Or at least it feels like it. Wait. I take that back. Just as I typed that, it suddenly did NOT feel like the end anymore. I think I was just experiencing some sort of blood sugar spike or deficit, maybe something to do with that Ritter Gold Edition bar I just polished off. I'm coming back. My vision has distilled to one clear image again and the palpitations have stopped. Does this mean I have to go back out in the shop and tinker again with these machines? Please God, NO.
So, the dating world at 40! What a bitter harvest it is. I suppose I can not rightly lay claim to any firsthand knowledge of this business, I have not actually gone on a date since I turned 40. I've had my head tucked in. I haven't even given it any real thought until just now. Today has been a time of rediscovery. Learning. There was a little panic about fifteen minutes ago, but that has passed. Isn't it the first or the end of the month? I think I have things to be panicked about. Surely I do. What was I just saying about dating, though? Bitter Harvest? NOOOOO.... It is 2011! This is the happy time! I am not dying! It is time to wrestle the truth out of some people though.
For example, do you ever sit there while I am talking and watch me, or think about me when you are away and wonder for just a moment : Is THIS it? In a good way? This could be the thing, the time and place you have been waiting for? I am that guy? Your Guy? Like, 'Hello FUTURE!'? Like, 'Let's go buy a house together and breed!' ? Like, 'This isn't so bad!' - ? Do you? Like, 'I can do this. I've done worse!' ?
I think things like that sometimes, but I am especially impulsive and romantic and sensitive and unrealistic and optimistic. I think I can do anything. I think I can fix anything. I feel like most problems are just a matter of perspective and minor adjustments. I feel that with a tiny bit of skewing, 'dialing in', we would be on the exact same frequency and thus able to understand each other. I think anything is possible.
I am trading days in for something else. Cells are dying, DNA strands breaking - BOTH helixes - and this is not good in the long run. Or, the lung Ron. Enron. Bon-Bon.
Today is my Tuesday. Sundays are my Tuesdays. ... Don't you HATE IT when people say things like that? Like, "Today is my Friday", and they are saying it on a day that is NOT Friday? What does that mean? Am I too critical? Mean-spirited? Just Jealous? I don't think so. Charlie Don't Surf.
My only friend, the end.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Caveat RE: THESE POSTS & my special-lovely-gifted helper
I welcome and cherish your thoughts and suggestions. Ideas. Comments. PLEASE GOD, WILL SOMEONE JUST SEND ME AN EMAIL ALREADY?? Do not make me fling myself off of the bridge in desperation. I'll do it.
RIGHT.
Thank you for your interest and patience, yours, Unclezak
Mad As A Hornet
AS far as I am concerned, she took everything away from me, and it does not matter that I did not actually possess any of these things already, they were as good as mine anyway. The house that felt like a home, warm meals, the kids, a garden, a comforting sense of fitting in somewhere and feeling needed... She saw it was within my grasp and she snatched the rug out from under me. She couldn't stand for me to be happy. Maybe she was afraid of being happy too? I don't know, and I don't care one whit any longer what she is or is not afraid of. She took my life! My future! It had a gleam and shine and it was as promising as the word 'tomorrow', and she flushed it down the toilet. She destroyed tomorrow for me, forever.
I am living now within a 'tomorrow', yes, but a different tomorrow. In this tomorrow I don't get to come home and take off my shoes and pick up my little junior whoosits and tickle it and make it laugh or toss it up into the air again and again as it squeals. There WILL be squealing in this tomorrow though, don't you worry about THAT. There's going to be squealing all right. And nylon restraints. And a video camera. That's what kind of tomorrow I'm talking about right now. I am going to rise up high and stretch myself out tall so I can fall that much further when the time comes to gett'er done. This is an inertial thing now, and I am in motion, SO CLEAR A PATH! Part of me has been neutralized, and this has narrowed my focus all the more. One less thing to distract me before I pull out my riding crop and give these subjects as well as this life a good hard series of whacks on the ass. Satisfying contact. The good wood. I am picking up the reigns. I am standing tall. I have goals. The glass will rattle in the windowpanes when I am near!
Things happen fast around here when minds are made up. I've done it before. The odd-numbered years, remember? This one has started with as much determination and action as I have ever seen. I pull my head in to gather energy, like when you pull in close to the center of a merry-go-round to make it spin faster, before sliding out to the edge to leap off or hurl some object forth? Well, regardless of your knowledge about the laws of physics, know this: When I get quiet, things are about to start happening. I have to get quiet to collect my thoughts and energies. I have to focus. When I tear out of this thing in my new suit and draw down on my target, I will have momentum, people! It will be hard to stop me. That is, until the liquor kicks in eventually. Or the law. There will be contingency plans this time though, even if I go, my business will be completed. This is done before the bottle is ever cracked open. I have been learning new tricks.
Ask me about my book.
It was the middle of the day but gray mist still hung over everything like it was early morning still. The traffic passing by emerged forth out of the fog slowly like prehistoric fish rising up out from some cold depth, headlights like pale eyes visible for a moment first before the dark forms took shape behind them. I was walking beside the street against the flow of traffic, the money wadded up in my front pocket reminding me that everything was going to turn out okay, that the hard part was already over. I tried to look through the windshields at the people inside the cars passing me just feet away from me, but I could make out none through the foggy glass, or I was not trying hard enough. I had other things on my mind.
I am living now within a 'tomorrow', yes, but a different tomorrow. In this tomorrow I don't get to come home and take off my shoes and pick up my little junior whoosits and tickle it and make it laugh or toss it up into the air again and again as it squeals. There WILL be squealing in this tomorrow though, don't you worry about THAT. There's going to be squealing all right. And nylon restraints. And a video camera. That's what kind of tomorrow I'm talking about right now. I am going to rise up high and stretch myself out tall so I can fall that much further when the time comes to gett'er done. This is an inertial thing now, and I am in motion, SO CLEAR A PATH! Part of me has been neutralized, and this has narrowed my focus all the more. One less thing to distract me before I pull out my riding crop and give these subjects as well as this life a good hard series of whacks on the ass. Satisfying contact. The good wood. I am picking up the reigns. I am standing tall. I have goals. The glass will rattle in the windowpanes when I am near!
Things happen fast around here when minds are made up. I've done it before. The odd-numbered years, remember? This one has started with as much determination and action as I have ever seen. I pull my head in to gather energy, like when you pull in close to the center of a merry-go-round to make it spin faster, before sliding out to the edge to leap off or hurl some object forth? Well, regardless of your knowledge about the laws of physics, know this: When I get quiet, things are about to start happening. I have to get quiet to collect my thoughts and energies. I have to focus. When I tear out of this thing in my new suit and draw down on my target, I will have momentum, people! It will be hard to stop me. That is, until the liquor kicks in eventually. Or the law. There will be contingency plans this time though, even if I go, my business will be completed. This is done before the bottle is ever cracked open. I have been learning new tricks.
Ask me about my book.
It was the middle of the day but gray mist still hung over everything like it was early morning still. The traffic passing by emerged forth out of the fog slowly like prehistoric fish rising up out from some cold depth, headlights like pale eyes visible for a moment first before the dark forms took shape behind them. I was walking beside the street against the flow of traffic, the money wadded up in my front pocket reminding me that everything was going to turn out okay, that the hard part was already over. I tried to look through the windshields at the people inside the cars passing me just feet away from me, but I could make out none through the foggy glass, or I was not trying hard enough. I had other things on my mind.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Wet Blanket :
Leave it to a woman to rain on your parade. No kidding. It seems as if a man comes up with some idea, it is a woman's job to point out every possible flaw with that idea. Will they come up with their OWN IDEA? Well, NOOOooooo..... but leave it to the man to come up with some crazy idea like : "Hey, let's build a bridge across that river there", and his woman will be the first one to stand up and tell him all the reasons why it won't work, the 'what if's, the potential problems, how it may effect her adversely in the long run, so on and so forth until that man just ups and gets all quiet on her and has to go make that bridge in secret with some other man. The woman would be perfectly happy telling you she doesn't mind the way it is now, going the long way up around the mountain yonder and crossing where it is shallow, or 'Can't some OTHER man build that bridge? Why does it have to be you?' She'll ask. She may even try to tell you she doesn't want to cross the river at all.
But I promise you this: Once that bridge is up, she'll be putting on her Sunday Best and doing her hair and painting her face to get in line and go cross that bridge on the way to town now that it's there. She won't apologize for all the belly-aching she did while you were building that bridge neither. All those days she was whining about how you spend all your time at that bridge, that crazy project playing around all day in the river with those other bums. All the nights arguing about how you would rather be working on that bridge than being here in your own home where God wants you to be, with your family to look after. She'll just up and forget about all that and not mention it at all as she sits tall in your wagon and rides to town to do some trading, it taking only one hour now as opposed to the five it used to take going the long way around the mountain. She'll even brag to anyone who'll pretend to listen to her about how it was you, her husband, that done built that bridge. She'll sound proud when she talks to other folks, but she will refuse to share that enthusiasm with you for some reason that is impossible to reckon. The only comment you're likely to get about the result of your labor is to be told you painted the thing the wrong color.
Ladies are just like that, at least when they're your'n. If a lady is someone else's though, it is a different matter altogether. You can tell them the sky is blue and they get to giggling behind their hand and calling you a rascal and such, making you feel like you're the most charming dandy in town, and they'll do it right in front of their own husband to whom they have not said a kind word or flattered since who-knows-when. It's just how they are. And they call US the sneaky ones.
But I promise you this: Once that bridge is up, she'll be putting on her Sunday Best and doing her hair and painting her face to get in line and go cross that bridge on the way to town now that it's there. She won't apologize for all the belly-aching she did while you were building that bridge neither. All those days she was whining about how you spend all your time at that bridge, that crazy project playing around all day in the river with those other bums. All the nights arguing about how you would rather be working on that bridge than being here in your own home where God wants you to be, with your family to look after. She'll just up and forget about all that and not mention it at all as she sits tall in your wagon and rides to town to do some trading, it taking only one hour now as opposed to the five it used to take going the long way around the mountain. She'll even brag to anyone who'll pretend to listen to her about how it was you, her husband, that done built that bridge. She'll sound proud when she talks to other folks, but she will refuse to share that enthusiasm with you for some reason that is impossible to reckon. The only comment you're likely to get about the result of your labor is to be told you painted the thing the wrong color.
Ladies are just like that, at least when they're your'n. If a lady is someone else's though, it is a different matter altogether. You can tell them the sky is blue and they get to giggling behind their hand and calling you a rascal and such, making you feel like you're the most charming dandy in town, and they'll do it right in front of their own husband to whom they have not said a kind word or flattered since who-knows-when. It's just how they are. And they call US the sneaky ones.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Lester's Tomorrow:
Lester was awake for several seconds before he deliberately opened his eyes. He was having a dream just before, and something happened to wake him up, and it was something he did not enjoy. It was the dream. It was coming back to him now after he pulled the blanket up to his chin then stuffed his hands back down between his legs to keep them warm.
She was present in his dream as she so often was these days. They were at his parents' old house, a house he had not set foot in in over twenty years save for during his sleep, and during those times it felt just as familiar as it did when he used to call it Home. She was there in the kitchen and it was night or morning and he could not remember what had happened, but he felt humiliated by her again. Several of his friends were there too, he now remembered, and one was twirling her bra around on the end of his index finger in the air above her head while she giggled and tried to grab it from him. No one seemed to notice or care that Lester was standing right there in the room with them. He felt jealous about this bold flirting activity and wanted to say something, tell them to just stop it, or call her some nasty name, but he didn't want to spoil the gathering with his moodiness. When she tackled the other friend and straddled him laughing, fighting for her underclothes he knew that they had just slept together. He began to become more upset and started to say something to them, he began to make his protests known and as soon as he began to speak up they were all gone and he became aware that he was now conscious and staring at the insides of his eyelids.
He was furious now that to the insult of being cuckolded while he slept could be added the injury of waking up before he was good and ready. He didn't have to open his eyes and look at a clock to be able to tell it was early still. He could feel it in the cold air against his face, he could tell by the lack of traffic noises in the street outside. He kept his eyes closed and tried with all the powers he knew of to get back to sleep and get back inside that dream so he could give everyone a good shaking. In just a few seconds he knew he would not be able to do it, and in fact was quickly forgetting the plot to this newest episode of somnambulic degradation. By the time he had opened his eyes, he entirely disrememberd why he was feeling so humiliated in the first place. He lay there for a moment, and then pulled the blanket up to his chin before stuffing his hands back down between his legs to keep them warm. Blinking at the white textured ceiling, he began to recollect, and thereby relive the dream again in tiny fragments, his face wincing now and again involuntarily.
It was really cold outside of the blankets, and Lester felt really warm and comfortable mantled under them there on the couch like he was, but he didn't want to revisit this dream any longer. His mind had a way of torturing him with ugly unpleasant visions no matter how much he tried to think about other things, so he thought he would break that cycle this morning by getting up early and giving his tireless brain a rewarding task to perform by ordering it to make him some coffee. It worked.
In retrospect, and only after he had risen for very different reasons, did Lester remember that it was New Years Day. He would subsequently later tell people he had begun performing his new duties of resolution, of which rising earlier was one, but it would be a lie, if even only technically so. He knew that he was lying, but he really was going to start waking up at 6 anyway soon, go ahead and watch him and see if he doesn't do it again tomorrow!
Standing in his kitchen wearing a green sweatshirt over a black t-shirt over a white thermal top, some red boxer shorts and a disintegrating pair of flip-flops, every breath he exhaled made a little white cloud that floated away from his face and disappeared before the next one was released to chase after it.
'NOW!' he yelled out loud into the cold, and as if conjured by a magician's trick this word itself turned into one of those little white floating clouds looking not much different than all the rest. He tucked his hands into his armpits birdlike to keep them warm while he stood there like a fool watching the pot of water and waiting for it to boil.
She was present in his dream as she so often was these days. They were at his parents' old house, a house he had not set foot in in over twenty years save for during his sleep, and during those times it felt just as familiar as it did when he used to call it Home. She was there in the kitchen and it was night or morning and he could not remember what had happened, but he felt humiliated by her again. Several of his friends were there too, he now remembered, and one was twirling her bra around on the end of his index finger in the air above her head while she giggled and tried to grab it from him. No one seemed to notice or care that Lester was standing right there in the room with them. He felt jealous about this bold flirting activity and wanted to say something, tell them to just stop it, or call her some nasty name, but he didn't want to spoil the gathering with his moodiness. When she tackled the other friend and straddled him laughing, fighting for her underclothes he knew that they had just slept together. He began to become more upset and started to say something to them, he began to make his protests known and as soon as he began to speak up they were all gone and he became aware that he was now conscious and staring at the insides of his eyelids.
He was furious now that to the insult of being cuckolded while he slept could be added the injury of waking up before he was good and ready. He didn't have to open his eyes and look at a clock to be able to tell it was early still. He could feel it in the cold air against his face, he could tell by the lack of traffic noises in the street outside. He kept his eyes closed and tried with all the powers he knew of to get back to sleep and get back inside that dream so he could give everyone a good shaking. In just a few seconds he knew he would not be able to do it, and in fact was quickly forgetting the plot to this newest episode of somnambulic degradation. By the time he had opened his eyes, he entirely disrememberd why he was feeling so humiliated in the first place. He lay there for a moment, and then pulled the blanket up to his chin before stuffing his hands back down between his legs to keep them warm. Blinking at the white textured ceiling, he began to recollect, and thereby relive the dream again in tiny fragments, his face wincing now and again involuntarily.
It was really cold outside of the blankets, and Lester felt really warm and comfortable mantled under them there on the couch like he was, but he didn't want to revisit this dream any longer. His mind had a way of torturing him with ugly unpleasant visions no matter how much he tried to think about other things, so he thought he would break that cycle this morning by getting up early and giving his tireless brain a rewarding task to perform by ordering it to make him some coffee. It worked.
In retrospect, and only after he had risen for very different reasons, did Lester remember that it was New Years Day. He would subsequently later tell people he had begun performing his new duties of resolution, of which rising earlier was one, but it would be a lie, if even only technically so. He knew that he was lying, but he really was going to start waking up at 6 anyway soon, go ahead and watch him and see if he doesn't do it again tomorrow!
Standing in his kitchen wearing a green sweatshirt over a black t-shirt over a white thermal top, some red boxer shorts and a disintegrating pair of flip-flops, every breath he exhaled made a little white cloud that floated away from his face and disappeared before the next one was released to chase after it.
'NOW!' he yelled out loud into the cold, and as if conjured by a magician's trick this word itself turned into one of those little white floating clouds looking not much different than all the rest. He tucked his hands into his armpits birdlike to keep them warm while he stood there like a fool watching the pot of water and waiting for it to boil.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
