace ideals familiar to us. In modern society our ideals are driven by external influence. We read a newspaper, or a magazine. We watch television. We watch television. We listen, read, perceive, and misinterpret, pretty much on a universal basis, that which is put before us. We have cable and satellite TV. We have hundred of channels to watch on numerous issues specifically designed to capture the attention of the viewing public. There are several levels of viewing possibilities. Local stations offer toned down language in programming to ensure a wholesome environment for our children, but only until nine or ten o'clock. Then the cable giants take over. There are horror movies, and martial arts movies, soft-core pornography, stand up comedy focusing on the vulgar and frighteningly graphic documentaries on the ills of society.

We teach our children with these mediums of expression. We have MTV and reality shows displaying abrasive, abusive, pornographic, and intensely misanthropic content. There are sound bites and imagery flashed at us in millisecond blasts negating the ability for anyone to make rational decisions as to there veracity. All we see is brought to us at the speed of light and we have little chance to discern true value, consequence, implication, or merit.

We glorify the negative in the guise of rugged and determined individuality. We have series that glorify the life of organized criminals, we have contests where people submit to disgusting and revolting behavior in order to achieve monetary or professional gain. We teach procreation to our children by allowing pornographic content to instruct our teenagers this vital and necessary process. We glorify the deviancy of society while negating the positive.

Where is the Love Channel? Where is the Values Channel? Where is the show that teaches us that it is okay to display affection for one another? Not anywhere readily found. What we do have are afternoon talk shows parading solutions to societal ills hosted by would be, wannabe mavens of collective reform whose real intention, in my opinion, is hawking their latest help-yourself-by-buying-my-book-or-attending-a-seminar-that-costs-more-than-most-of-you-can-afford.

I could keep this tirade going if it were not for the weariness I have over the negative side of human existence. I marvel at the propensity for self-destruction we have, and question my own motives in putting these words on paper. I do so because I live in a country that, at least idyllically, allows me to speak that which bothers me, and that which enriches me. I started to investigate love, and I regressed into the easier side of the issue. I seek the feeling by searching for the action. I do not know that love is necessarily a definable action. I know with hate, there is a manifestation for the feeling, and we flaunt it regularly. I do not know if we illustrate love as well as we should. I think that we believe that we must do something with our hate, and little time in contemplation of what we will do with our love. I think the difference might be that hate, in our practice, demands engagement while love just requires sensation.

Sensation occurs in humankind and does not have to be directly attributable to an outside influence. By this reasoning, the sensation of love needs no focal point and can be quite comforting. One can just love without reason and it can occur with little or no action. Hate requires a commitment to action in response to the sensory input of some perceived hostility or animosity toward something or someone. It entails work, and work is definitely an action. Love gives of itself, without much effort and is generous in what it gives. Hate takes all it can get its hands on, and is miserly in what it gives back. This, ostensibly, asks the question: do we seek generosity or parsimony? Generosity gets my vote.

Once more into the Breach, dear friends…

Whoa! Two days in a row I find enticement sufficient in me and a craving for the written word as I understand it. The Lord’s Day has been site and muse for much of the inanity that comes your way once I send the “Updated Blog” email. I suppose it might be a sort of opportunity to glorify my Maker, and steer clear of the banality that has become my primary means of entertainment. The shows I watch with fidelity are all on hiatus in anticipation of the birth of Our Lord, and my new DVR has not yet discovered the ambiance necessary to grasp my attentiveness in a manner consistent with my mental infirmity.

I woke this morn, for the second day in a row without the requisite level of throbbing discomfort issuing from my hip. I have had this wretchedness as a constant companion for about two years. The result of an indiscretion of my misspent youth, it has been announcing itself with regularity, here of late, in a vociferous pronouncement that in order for me to find relief, I must heed to a rather persistent and imagined call for replacement. My former practitioner of the Hippocratic arts shared that, given my girth, this drastic remedy is inevitable.

I have spent time in my life devoid of the ability to walk upright and on two legs. These periods of misery were the absolute characterization of hopelessness, despondency, and outright torture. I have an unreasonable fear of not being able to walk. It is the thing of nightmares, and I most probably aggravated my present condition by denying the need for treatment. The only concessions I have accepted is a handicap license plate, and the need to ride the electric carts provided at the retail marketplaces I trade at.

Of late, the weather has decided it would act as if it were bipolar and not taking any medication. The result is that I missed two days of work this week, and I spent most of those days, when I wasn’t simply hurting, screwing up the courage to go to the doctor. This session of distress forced the use of a cane (a recent surrendering on my part) and the realization that it would be quite possible for me to be a cripple in the near future. (I told you it was an unreasonable fear)

I ignored my hindrance and went to work. I was not exactly at the top of my game. I placed the cane in a place where all could see, in the hopes that it might prevent some sort of irritating comments. I did the best I could and cried at lunchtime due to the pain. I waited for all to be gone from the building before doing this.

My secretary/aide/daily savior and I had a discussion on an alternate form of treatment that might not be covered by insurance, and I went ahead and made an appointment. It was with a chiropractor. Eighteen years ago I engaged in this activity with disastrous result. It is particularly difficult to x-ray a person of my size, and the doctor attempted to treat me without actually knowing what damage I had done myself. The incident put me in the hospital, unable to walk, for four days. I had fallen out of bed, and could not get up. I did not have a telephone and was forced to crawl to the balcony of my apartment at the time and bellow for help. I rode to the hospital in an ambulance laying on a stiff piece of wood that aggravated my condition. I did not have insurance at the time, and the hospital wanted to turn me loose. It was only after threatening litigation that I was admitted.

I have nightmares about that episode, especially when I encounter serious bouts of agony. I do not take narcotic medication, which is the only effective pain relief, due to a dedication to preventing me from sinking back into the horror that is my life without the gift of Twelve Step recovery. This all sound rather dramatic, or so some would say, but it is real. Anyone who disputes it needs only to walk a mile in my shoes, or rather, the forty or fifty feet that I am currently restricted to without pain or assistance. No. Let the bastards try to walk a mile in my shoes and see if they don’t weep and wail. Whoa, time to turn a corner. I need not fall victim to my anger or depression this fine morning. Apologies.

Friday is a half day for my school, and my appointment loomed in front of me. I went to the cafeteria to eat lunch with my kids, and ventured off to the frightening rendezvous with destiny

Upon arrival, I remember thinking that it would be better if the man doctor saw me instead of the woman. It was a woman doctor who threatened my existence with surgical inevitability, and my dread began to grow when told I would be seen by “Dr. Shirley.” By the grace of the God of my understanding I found my large chauvinist derriere pleasantly rebuked. The nice lady who took my information graciously took hold of my hand and told me that it would be okay. I don’t know if she could sense my fear or not, all I know is that she treated me with a kindness I am not used to.
The doctor entered with a smile and earnestness which I found surprising. In person I am, due to my size and an almost constant frown attributed to my pain level, an intimidating person. She examined me and told me exactly what it was that hurt on my body. She assured me that it would be okay. I needed to be x-rayed and return Monday. I clarified my concerns and she quietly soothed my trepidation with reassuring words.

Her aide was also the Radiology tech who worked particularly hard to get the x-rays needed. It, as I expected, proved mostly useless. She, however, did not give up, even when I began to ask question that might be construed as doubting her abilities. I have had problems with x-ray techs not listening to me and producing unusable films. I desperately did not want to be argumentative with this sweet lady. I began to cry in the x-ray room. I tried to conceal this, and probably failed. I found myself despondent and despairing of any relief. I have been in this condition before and found it completely demoralizing. The tech softened her voice and placed her hand on my cheek, “don’t worry, we are going to help you today. You’ll feel like a million bucks when you leave here.”

The doctor came in and she, once more, comported herself with kindness and reassurance. She told me that I would have to be x-rayed on Monday by another tech that had vastly more experience and might possibly get a better view. The film already taken did reveal that she would be able to help me. They gave me a treatment of vibration and sent me on my way.

Standing up from the treatment, I found that the cane was no longer necessary.

I do not impress easily, and this stunned me. I left the office and drove away in a semi-stupor. I drove without destination. I found myself in a wholesale club riding the electric cart with no reason to even be there. I found some things to buy, and I looked at some things that I will never be able to afford (a sixty inch high def television to hook up and watch banal television shows that cost a sum equal to what I pay for rent for an entire year.) I paid for my purchases and rode by the concession stand only to discover that they served Nathan’s Hot Dogs. These are famous in my state of origin, New York, as being the best in the world. I categorically agree. I sat there consuming said ambrosia and wondered at the pleasantry this world can offer one. I went into the belly of the beast, and came out relieved and reassured. I found life to be better.

Leaving the place of banal dreams I noticed a kid I know. He is the eldest son of some dear friends of mine. He is a gentle, loving soul who is not bound by convention where it comes to his emotions. I called his name, “Jason!” He turned and looked at me, and immediately stopped what he was doing (helping a customer) and gave me a hug. I remember sitting in a hospital room where his father laid in distress and this kid informing me that “Real Men Hug!” It would not be an exaggeration to say that this child gave me exactly what I wanted for Christmas. As did the wonderful ladies I sought relief from. Certainly it helps that my pain has nearly abated, but to find ones true desire is a great and vast gift. I can feel sorry for myself in this world, and people will still treat me with love and dignity, regardless of my manner. I can still believe in the things I write of. But most of all, I find that even if my dread would come true, I will find the same as I did in my distress and relief this day. Love and dignity from my fellow man or woman.

Peace