When leashes pull you Back

It's been more than a month since I've last written. Not writing is like walking the yard with a leash, no matter how far you get you're going to get pulled in back into the direction of where the leash is pulling you. So much like this leash, I can not stray too long without getting tugged backed to what you need to do.

For me, dreams, nightmares and night terrors take on a surreal approach as they get interrupted at some point becoming so blatantly odd that I know I'm dreaming and I need to wake up instead of enduring the campiness. To give some idea in how odd it has gotten for me the last four dreams, all in the same night was me being covered in hatching scorpion eggs and they all popped out singing, "Hello, my baby", one of my best friends being impaled by a large shard of glass at the throat while refusing the assistance of homophobes because "reasons", contemplating exploding the earth with a button as a small group of people argue the reasons to not do it (spoilers: Tacos save the day), and one dream that had me question everything as someone explained that I could not be part of her personal harem of nerd boys because she has no domain on me considering that I was poly at heart.

Yea....see......all that shit. Same response waking up...." I need to write fucking soon".

So once more, I am here dipping my toe into the pool of thought only to splash shallowly much like children do in puddles instead of plunging in and arching my head out of the water in a Fibonacci swirl of sexiness. I am a child of chaos and doing so would mostly satisfy my urge for extremes, but I must take heart and slowly acclimate to the waters instead of plopping in and shrieking from the surprising chill.

There is much to share and much to say and yet I know I will do no such thing. I want to confess much and yet I should know better to keep quiet on certain things. The reason for my pull from writing is because I was dealing with some heavy issues and it was the only thing I could write about and knowing that is the death of creativity I gave myself the time off to clear my mind and to cleanse my mental palette. And as much as I'd like to share, I can not without unearthing the things I've passed on and kept silent about. I know, very cowardly in some respects, but I have to remind you that I could only write about one thing and that almost made me give up completely. So, what is past is and I try to step forward with what I know now. What I can share.

I'm still struggling with things

I'm working through a lot of things on a weekly basis. Crazy Doc has me working through things that I've never contemplated. There is an emotional void that I had never noticed that in some ways explain why I can not understand certain nuances between people. I understand being told things and explained things, but I am not very deductive when it comes to hints and Reese's pieces trails. I'm too much inside my head and I already have some stated answers where I "know" or "know enough to negate" anything outside of blunt communication. So trying to understand how far this void comes in and how to find a reason to why it's there is something that I can not do on my own and I need the assistance of someone who can pull me out of things if I fall in. So far all I can do is acknowledge it and that is more than enough at the moment.

I don't know what I look like, bit I know how others see me.

I have some issues with mirrors and what I think I look like. There are times where I feel humongous and bulky, almost too large to hide and too obvious to blend in. I don't like this and it makes me feel threatened. It's the equivalent of having a spotlight on me. It makes me crave isolation and dark spots to brood until the feeling either goes by or someone drags me out of my self-imposed exile. Other moments, I feel small. Tiny, dainty, and delicate. Almost glasslike. I feel as if the harshness of a breeze will shatter me into pieces. As if just the right amount of attention will cause me to resonate and crack into dust. So between the two extremes, I try to see what I am and go from there. Not difficult when you don't have an honest idea of what you are and associate yourself with verbs rather than nouns. I'm trying.

I'm trying to do things I would not because there is nothing left in doing what I always do.

I'm trying to reach out. I'm trying to trust people. I'm trying to have patience with people instead of cutting them off early to protect myself. I'm trying to lower what defenses I have left even though they have been down for the past few months and I have been cowering emotionally for the hell storm to come. I'm pulling myself out of the edge of your sight to center while bracing myself for the worse. It seems that I can not endure ghosting any longer or at least until the next person rips me open and reminds me why I crawled myself into the edge of sight in the first place.

I'm trying to see myself as person rather than thing

This is the hardest of all considering that I am not people and have some great difficulty in believing myself to be people.

......

So yea, I guess you're caught up.

So yea.....that. Maybe I can get some decent sleep now.

I doubt it though.

1000 words, 40 minutes.

Keeping away from the Places in One's mind that Scare us all

Writing has always been an organic process for me, meaning that it has more of a flow of movement that I often times can't control even if I want to. For the past week, I've been staring at a blank screen wondering how I would begin to write with others attempts has been made well into a couple of paragraphs when I erase it all realizing that it's not something I want said. Not for the sake of censoring myself, if you know me well, I never censor myself even when people believe I should not say something. These are the moments when I usually cut to the fucking bone and get it out, but it's hard to cut through something when there is nothing to cut through.

The sentences that I know as much as I would know the faces of my children that are perfect sentences that would allow me to pour out everything that needs to be said happen in moments that I am not able to take advantage. The last time was between mile 3 and 4 into my run on Tuesday Morning. It was perfect and inviting and knowing that I was nowhere near any form of writing materials, much less capable of resembling human from a 5-month lapse in my running regiment. I would have placed it up there with the point where you know you are going to win and win big with any offense made mute by months of preparations and the awaiting arms of a lover with only a draped sheet separating us. Not joking. Those magnificent sentences are worth more than my weight in gold or what you'd find valuable. And to see those moments of great brilliance slip between my fingers are the equivalent of hold one's arms wide in giving some idea how large the fish was that got away.

Writing is difficult for me, something I have to be in the right mind or mood to flow without mental opposition. To connect the thoughts that I have been mulling over for longer times than most decide to choose a life-altering path in their future. If there is a more personal thing to me I would not know it. I have changed clothes in the open in front of many who either turned away or simply stared on and sharing my thoughts have always been more intimate than I could imagine. I've befuddled people who'd I shared a bed with only to have them declare me distant and cold when they could not pull the thoughts that I would sometimes chew on for some amount of time. Part of it is that I do not know I'm doing it and others have been simply too lost in the process that would have most consider my existence on the level of some cats who stare off to distances unknown only to lick themselves in a second with no continued exertion of mind.

I've before shared my thought process only to horrify and confuse many who do not realize that when I do have enough nerve to share my thoughts that it's usually to gain some insight to their reaction with a partial or even an impromptu thought experiment. A miserable few have ever been willing to give into the processes I endure daily. Most have to have that mental foot being slammed down, not even willing to entertain things that are disturbing and horrid, never knowing that they are proving my point and would have never considered anything outside of orthodoxy, almost as if they want to hide something bigger than they are willing to admit when I'm more than willing to expose my shame for some reflective insight that can assist in my train of thought. Never things that just get yucks from people like, "wanna fuck a dead body?" or stupid waste of effort in thought, but usually, attempts in placing myself in shoes of individuals that would have made other to cross themselves against figments of imagination when their own dogma does not require it.

I enjoy studying the edge. The place where most have crossed with enough pariah shame placed upon them while others would never go near for fear of it pulling them in and never allowing them to escape. I entertain the thoughts that people believe I have and the moments when words become useless and barbaric acts usually get justified in the end to redeem blood on hands. I subscribe to the Stephen King academy of villains being broken people who are pushed too far and usually are conditioned to being under the heels of monsters. I've met my fair share of family loving individuals who do share some tidbit of their process only to have it chill me to the bone. I've seen grandmothers justify rape as an act of beneficial gain for society. I've seen women condemn their own gender to toil when they have never had a callus. I've seen people who growl and foam at the mouth like rabid animals and wonder if they hold small children and tell them they are loved and protected. I've seen people laugh at some of the most horrifying things that can happen and thank their personal deity for it.

And I'm more than one willing to admit I have been among them and in some cases taken part. It's why I can not help to rethink and rethink the moments that I have been placed in those horrid moments without some inner conscious of telling me to leave as I do now. Most of my actions are often fueled by a guilt had in times of such ignorance that if I spend too long pondering I often times snap out of my thoughts with shock at tears shed. There is few moment of raw evil. The kind that children's tv always tell you exist. For the most, they are people who'd are more than human as must of us are, but somehow will debate you against another individuals or groups conceived humanity and how "they are not like us". Those words always chill. That strong assumption mistaken for law, revelation, or epiphany. Those thoughts that you'd shake your head and tell yourself that it could never be you. You are a good and kind person.

I question, what it would take. What would have to happen to cause you to be the nightmare you'd never want to have. Do you have to lose more or gain some? Would you need to be pushed or coerced even tempted? Would you have to have a way out or know that the one thing that keeps you a good person OR ELSE does not exist and that would naturally become your default setting? If the worst has happened to you would that be the justification? Is breathing justification? Is it by default justification? Would you feel this way 10 years ago? 10 later? Could there never be a moment where you'd simply snap or are simple people who do not share the seal of OKness that you project only susceptible? Are only the weak able to become such or do you have to reduce "good people" to such an inhuman state to be capable of said actions? Are some people simply made of shit or are they conditioned to be shit? These are only a few thoughts I ponder, especially when large groups act out in a way most are taken aback by and mockery is the only thing acceptable by small minds.

Perhaps I'm distant for a reason. Perhaps I'm just an ass. Maybe I have no idea what intimacy is or that my definition of it is something that would never be taken to the definition. I ask these questions now. Therapy is said to work, in which I can not believe, but most have said that there are most definable changes in my persona. I can't tell. I'm deep in and only attempting to find the hard questions I shy away from in hopes of not being trampled on by life once more. I know they exist if only because I am this way and I can not "openly be".

Sometimes I wish I had those perfect sentences like now. They would prevent me from digging up more things that pull me in ways that I'm told are harmful. I never noticed. Then again, I am in therapy and I am learning.

1409 words in 50 minutes.

Aversion to Adjectives and Acceptance in Amending them to Adverbs

I always have some difficulty when starting these out. Not for the fact that I do not have much to say, but I always fight a constant and nagging feeling that no one really cares what I'm writing about. I guess this is why I usually wait for the most interesting of moments to share, the kind of moments where I'm given advice from sex workers, climbing through windows, and having to hold someone's hair while they expel all that demon hooch that they have ingested in a guise of being absolutely fine. Oddly enough, with this writing exercise of getting to a minimum of 1000 words and learning to write frequently I"ve come to the point of not spinning a story that pulls people to attention, but more of the random thoughts that I usually share in small confidences only to hear them declare I should share things such as this.

This week is only halfway there has been odd in some way. Once more I'm going to spout a given that should be known that I am odd when it comes to social interactions and cues. I don't understand anyone hitting one me, complimenting me, or even going out of their way to speak to me. Not only do I carry this belief that I'm not worth the trouble, but I honestly believe that it's better that I am left alone. Considering all the work with Crazy Doc I've learned that I have in some way walled myself off from such interactions that do not place me in a position where I offer a service. I'm all too familiar that I see people who I do not know as someone who wants something from me and I want to keep that as blunt as possible. Ha.....if you're thinking that this was the advice from the sex worker, no it isn't. I wish it was, but no.

Yet every now and then new people do squeeze their way into my life even if I do my best to keep them at bay. As antisocial as I can be I can not hide that I have a good cluster of people after more than 10 years had held on and made sure that I could not shake them off, much like a dog with fleas. These people are valuable to me, more than others and oddly enough some friends made their worth more in pulling in people of greater value than themselves, not lying, who I trust more than anyone else. I've always worked with an almost militaristic, mafioso form of loyalty with those who were closest to me, a loyalty that I had in the past had to end if only to survive. I'm not one to shy away from a me standoff for a greater principle of friendship, but I have a strong sense of dying stupidly that keeps me from making my last stand over things that I find so frivolous.

Yea, that's over.

And yet, I am amazed at people and the confidences they have with me. In this week, people close to me have puzzled me with things that I have difficulty in seeing myself. I don't have an image of what I am that I've been told is healthy. It's a mixture of a huge monster with a loud roar and bravado to make most cower, even when I'm simply trying to lay low. The other extreme I'm small and unseen. I'm hidden and I slip through crowds of people, even when surrounded by my companions. A survival reflex where large crowds are simply a dangerous thing if only an ingrained instinct gained from the One Time and people who see me as a threat in their mind built up by people who'd would shoot me on sight. Not healthy. It's why I"m always on the defense and move. I don't enjoy parties or festivities and if I do, someone has to make me comfortable enough that only alcohol has gotten me in the past.

I guess it's why I enjoy house sitting. I get to uproot what weak roots I have and pretend to be someone else. It can also be why I always give another name when asked for one that does not demand personal information, think coffee, although I'd sooner connect that I have issues with remembering names, numbers, and small important information that is not drilled into my head in practice. Yes, I have forgotten my own phone number and name. It's awkward, but then again I live in awkward, hence why I enjoy uprooting.

Being someone else, sitting in a cafe with the laptop out and simply trying to blending in, if not hide. I simply want to see if people will rally the townsfolk and light the torches to chase me out of town. Somehow I build up a persona with known places that may be attached to any legend and only with decades amount of time do people forget me. A small corner, warm coffee, and time alone to people watch helps me build up enough of an immunity to being outside and is needed, yet without it, I at times forget how to go outside and would rather remain in one place and stagnant.

And yet people close to me shock me at times. They want my time. With them. Sharing time and a moment, usually with food without asking me for some great task that I'm always used to. Sometimes they just want me near and I am almost bothered with this. I don't understand people not wanting me in a role, or in a position, or even doing something. To have people accept you as you is a hard idea for me. People who can put me at ease is already hard enough, but then asking for nothing in return can seriously fuck my head. It confuses me. I'm used to being used, but used for me where is not being used? Why? Because of me? Then who am I?

Why me and who am I to you? That's the question that hurts me.

I don't know what people see in me and it's confusing as hell. Every now and then I get snippets from people who think I'm this or that and the adjectives puzzle me because they are usually connected with people with enough confidence to take advantage of those adjectives. I've been called the following, "buff", "sexy", "engaging", "entertaining", "life of the party", and even "amazing", not for the actions that I do, but in reference to the noun and I am that noun.

"That's sexy."

Um.....it's a push-up.....I can see that, but it really focuses on your core.

"That's Amazing"

Oh....this.....took a long time to work on and I had to work at it, but you can do this too.

"Lifting that makes you look buff."

Oh......huh, really? I just lift to lift the things to lift.....you know....like your couch.

"You're so funny. I love hearing your stories."

Yea.....they're hilarious now, but hey if you can learn something from them.

I can deal with that. But I as the noun? "You are _______."? That one is as confusing to me as string theory.

In truth, my work has been trying to build up some sort of persona that isn't ENFORCER or MUSCLE. Even REPLACEMENT. I don't really know what I bring to the table in truth and usually know that if you give me enough time I will master something, but before then I look as if I spout chaos. So.....yea.....just something that I'm trying to understand. That concept of accepting the adjective as a noun instead of making it an adverb. I can be THIS if you give me some time, but I don't think I AM THIS.

.......does any of this make any sense......because it doesn't to me....*Sigh*

1,309 words in 45 minutes.

Random writing practice on another Sunny morning before work

Another Monday morning in LA where you know that the clouds above will yield to another brilliant and sunny day. I was supposed to rain last week in which weak sprinkles here and there was great enough to ensure that I get the patio part of the building I work in, to myself out of fear of being wet. Not much of an issue for me, especially when I carry a dingy, yet clean towel to wipe up any rain drops from the black metal tables while others look almost amazed at my ability to use towel skills while other can not connect the dots of how I am able to sit in wet places.

Don't laugh too much, I've gone to tables soaked where someone was sitting at.

The sun is already bursting through, shining it's happy warmth on my face as I semi squint while writing this. People are arriving to work at their own pace as I continue to practice a craft that I am still not confident at as I tap away on the chrome book. There is a bit of SunTzu in my actions being here early, but also that traffic can be a nightmare and I do not do well to be on edge on the way to work. I'd rather have at least an hour minimum to buffer any delays to work such as this morning. The 105 was blocked and snail-paced while meeting the 405 and with a bit of maneuvering I'm able to get to where I need with only a minute of time lost.

With my bagel consumed and Chai warming my stomach, I stretch to find some topic of conversation that is my monolog. Somehow I always get great fiction ideas when falling asleep for a work day, but in my waking hours, I usually lean towards writing about what is and was. I still ponder if it means that I'm simply better at writing what comes to mind or if I can't hack fiction in any way. Not too worried, but something that does sit in the backseat of my mind as I contemplate my writing worth.

I made it practice with writing on work mornings while sitting out minorly watching people walk to the building and to Starbucks. It's a great distraction while exercising my introverted means of being social-ish.  I mean I am here in the morning and I am outside and I am watching people walk about, but I have headphones on and simply tapping away. I usually look for interesting moments, like that goth couple looking as if they left the matrix. Awesome outfits and bravado pouring out of them and worth the watch. I always wondered if I could just get up and walk with asking to go with them considering it looks a lot more interesting than sorting through paperwork and records requests.

Other times, I look to satisfy my 15% and 85% and in rare moments 100%. 15% moments are usually enjoyed with those who live too damn far from me and with a drink in hand as we engage, indulge and maul of fashion choices chosen by most women. Never cruel or used to hurt, a select few usually sit and marvel why such a magnificent outfit with glorious accessories was worked on when they decided to give up with the plainest choice of flats.  Other times we laugh at the patterns of either ughs, leggings, and summer dresses that the majority of those who simply decide to resemble each other. Very few times we are marveled by a choice in shoes or accessories where we raise out voices and praise them.

I rarely get those moments, but I do look in case it's seen so that I can share with friends too far away.

85% moments are also rare, but they're picking up. I don't usually hav3e moments where I gawk at women. It's stupid in some ways, as I can painfully remember those who even make a miniature mating ritual, read acting like a douche, to let said woman watch that she is and that she is going to be objectified with height chances of her anatomy spoken in ways most would describe produce. I've never seen a woman respond to said attention with, "why thank you, my succulent titties are suckable and I am quite complimented in the fact you'd like to release your DNA all upon them as I lick them up calling you daddy. " I know, a little too rough there, but I'm actually being gentle.

But I am in some sort of new puberty swing and I do look and force myself to look away if only to remove myself from any pool who'd look as stupid as mentioned before. Women are more akin to flowers to me at the moment. Beautiful to look upon and even a treat to smell if their fragrance is strong enough to catch my attention, but best left alone at the moment. I'm not ok yet and I'd rather not complicate my attempts of getting better as of yet with having to focus on someone else.

100% moments are awesome. It causes my mind to shut down and simply take in the moment. Having my mind attempt to communicate and create thought while one side is in awe with how stunning the woman is while the other wants to scream out how great her outfit is.

Like now........damn!

Woman in silver heels the color of her dyed hair in black leggings and a short cardigan hugging a figure that either was blessed by the gods or created from days worth of hours of work until persona and figure meld into art.

Damn, I have to share that one with a friend.

Not much to write really. I'm mentally ok at least until Tuesday afternoon and I'm not really chewing on anything in particular that I want to share, yet I do have to practice, no?

Peace and love.

1, 000 words at 35 minutes.

Looping Elton as one would poke Lions with sticks

I'm not one to wrap myself in nostalgia. It doesn't affect me the way it does others considering mine is usually spiked with some PTSD. It probably why I don't dwell on it for too long. I'm not going to compare it to heroin, but it's that one thing that you wonder how someone can do something to themselves and taking any walk into the past, even happier moments usually calls to some deep need to medicate and numb myself to at least sleep long enough. It's why I never was afraid of sleeping pills and hard liquor to get the job right when my own mind can do so much worse.

At the moment, I think I want the strongest amount of alcohol possible. If I had my pain killer bottle I would swallow at least 5 of various colors and sizes to kill that feeling I now associate with having my heart being ripped apart from the inside. Elton has that hold on me, specifically, Someone save my Life with Goodbye Yellow Brick Road at a close second. Something about Elton that just stabs so deeply inside me that reduces me into a wreck. I'm not showing any outside emotion. My survival instinct will never do that, but I am so close to simply sleeping with the bottle.  I want to medicate badly, but I know better now. I have that secure knowledge where if I ever give into it again I will not come out. It's a death sentence that I happened to dance around, but now being somewhat functional without my ultimate armor, I can not help feel that something like this can put me down for good.

Elton.......Elton is that one seal.....of the worse hells that I have ever faced. That release where I can feel myself fall apart inside as an empty echo of terror radiate inside me. It's what remains of sadness, having it implode to a level that I walk with something that feels like a black hole. Elton gives me that strength to embrace suicidal tendencies and simply break down and then apart until I pull myself together to face another day of being made of stone. Elton says it all. What I can never say nor even reduce myself to; asking for help.

I would never die before I ask for help, but I would kill myself willingly with a smile on face then ask for it and Elton will serenade me gently. It's as if I ripped my own heart out than to have it rip itself and every now and then I have to hold it....to remember why I pulled it out.....why without it I can function. I have to hold it to remember why I got rid of it......and then crumble apart....like now.....

It was not a bad day. It was actually a good one, but.......a phantom ache echoes ever so gently that Elton soothes as any handful of opiates would....that peace of not opening one's eyes....and not caring you're gently crying yourself to sleep. I want that now and I know it. I want it now and knowing how much of a bastard I am I will only play Elton for the 8th time and ache.....instead of swallowing what will soothe me. I can't do that, my painful sobriety placed upon myself. This is my last challenge really. To feel pain.......and, not numb....wait.....

"...and there's one more beer and I don't hear you.......any .....more...."

That's the sound of giving up......that will be my last words.....it had been my last words only to wake up screaming on how I am cursed with my grandfather's fortune to evade death and almost shame it. It's my swan song....it's my easy exit.....sneaking out before I allow the shame to fall upon me....fall of the world finally crushing me and not having the strength to flip it off one more fucking time.....I am stubborn, you just never realized that it was what kept me alive all those years.

No memory is without pain....not for me. It spurned me to blaze ahead with nostalgia burning behind me as one would burn ships set for home to resolve to push forward with no reprieve. I hurt.....I'll admit that now. I have to with all the therapy I've had, I have to say I hurt.....I still do not know how it never killed me or how I never realized I die so long ago. Either way, I punish myself in a way and feel all of it......staying away from what numbs me.....no booze....no pills.....no physical pain to boost my endorphins.

Just feel fucking pain. I'm told it's the first step to healing and a grand certificate to prove life.....pain......ha ha.....I'll be ok....no......I don't know if I will be ok....I'll be alive tomorrow as I am now.....just reconnecting......what......repressed shit.....all the slings and arrows I've absorbed....I don't know....just.....ouch......I'd rather be physically hurt....I know how to heal that, much like the first bruises from a loved one in order to hide what they have done.

They're just scars...and I carry them all.....So....just feel it.......*sigh*

Yea......everything has that tinge of pain....never a happy moment.....never......

I'll be ok.....just wanted to document this.....share with you in my small pocket of time and space that I am not made of stone. I am not strong as steel. That I bleed......a lot and frequently......just where you can see it....It's why Elton say the things I can't say. Ever.......

..........going to sleep now....I will be fine, don't worry....when have I been not functional? I'll be there for you....promise....I will....just not now....not here.....

Now, I am broken and you can not reach me.....I lay broken, pained, and will let sleep take me......and you can't touch me.......ever.......as I want it.....ha ha....ha....ha....ha....as I want it....it's the only thing keeping me....*shrugs* I don't know any ....more.....getting better is either going to kill me or heal me, but it's going to do something.
Good night. Hold those you can and love. Remember those we lost and those you can not reach. ha ha.....listen to me good....I'm sleeping with myself tonight.....I think that's why I love to write....you can't stop me....you can't......reach me....you can't touch me....it's all too late....all of it....it happened and when you get to me....it's gone.....

".......safe in time"

I'll be ok tomorrow.....just wanted to show....I don't know....I'm not made of stone....I may not be human, but I am not stone.....

.....why couldn't I just drink again....oh yea.....ha ha.....healing....fun....

Surround yourself among those who inspire Fear and Awe

I'm in that limbo space where you're waiting for a friend to do an event and where you are simply keeping time until it happens. It's that point where you are watching all these different people warm up, talk and work out personal jitters before they go through routines that would amaze people who are not familiar with what's going on and others who are in the know would consider failures.

My friend loves freerunning and parkour. Something I wish I was able to get into 15 years ago despite my aversion to anything challenging gravity. It's quite amazing, but the muscles and reflexes I've built up scream contrary to everything being taught. A personal shame really, but I'm good with it to a certain degree. I'm with her significant other as we with sit in the stands waiting for her moment to test into another rank that still confuses me. It's awesome to watch her do all the things that seem to mock the concept of gravity, although her significant other does have issues with keeping her whole and safe.

I feel the same way, although I more than understand the need to defy things all too well.

It amazes me how people drive themselves to work at something. It's beautiful in open spaces as each person go through routines, movements, and actions demanding balance and a strong stomach. All of us have at least something that causes others to cringe or make uncalled declarations of "I could never do that" to somehow soothe our own damage sense of value and to slightly diminish anyone with a weaker resolve than most. None of this is my thing, but the drive and the focus are more than admirable.

Watching her prep and watch coaches ask her to "do the thing" is cryptic as we watch her make moves and motions not quite understood. How the mind is able to store explosive movements in an almost mundane list format in order to process the sequence is almost blasphemous. Everything people are doing is more than enough to pull away one's attention. Even "failed" flips are amazing as landing are made with a bit of corrective stumble rather than knife like swiftness. All of it is amazing in the classical sense rather than in the post-hipster movement of "meh-ing" words into bleak guttural snarkiness with limp impact. "Don't think", "just drive" and become the flow" is chanted among others and to personal spaces as each of them, my friend especially, silently, yet sternly correct themselves to against "stupid things". Once more, all of this to the layman is spectacular, but these people who drive for a perfection unknown are not pleased.

Human anatomy is really a delicate design as intricate and delicate processes finely tuned yet still efficiently inferior to a mechanical process always striving to perfect the form. All of it driven by thousand of years worth of striving and reaching towards something better and reinforced by random chance and beneficial mutations. All life push and drive towards an unseen goal that is rather felt, yet mostly driven by a reptilian mind that simply wants to eat and not be eaten. Given enough time and we have Jordan slamming baskets, Serena slamming rackets and everyone else in between looking over to personal challenges with a drive rather than a "hold ma beer".

Her movements are now inspected and analyzed with a precise eye and calculative thatI do not possess. As long as she doesn't fall and land "wrong" I'm more than content. Judges keep poker faces in place and perform her rituals as we look on with subconscious held breath. I steer my gaze towards louder movements as people fling themselves towards objects that have my instincts screaming while others peacefully observe and nod with smiles. This is heavy. I never had these moments of impotent observations outside of my tourney days where I would simply scream out key phrases that demand harder strikes and cunning tactics ingrained with hard pressured sparring matches. A child off to the side drops from a failed attempt at the bars and lands correctly enough to be safe, but loud enough to raise concern among parents. A tiny voice stating "I'm ok" is raised as other cheer.

My friend cuts the silence with an odd giggle, not attached to the moment I focus on. I turn back and watch her once more.

She launches herself toward obstacles, tucks under while flinging herself towards a wall that limits her progressions with only fingertips pressed against the lip of the top. Only soft "fucks" are emitted until one was enough to break the judges stone facade and emit a nod. Her significant other and I exchange looks and nervous laughs. We make promises to exorcise our anxiety on her afterward over treats. Once again, we have no idea what's going on, but hand slaps are shared and we wonder, "was that a good?"

I'd like to apologize to everyone I place in this position over the years. Sorry.

She climbs up high once more much further than before and tosses herself off stoops to lower stoops while still considerable high up and far off. I can not be more descriptive at the moment simply because it rubs on my crazy towards heights and probability or happenings due to heights. Once more giggles, nods, and hand slaps. Cheers erupt as a child attempts to flip over a bar as all of his companions and those near him offer encouragement. He drops successful and we all share a moment of human struggle that even I comprehend.

She returns to us for a sip of water as we relieve ourselves of all the moments and meanings and sounds that can not find the proper vocabulary. We all nod and we wait once more in limbo wondering when and how it will end. In a blink, another test taker blitzes through a barrage of obstacles and in 17 seconds, almost expelling the residue of movement with an impact to his face. Significant Other and I both agree that mouth guard if not bubbles must be given to prevent faces from being smooshed.

My friend finishes doing some flippy thing as we both gaze back and realize with disappointment and relief that we missed something exciting and nervewracking. I'd like to apologize once more to the people....sorry. Once more she flings herself towards another obstacle on the bars as she slips through a smaller space made by an upright mat and the bar she holds. Nods and giggles are shared. We are still holding our breaths.

Sorry.......

I know she'll do well. She's made of amazing and this is the process in which she tries herself. Always surround yourself with people made of awesome, once again original term used. The kind of awe that causes your breath to stop and hold in your throat. That kind of awe where you shake in wonderment that you witnessed something too huge to break down at the moment. People who inspire stories that make those not there spur themselves in envy and lost opportunity. Never be the most interesting person in the room, unless your ego is fragile and delicate. Do place yourself among the giants of your thoughts who dare confess challenges that would cause lesser individuals to be driven away by their own awkward self-imposed limitations to dwell in safe spaces of their constructions where mundane moments thrive as weeds. I will never do most of these things without the inspiration of chase from things more driven to bit than mine, but it does push me towards the remaining windmills I would never dare to forgo for excuse of age or injury.

Dare to be magnificent. Your failures only disturb cowards.

.......sorry once more.

Hour and 9 minutes, 1,301 words.

Dismantling the Machine: Living with a Dying Battery

I had a very busy and social day yesterday.

I write this from a silent house where the other people are upstairs and silent or at least silent as far as my youtube music for concentration and big ass headphones will let me hear. I can sense more the heavy tapping of my finger to keys instead of the tippy taps. I took the liberty to make a french press of coffee using the mystery grind to avoid more noise and find a place to keep myself busy. I brought along my Xbox to keep my occupied, but previously planned plans have a tendency to go meh when things are going well at the expense on how much social tolerance I have. Yet a great many things were accomplished as well as the fears and worries of people close to my heart have dissolved to hope and determination, so the price is well paid. And for more bang for the buck, the right people came out of the woodwork to meet my close heart people to so that potential ring flashers can meet and exchange secret signs, knowing nods and mention the right names to know that they are not alone and greater good can be accomplished. So everything has been done to make things happy and yay. My heart close people even have the option to return from far away exiles to areas close to palate and joy of civilization instead of being the people on the edge of civilization.

And yet, if I may complain for the moment, am exhausted. It was never this bad before, but then again I ended up usually sick and forced to take the time alone where emotional batteries can recharge and my tolerance for the world can be refilled. Everyone to see came about and it was great and all, but social interaction drains me. I can not explain this, especially when most people consider me social and an odd extrovert when in honesty I'd rather see individuals for limited time, small cozy places and with an option of walking out. I was reminded yesterday that I am odd. I always have been odd and chances are even with all the work I am putting in will remain odd. I have issues with control and not having it, social interactions that have to be formal and not on my will, and how people assume that I am normal when I need to leave time to time to take a breath in and to calm myself in order to move on. I use the oddity of my motives to sway minds to my side and to introduce what I call reality.

Most people if given the opportunity will go along and let me if only to discover something new and brilliant they have never seen considering they never had to make due socially or in any other way. I feel the anxiety build and my breathing shortens only to barrel through with adrenaline and that's when my oddity kicks in. Much like Howie and Robin, I have to change the dialogue so that I least can perceive that I can and I realize my minor freaking out is either seen as comedy or just being weird. Fuck it, I simply roll with it. It's a magnificent filter for many things as well as people who are unimaginative. It's as if you told someone they could not use their legs to travel and you start seeing them be all weird and kookie and laughs are had ha ha ha ha.....and then you realize people do this in crutches, wheelchairs and sometimes in ways that you tend to forget because you're busy being fucking normal to understand. What you often times consider odd is someone's everyday challenge and simply have to get over if they plan to do what is needed.

I don't do well in large groups of people. I don't do well with groups of people I do not know or even trust all that well. I do well with people who know me for at least a decade and realize that I can be odd, but if everyone becomes still and my fucking mind stops screaming, I can interact calmly and make sense instead of focusing on who is around me or what can happen if I am not vigilant. Alcohol helps immensely, but I can not be drunk all the time anymore and I would rather have a drink to myself to nurse and perhaps pour down the drain when I realize I don't want it or need it. I have a tendency to medicate with either caffeine or alcohol and I now look at what I enjoy with moderation with apprehension and worry that I don't want it or need it or even want it near me.  I'd like the idea of having A BEER or A DRINK, but I also love the fact that I don't have to drink it or even have one. That I can resolve my anxiety or simply sit with it as the jittery ADD-ish child that it is.



I drank to die. Not to kill myself, but to accept the fate I felt in my very being that will come about once I stopped being vigilant.

Therapy hasn't cured me. it only allowed me to sit still and see if the Jackels exist. It has given me agency to get up and state that I had enough socialization and I'm leaving, so that I may now be typecast as rude rather than odd and hyper. So "Auggie is SO crazy and bounces off the walls" becomes "Auggie is really withdrawn, sensitive, and carrying some heavy shit that prevents him from being among us, his closest companions, because he might go silent, relive a moment that nightmarishly brings up a moment of time that he can never escape and feel guilt and horror over it because he had no ability to prevent it, solve it, or even make the occurrences stop. Auggie has PTSD and he has it fucking bad. If it was milder he would burst into uncontrollable tears and weep until be lost all breath, as he did back then. Now he's simply emotionally distant that he resembles sociopaths, if not for his sense of being overly vigilant and protective of others. He is so far gone that he even wishes to become a sociopath and drop the tattered and ragged remains so that he can least be free of the PTSD moments. So that he can stop caring and he can perhaps exist as the machine he almost resembles. Instead, he's a machine that can not drink anymore. He sits in a room and the peppy Crazy Doc that he just wants to pat on her sweet head and kiss it endearingly while explaining it is a lost cause and she should help better people who have the chance of being flesh and blood. Go along now, sweetie. Heal those who can still feel.

Instead, the machine sits in his pocket of space and time and confesses all in hopes that it at least explains so much or help someone else. I promised myself after Russel passed that I would not let it take me without explanation. I will not let it take me without people knowing what I am going though so at least those around me know I fight daily and struggle with simply breaking even or minimizing my losses. I recharge a dying battery and moments when I am drained I look at the exchange ratio and if lucky, I realize that I got something for it. I made the lives of someone else better for something that is dying.

Friends are up. I have to pretend to be human.

1,497 words at 47 minutes.

Dismantling the Machine: Trust you as far as I can throw you

I can honestly say that not a lot of things scare me now.

As a child, I was always frightened, as far as I can tell. I'll even go as far as saying I didn't stop being scared until I was in my mid-thirties when I finally let go the security blanket that is religion. Oddly enough, it was the concept of exorcisms in which the god fearful would be tormented by demons of their brand of belief, yet you'd never hear people of a different religion or even an atheist being taken over a Christian based demon or even vice versa with another faith's. It helped me realize with everything else I piled up in the corner of "don't look at it too closely" that it was time to let go of it all. The being looking over my trails and tribulations without so much as a helping hand, everything supernatural attached and realizing that most apologists are simply saying "because" when questioned over their reasons while arguing that you are completely wrong simply because you can not exactly pinpoint how a particular protein gets unraveled, even though there is more than substantial evidence stating how it happens without that particular detail. Check your math, savage, but you have to BELIEVE in what I have to say because....I have a book!

Ok, enough venting....Sorry, it's a sore spot when you finally realize you've been afraid for so long trying to appease nothing when in truth you were always a good person.

Yet yesterday at the Crazy Doc's, I was unnerved. There are some things you hear that you can not help to be skeptical. "Trust me" is a big one. "I'm _________" usually peaks my attention considering that people are willing to tell you that they have some sort of trait that you can simply take their word for. "You can tell me anything" is another that makes me laugh, especially wondering why someone wants to know and why would they dare to ask to hear the things I refuse to think about in the dark for too long. There are simply certain things I hear from people's mouths that put me on alert and prepared for a large amount of crazy coming towards me.

Two things were said in less than 20 minutes that one alone would be more than enough to make sure I'm never in the room alone with the person. I kept silent after one, I was made quiet, meaning that the person said the right thing to "turn off" my venting. It's rare and usually a lucky stroke by the person who uttered it, but something I do respond on the level of "sit" or "down" commands given to dogs. It's something that pulls away any annoyance and instantly calms me. Few people can do it and they are never in the same room and I am never "intimate", read in any indefensible position with them. So to say any significant other can never soothe me with a word is a method to keep me safe rather than any issue I have. It's a level of trust that I do not have anymore since the last person tore me apart with that trust.

The second phrase is "I'm not going anywhere". That alone is enough for me to get up and walk away. Oddly enough it was said as our session ended and I was on my way through the door. I do not like this phrase. It's not only loaded, but it's the kind of leap of faith that I do not have anymore. I once asked a friend who he himself categorized as "marrying up". He more than admitted that he's not a looker, but somehow he has something that keeps his wife happy, content, and in love and the only thing he wanted to do is to keep that going until the day she realizes that she made a huge mistake. Laughs were had, but it left me unsettled that he would even have that amount of trust. Their relationship is strong, just celebrating an anniversary just a while ago and I still can not believe that people can have that ability to know that the person they share a bed can tear them apart and still sleep peacefully with them.

It's surreal to me.

I also remember sitting at near a bus stop with a friend as an obese man walked off the bus and waited to help his significant other get off too. Immediately people did that either polite "OH.....oh...nothing to see here" look that they do as they acknowledge that they have seen a sight while others at safe distances pointed and smiled at the fat man helping the fat woman get off the bus. They soon held hands as they slowly made way down the streets of the mixture of stares and cruel snide points. I sat there, sipping my drink, and bluntly told my friend that they were obese. They had people mock or turn their faces away to not hurt their feelings, with some attempts doing as much damage as the mocking. And before he could bring issue on what I was getting at I said, I see two people I envy more in the world. Two people who may have physical limitations that constantly bring the slings and arrows of the world to them, but they hold each other tight walking slowly down the street, them against the world. Them against everything that can be said to them and that they already know or have heard immensely. And yet they hold on to each other, much like older couples do when the seem so frail and brittle to the world, they hold on to each other and know they are safe, loved, and that the world will never matter. If I was in any of their places I would have to walk it alone, much as I already have. I would walk alone because I can not trust anyone to support me and I do not see myself.....worthy......no....of value, that's a closer meaning, to support someone who needs so much from me. I don't think I've ever failed anyone in a relationship outside of not being the person they wanted in the first place. Yet, even I know that in the end, I'm not someone who they had wanted for lasting reasons. I was temporary and useful for the moment, but not someone you'd hold on to in these moments.

I envied them and I lamented at what they have that I do not. I do not have that.....belief....faith.....trust.....I don't know what else it can be called. I had been ripped out and had salt added to the wound before cauterized.

So those two things said in a matter of minutes frightened me. Things you'd imagine giving you comfort or relief. Instead, it put me on edge with the usual reaction of getting my defenses up. If she said that she loved me, even as a joke, I would have jumped through the 4th-floor window and welcomed the ground.

I think my next set of days are going to be.....horrific for me. I know you must read this and imagine why I would ever feel this way. I feel it because I'd rather be crushed under the weight of the world alone than to trust my back to anyone outside of a handful that I must be emotionally distant to.

I'm not looking forward to Tuesday. I'm actually scared of it.

I can honestly say that not a lot of things scare me now. 

As a child, I was always frightened, as far as I can tell. I'll even go as far as saying I didn't stop being scared until I was in my mid-thirties when I finally let go the security blanket that is religion. Oddly enough, it was the concept of exorcisms in which the god fearful would be tormented by demons of their brand of belief, yet you'd never hear people of a different religion or even an atheist being taken over a Christian based demon or even vice versa with another faith's. It helped me realize with everything else I piled up in the corner of "don't look at it too closely" that it was time to let go of it all. The being looking over my trails and tribulations without so much as a helping hand, everything supernatural attached and realizing that most apologists are simply saying "because" when questioned over their reasons while arguing that you are completely wrong simply because you can not exactly pinpoint how a particular protein gets unraveled, even though there is more than substantial evidence stating how it happens without that particular detail. Check your math, savage, but you have to BELIEVE in what I have to say because....I have a book!

Ok, enough venting....Sorry, it's a sore spot when you finally realize you've been afraid for so long trying to appease nothing when in truth you were always a good person.

Yet yesterday at the Crazy Doc's, I was unnerved. There are some things you hear that you can not help to be skeptical. "Trust me" is a big one. "I'm _________" usually peaks my attention considering that people are willing to tell you that they have some sort of trait that you can simply take their word for. "You can tell me anything" is another that makes me laugh, especially wondering why someone wants to know and why would they dare to ask to hear the things I refuse to think about in the dark for too long. There are simply certain things I hear from people's mouths that put me on alert and prepared for a large amount of crazy coming towards me. 

Two things were said in less than 20 minutes that one alone would be more than enough to make sure I'm never in the room alone with the person. I kept silent after one, I was made quiet, meaning that the person said the right thing to "turn off" my venting. It's rare and usually a lucky stroke by the person who uttered it, but something I do respond on the level of "sit" or "down" commands given to dogs. It's something that pulls away any annoyance and instantly calms me. Few people can do it and they are never in the same room and I am never "intimate", read in any indefensible position with them. So to say any significant other can never soothe me with a word is a method to keep me safe rather than any issue I have. It's a level of trust that I do not have anymore since the last person tore me apart with that trust.  

The second phrase is "I'm not going anywhere". That alone is enough for me to get up and walk away. Oddly enough it was said as our session ended and I was on my way through the door. I do not like this phrase. It's not only loaded, but it's the kind of leap of faith that I do not have anymore. I once asked a friend who he himself categorized as "marrying up". He more than admitted that he's not a looker, but somehow he has something that keeps his wife happy, content, and in love and the only thing he wanted to do is to keep that going until the day she realizes that she made a huge mistake. Laughs were had, but it left me unsettled that he would even have that amount of trust. Their relationship is strong, just celebrating an anniversary just a while ago and I still can not believe that people can have that ability to know that the person they share a bed can tear them apart and still sleep peacefully with them. 

It's surreal to me. 

I also remember sitting at near a bus stop with a friend as an obese man walked off the bus and waited to help his significant other get off too. Immediately people did that either polite "OH.....oh...nothing to see here" look that they do as they acknowledge that they have seen a sight while others at safe distances pointed and smiled at the fat man helping the fat woman get off the bus. They soon held hands as they slowly made way down the streets of the mixture of stares and cruel snide points. I sat there, sipping my drink, and bluntly told my friend that they were obese. They had people mock or turn their faces away to not hurt their feelings, with some attempts doing as much damage as the mocking. And before he could bring issue on what I was getting at I said, I see two people I envy more in the world. Two people who may have physical limitations that constantly bring the slings and arrows of the world to them, but they hold each other tight walking slowly down the street, them against the world. Them against everything that can be said to them and that they already know or have heard immensely. And yet they hold on to each other, much like older couples do when the seem so frail and brittle to the world, they hold on to each other and know they are safe, loved, and that the world will never matter. If I was in any of their places I would have to walk it alone, much as I already have. I would walk alone because I can not trust anyone to support me and I do not see myself.....worthy......no....of value, that's a closer meaning, to support someone who needs so much from me. I don't think I've ever failed anyone in a relationship outside of not being the person they wanted in the first place. Yet, even I know that in the end, I'm not someone who they had wanted for lasting reasons. I was temporary and useful for the moment, but not someone you'd hold on to in these moments.

I envied them and I lamented at what they have that I do not. I do not have that.....belief....faith.....trust.....I don't know what else it can be called. I had been ripped out and had salt added to the wound before cauterized.

So those two things said in a matter of minutes frightened me. Things you'd imagine giving you comfort or relief. Instead, it put me on edge with the usual reaction of getting my defenses up. If she said that she loved me, even as a joke, I would have jumped through the 4th-floor window and welcomed the ground.

I think my next set of days are going to be.....horrific for me. I know you must read this and imagine why I would ever feel this way. I feel it because I'd rather be crushed under the weight of the world alone than to trust my back to anyone outside of a handful that I must be emotionally distant to. 

I'm not looking forward to Tuesday. I'm actually scared of it. 

1,256 words 46 minutes.

Things that I will never understand, but it's most likely that I am not human and have the social empathy of a potato.

1. People who want to own a piece of another person's clothing

I'm going to be blunt. I've slept with a good amount of women. I've shacked up with a smaller percentage of them. I've done laundry and I even broke up with......all of them and I have to say that I have never been drawn to their clothing. I have lost a great amount of clothing to women and if I ever get something of theirs I usually give it back or it gets tossed into the bonfire. As close to any of this, I enjoy waking up next to someone who I've been in a relationship and cuddling close and smelling them. I enjoy their smell. I've even enjoyed how each of them taste. Yet keeping something of theirs and smelling it, even when we are done? NOPE!

Even less when online models offer you certain pieces of clothing for a price. So....yea.....nope. You'll never find any "mementos". It also relieves me of any embarrassing moments if someone discovers a purple rhinestone bustier.

2. Love songs, especially R&B, sound either desperate and needy in a stalker sort of way or self-degrading. 

I know the chemistry of love. It's the worst drug to be on and the hardest to be clean when it takes so much time to finally feel yourself once more and you realize that relationship was a train wreck to begin with but you ignored it because body parts, infatuation, or you have been "pinning', read stalking, the other person so long that your shrine is taking one a bit of a serial killer feel to it. Sorry, I have felt affection and caring towards someone else, but they have never been my oxygen or my one and only because I had many ones and onlys. If anything I realize I stepping into love in the same manner that one steps in pet fecal matter, you always wonder why you were not paying attention more. Love songs never help afterward unless you're trying to find the most easiest way to end your life. 

Once again, I do not claim to be human in any way.

3. Children being perfect because they're my little blah blah blah

No. Stop it. This is why we have sociopaths and monsters. You are not raising a dolly or a small child or a [insert your own sickening mind rotting baby talk, because you either do it, you fucking, monster or you have heard it, alcohol helps]. You are going to raise a human being who has to carry on your family name and have to deal with other people. I say this because I attract the human version of garbage and when they get too close, usually stabbing distance.....not even fucking joking....I have the scars to prove it, I always wonder if they had parents. Yes, yes they did and they were shit not because they put out their cigarettes on them or used them for bowling balls, but because inserting them a concept of how perfect and amazing and incredible and individual and what other bullshit you tell them you also have to remind them that they are one fucking person among billions and to have some human empathy because if they had some then they would know not to be human garbage and maybe I would not be in therapy!

Seriously, fuck you. Raise your future human right or I'll start calling you out now. I won't name names because that will tip you off and give you a head start.

4. Saying hello is not flirting

I am a whore. I am a complete whore, tease, and I play hard to get. I have been seeing multiple people for the 30 years. I make people feel good about themselves and yet I have never at least offered to finger/handjob them because I am a whore. Do not believe me that I have only been polite enough to you to prevent you from realizing that I am just a trauma away from being emotionally dead. Never believe me that when I say, "lets get dinner" that I am not banking fuck points because why the fuck would I ever spend time with you unless it's to bend you over and fuck you hard or to tease the fuck out of you like the shitty whore I am, remember I started out saying it. I'm actually just teasing the fuck out of you and fucking everyone else. I mean, you seen me say "hello" to others. I'm fucking them. A lot. A good amount of fucking. And then we laugh at you and how I am teasing you and not fucking you. We laugh and we fuck some more until you realize you have to break up with me because going for three meals after work is way too much of a commitment and always lead to fucking, but I'm not fucking you, remember? So why invest in other people unless you are going to bend them over and fuck em so good......so good.....

There I said it. Now your hunches are confirmed. Leave me alone now. I just wanted to say good morning to let you know I need the nondairy creamer and you're in the way.

5. IPA's are the new shitty beers because we can't have something nice unless we saturate life with it and Coors decide to make their own.

I get it. It's bitter and has a bite. Nice. 

And yet it's fucking everywhere. Like Coors. It's to the point now you're flavoring it. Like Coors. And making interesting bottles. Like Coors. And if offered everywhere and all the time so that there are nothing else besides IPA's......and Coors. 

"Can I have something pleasingly red and warm with a hint of bite?" 
"No.....we don't have that, but we have 105 different IPA's......and Coors".
"Oh....can I have something dark, bitter, and thick with a thick foam?"
"Um......we don't have that, but they make a coffee IPA!"
*waiting for it*
"It's made by Coors!"
"Can I have a nice Hefeweizen with a slice of lemon, please?"
"Um.....ah......I don't think we have that IPA."

Stop it. Stop it before you ruin it all......like Coors.

Dismantling the Machine, Part 3: Anticipation before being ripped asunder emotionally

The internet in the Crazy Doc’s waiting room was out as I attempt to write this. As much as I love my beloved Chromebook, I realize that without a signal I can’t do much on it. Thankfully I have enough music stored on it to keep me calm. That and tinkering with it I now learn that I can use my documents program to write. I always knew I could, I just didn’t know how to get to it. I know, odd. It’s almost like having an idea what to do in a blackout until you realize this is your opportunity to test out all that planning that you never conducted or bothered with thinking about.

So here I am, attempting to write with sloppy finger work and no use of any autocorrect to my grammar or spelling. I’m writing blind almost as if I was back in….um…..10 years ago? Ha, this would have3 been enough to make most laugh while I know most who have not endured past decades as of yet thinking back to such a time with almost a sense of savagery. We played in the dirty until the pony express brought us news of injuns attacks, who’s turn it was to die and primitive live before youtube. I mean, can you just? Can you?

….um, just what? I got nothing. Just wanted to make a cheap joke and I’m proud of my attempt. Not exactly executed, but a great attempt at a half ass thought of a try.

Either way, I sit in the empty room attempting to keep my mind still with George Baker and whispers of Tarantino in the back of my mind. I’m going to state this now since I think I’ve built up enough padding before I cut through it, that I would love to write fiction and yet, I know deep within me I’m going to have the roughest time doing so. Not that I don’t have stories, but that I flow so much easier simply writing about nothing in particular in mind rather than put my vision of worlds unseen into life. Somehow I am a bit more comfortable sharing my thoughts than my stories unless we are cozy enough with ourselves and there is no other medium with those above the age of 10.

I know, if I put an effort I can work that creative muscle and probably impress you all with the things that run through my head and yet I somehow have this infatuation with sharing with you all the thoughts in my head that have been kicked around long enough to form an odd argument. Perhaps this is a place I’m most comfortable with sharing, having a need to have both space and time altered to have a monolog with you. And that is what it is, a monolog that I finally have the comfort and safety of a distant time and place had where you are able to read this while I sit in a place safe from….well…..you. Not exactly you, but you. Savy? It’s not exactly you, Johnny Doe of Somewhere Elseberg at least 15 time zones away, but the idea of having this conversation with you here is as close as I can have it “live”

Did I mention in a past life I wanted to be an actor? I was even told I was good at it. A great sense of blah blah blah…..*replace blah with self-congratulatory bullshit*. And yet, my greatest moments were also monologs. I adored them. I used to ingest them by the lbs and even written my own stuff, yet life has a way of grabbing you by the throat and simply dragging you away from what you love as it laid in distant view in a glorious blaze of lost potential. So...yea….that.


And yet, I still love the idea of a monolog. I can see it’s value and need, especially in my situation where I have the hardest time trying to connect with people while defenses are not up and running. In this safe place of my choosing, I’m able to share with you a moment to time had that does not exist. I’m able to share with you the things that I somehow find worth, much like any pack rat attempting to bring value to the garbage laid askew about them.

There is a bit of sadness if you think about it. There may just never be a moment in life where I feel safe enough to bare this while among you. A moment where I am not protected, strong, and not looking after your needs. So while among you, you are my focus. You are my world and reason to have a conversation. Me….nah….not worth, but one day we shall have drinks and perhaps, mayhaps I shall think about sharing with you what I am not comfortable with….

And if you believe that I have many things to offer such a brilliant sucker you are.

I don’t know. I honestly don’t know why I can not share this with you. That’s why I’m here and that’s why I’m willing to sit in a room with someone who I take every attempt to remain vulnerable as we find what causes me to remove myself from you. I’m not going to being to say I’m not broken. I’ll even agree with you with the thought that I do not and probably will not see myself as a priority. Too much there to even attempt to change the subject when you can just say, “yes” and move along.

Looking at the clock on the wall, I know my time is almost up here. I have to go in soon and I can feel the anxiety slowly building knowing that this moment will also be lost. I will soon go inside and hour close to an hour tear myself apart and attempt to pull myself together untilI can function once more until that time comes in again. We’re losing this moment together. A moment we never had together and yet, I feel the sadness. This is all I have. This is all I have to give and I know very well that it’s not even crumbs to offer the smallest mouths.

These are the moments where I know I have nothing to give and the option of offering you anything is extremely limited. We have these moments and that is all. And yet, I try to give these as if they have any worth. I give them because it’s all I can give and I sit in the room in hopes for a little more to give.

*puts on Bowie’s Starman*

My music was a bit too….dismal at the moment and I need to at least try, no? I have to, even if I don’t think it will help, these are often the moments where I break through and ….life gets better. I gain an inch of progress and I’m rallied to push more. To try more and put myself in the positions where I am weak and broken rather than incredibly intangible.

Someone else just walked in. Soon four more people will pop up before I go in. When I leave it will be crowded and all I want is the elevator down and outside. Not really a great place for reflection. Everyone who leaves has that look, that pained look that begs for privacy and time to collect. Some people are on their phones. Some stretch and breath deeply. Others have rituals that I can never comprehend past outside of knowing they need them as I need mine. Distant strangers being distant and strange…...that’s a title. That’s a gem of one. Have to use it.

*plays A Little Bit of Soul*

Bowie didn’t last long, so this. I can do this…..I don’t have a choice. I have this. I have this and I can do this…...yay…...nothing at all that I can do to prepare for this…..YAY! That’s what kills me, I can’t prep for this...I can’t stack the deck or even prepare myself for the

….oops…..have to go…...bye…...

Dismantling the Machine, Part 2: The Horrors of just being Social

I'm at work on a Monday. I'm doing this because a friend of mine is popping in from Northern Cali and when she does show up it normally is a whirlwind of activity that honestly taxes my introverted nature. She's a good friend and a pleasure to be around, yet when she comes in she's on the move on a campaign of doing all the things that usually results with some things being cut out at the last minute. This Friday her and a few friends have run about planned with a cherry of a topper of hitting the classy bar. An even that for certain reasons or another I have always missed out, usually due to illness. Well, this Friday I'm game. I'm moving Friday to Monday at work which sandwiches my Crazy Doc day and gives me Thursday to Friday with her and a total of four more days to have to myself.

Awesome, no?

Why am I dreading it then?

There is a slow dread of a social activity that looms ahead with some time, usually, a wedding or party that somehow I was privy to know at least months in advance to prepare. Some days I can just let it sneak up on me and just head up. Others I almost welcome sickness in giving my the excuse to bow out. Other times, I force myself and carry certain things to occupy myself past those odd moments where I wish I was invisible with an adequate amount of time to walk off and have a breather. This event is different. I can usually stomach the running about, having lunch or consuming alcohol. Yet I have to dress up for the night out. In people clothes. To be fancy and simply hang about and just be. I have to be social, not just people social, but fancy time out social. Wear a tie social. Be charming social. Be witty and charming social.

So, yea a bit of dread.

It's not that I can't do it, it's.......I don't know. It's not that I don't know these people or care for them, it's just ......I don't know. It's not that I can't have a good time, it's just.....I don't know. I'm on edge. Like October on edge. I'm looking at this moment, not like a fun time out, but as a challenge. That I can handle this. That I'm not really dysfunctional. Just.....I don't know.

I have dread and I don't know why. I can not explain to you how alien this all is. This should be fun. I used to have fun and declare my time a good day to die and let all the chips fall as they may, but here I'm cautious. I'm nervous and awkward, I can't fucking believe I feel awkward, out of all the people on the planet, I feel awkward. Why is this a thing?

And of course, I don't know. I wish that I can simply wave my hand off with this as if it's just a gnat that gotten too close and has no place with me and my time, and yet.....I don't know. Is it that I have no control over the situation? That it's "different" or simply me being a bit more......undefensive. Do I associate suit time with my inner Man of Stone persona or personal security days? Or am I concerned with being.....off......odd......weird?

But these people know that. I'm always off, odd and weird. Hell, I was formed in the rivers of Off, Odd, and Weird. What am I dealing with? I'm not sure and I'm kind of happy that tomorrow is Crazy Doc day. I'll just walk in, dump it on the floor and say, "This.....make this better!"

Ha ha.....I doubt it. It has something to do with being any degree of intimate or closeness with anyone because I'd rather not. I have my reasons and I have my Crazy reasons, but they're stupid. I know they're stupid. Yet, I can almost feel the crowds. I can almost feel the people and the factors of WTF that can happen. The chances of anything can happen. I'm not in charge there, but I'd be comfortable knowing if I was. But I need to calm the fuck down and just have a good time as if saying that will make it so.

I'm over thinking! That's the problem! I need to mellow out! But how? I'm not going to booze it and I still am too exposed to deal with people. Hell, I've been in some respect avoiding people because of feeling exposed and open. I know you need this, but I have no good connotation with these things and being open and exposed usually get me in trouble.....or hurt. I just need to ignore it.

As if I can.

So, I have until Friday to just, mellow out......find some sort of mental peace of mind and just let them the chips fall as they will....and be ok with that. Simply be fine with any of that. I've done it before and alone which granted my attempts against something I know is difficult to me great rewards. And yet, I don't want to treat this moment as a challenge. I just want to go out, with friends, and be ok and maybe fucking enjoy myself. I know it's too much to ask, but doesn't my history of accomplishments and beating down past challenges give me any form of emotional stay or protection for this? It's so fucking surreal being awkward and emotionally weak when I've pushed beyond the hells that others have chosen as impossible.

Why is trying to be people so difficult for me? Why is this the thing I have the worst fears towards? I can sacrifice, but yield no rewards to it. I can bleed but never heal. I can put work in, but not bask in the glory of the moment won. It's not fair in any way or reason.

*sigh*

I have until Friday. I can do this.

I just wish I didn't have to, because......I don't know or even deal with something as stupid as this.

30 minutes, 1,028 words.

Dismantling the Machine, Part 1: There is no ending

I will never understand therapy or how it works. I'm not saying this as if I do not understand how its supposed to work or how it's carefully formulated. At a certain distance, I admire the process. Much like detective work and behavior assessments, I can respect any form of problem-solving that has any x-factor that will cause the situation to change and alter your very approach to solving the situation. Some of my favorite memories are in a laboratory with a stack of Petri dishes and procedures in mind while hunting down and attempting to look at my anal procedures, calculate how much of my process may be corrupt, and if I gained enough insight in order to realize what tests to continue or repeat. I can appreciate the process.

So while sitting in the cozy room with the stained glass lamp, I sit across someone who has to be at least 20 years my junior as she attempts to gain enough of a foothold to help me. I sit there and I do everything in my ability to do three things: Attempt to give blunt and simple answers, even if I can't, counter my initial reactions that have been honed to a discipline that has protected me for the majority of my life., and most importantly of all, to not over think or analyze anything that she says in order to understand her motives, goals, needs, and possible tactical position. I've spent almost a lifetime dealing with people who have taken advantage of me or at least attempted to. I've learned to deal with them as on would deal with a cold or step into some unknown excrement. In my time, I can say with confidence not founded in ego that I can pull apart any form of interaction with people to the degree when I can guess motive and need from them. In that knowledge and practice, I've allowed people free reign, if only to prove the control and to understand if you give people enough of a chance they will take more than what you are willing to give to them. Much like politics, I've learned to take a proactive position rather than trust the vote of masses who time and time again ponder how things could get this bad, never realizing they can not vote someone in and simply forget the rest. There must always be a high degree of vigilance.

I've teased 19-year-olds who wanted to get enough of a verbal foothold to entertain the idea of having coffee. I've dealt with elders whose assumption of age somehow had wisdom and trust as a given. I've dealt with people who use scarecrows to prove arguements and the intellectually lazy who I have learned to cut the jugular, knowing full well that simply writing as I do will overwhelm their argument because....pfffft....reading....the fuck is that? In my time, I'm going to say I met people who are good and kind and somehow I have enough evidence to assume trust, all the while keeping a monitoring eye on them for their chance to strike. I do get a bit lazy when the friendship continues past a decade, but the eye is on them nevertheless.

Stating all of this, I realize that I have removed emotion from my engagement with people. Treating everyone as coldly calculating as possible, I know I have broken down people to a list of needs and wants that I deemed acceptable and have given myself permission to meet. Somehow I have removed emotion out of the situation so that my prevalent emotions are annoyance, awe, and disappointment. I know there's another emotion somewhere, but I'm not in the mood to look for it. It was hard enough to acknowledge it in the first place. I know I described "poor" emotions, but they are as close to emotions as I get a hold of. I know I mention annoyance, yet do not confuse this with your definition. I had teenagers in my life and that is an annoyance, what I call annoyance is a type or realization that I have to focus attention and time. Nothing aggravating, but more as in working on the next math problem where you have to clear the table and go through the procedures in understanding and analysis.  That level of annoyance.

The fact that I have to pay attention to you is annoying to me. There, I said what I always said.

I can't honestly register it simply because it's difficult to take in. I don't have that relationship with emotion. And yet, if something happens where I lose my tolerance to suffer it I simply stop working, halt being functional, and I become broken. I don't have emotional breakdowns. I break. I stop doing. I can not move on. Whatever was inside me that cause me to keep moving forward and roll with the punches breaks. That happened last year. That's why I know I have to change or die. That's why I know that if I do not take a proactive approach to my own situation, I will not be among you much longer.

And yet, I am more than comfortable to declare that my actions are in no way helpful. My interaction with people is cold, calculative, procedural and distant. It's how I survived. It's how I can plunge my arms, elbow deep, into the shit that most of you dare never to see and get things moving again. I have always worked damage control and I have to do what I needed to do to make things work or survive. It's why I drank to shut my mind off. It was overwhelming and in all truth, it prevented me from making connections with people I DO care about. It was the only way to silence a constant working mind to allow me peace and sleep. It was the only way one can numb to build up enough tolerance to make it through another day, to look up at the ceiling and wonder, "was it worth the effort?"

So, I sit with the Crazy Doc and I try to feel. The entire statement insults me, but oh well. I try to feel. To reconnect. and to reconnect correctly. It's difficult. It's painful. It's almost impossible to me. And yet, I attempt and I fail and I try again and I silence my mind and I do everything I can to rip apart the defenses that I mastered so that I can leave myself open to the person in the small room and silence all of the screams in me so that I can pretend that they will not rip me apart, much like the Jackels do. What I do is painful. What I do is damaging and it can fuck over the rest of my week. And yet, I do it again and again.

And she sees it. And she appreciates it. And she sees that I'm trying with sincerity.

I'm better now. I was mentally sore yesterday. I will be the same next week.

I'm going to end here. Time to go to work and I don't have an ending because it didn't.

1,200 words in 50 minutes.

When Even Your Cold Calculative Analytical Mind Says You Can or Praise in the oddest and coldest form

These writing exercises are interesting, if only to me. Some time ago, my daughter gifted me for Xmas a Master Class in writing with James Patterson. It's an odd gift considering the timing. In the middle of house sitting, I scoured Youtube for vids to keep my free time busy and I hit a happy pocket of Stephen King lectures, some with R.R. Martin who asked how the hell was he able to put out so much writing. Watching this vid, I noticed that the room became silent at the question in which he told people that he simply writes for four hours a day, every day. He has more than enough spare time to do what he wishes, including research. And yet he knew this was an altogether easy response that would normally be brushed off as almost uninteresting instead of some mystical and deep secret that needs to be sealed with arcane ritual and blood sacrifice.

He also explained that while he put out Carrie, he has this immense desire to just write. His mind was filled with ideas and stories and he knew that he could write more if only he had the time and to have the time he knew he needed money. He needed the money to allow him to focus on writing instead of stealing away time from work, family and other obligations. So sitting there he sat down and wanted to know how much money he needed to write. How much he needed for at least one year worth of time out of the workforce where his family will not be without financial means, including emergencies and vacation time. Sitting there in the late 70's he calculated how much his contribution was to the household and he came up with a rough number that I somehow remember as something around $64, 000.

He needed an amount near $64, 000, if my memory is on it (still feel free to check my math, the idea is still there, though). If he was able to sell Carrie for that close to the amount he could have enough money for the year to continue writing full time. His wife would continue to work, but that was the minimum amount he would need to be able to write without any doubt or worry. That would be the amount that he would need to follow his dream and use that money to see if he was able to continue writing or if Carrie would be his only book, a fate of most writers sadly who do break through into the industry. When his publisher called back, he was almost ready to negotiate a sum close to what he needed when they notified his that they would like to buy his book for a sum closer to $100,000. And so, you can guess everything else was history.

The reason why it hit me so was that it was his test to see if he had the potential to continue writing as a living. During many of the lectures, sadly, he informed everyone that it seems as if writing was a dying medium that needed immense attention and understanding to keep changing with a society that at worse disregard the value of books until the film or tv show came out and at best changed the medium of how his work would be read itself. Although books will never be a forgotten medium it's certain that tablets, phones, and other contraptions have cause enough of a stir with publishers who often time ignored any innovation as they threat they are or the opportunity they should be seen as. Yet with all that he continue to declare that if you have that need and desire to write you have to do whatever it takes to satisfy the need.

And so starting my Master Class with a green notebook, pens, and enough chance to see if there is any potential in me I began the lessons. One of the lessons I've taken to heart is that you must begin a schedule, if only an hour a day, to write and to see how much you can write. In this, a goal of 500 words was made a goal in an hour. And practice should be built up until 1000 words are met. In 28 minutes I have already passed 725 words written. I know I'll hit 1000 before the hour is over. In this moment, I have some issues here. When James Patterson said that I should aim for that amount of words in the allotted time I sit here and wonder what potential I honestly have. Was this goal a low minimum or a "baby step"? Is there a higher goal that I should be aiming for? What is the golden ratio of words to time that he and other writers average? Is this because I'm not writing fiction and I simply have a natural ability to ramble on? Should I be ecstatic that I have blown away such a goal already or should I be focusing on a higher goal?

All throughout my lessons, the advice I'm getting from an author who has published the most books in his lifetime puzzles me. He says have a journal. I do! In that journal have ideas and plots and other snips of writings that you can store for any future attempts at a story. I have a worn-out notebook with first draft stories and outlines on how they should connect and other snippets of possible stories. Choose at least three to have a plot. I have at least 6. Attempt to write those three. I have six first drafts, as mentioned before. And here I have to question not his advice, but myself. Why is this simple to me? Why is this not difficult? Mind you, I can say that I haven't really written fiction in these activities, but have focused my writings on the two work mornings that (1001 words in 38 minutes) I get here early enough and have nothing but dronish work ahead of me to look forwards to. I haven't written on the other days. In fact, I'm writing a whole lot less in these activities considering that more of my pieces are at least......*leaves to see* 2,000 to 2,750 words.

.....wow......

Am I a writer? I mean, I write. A lot. I write when I have a need and there are moments where I have to take off time and simply be, but if I'm just shooting the breeze at least 1,000 words in less than an hour, does that mean I have potential I'm not paying attention to? Should I push myself? I mean, should I even believe? It's more an exercise in overcoming my low self-esteem. I was going to write a "but" after that statement, yet I have none to add. I have low self-esteem and I think it's limiting me. I'm not saying this as in to praise myself, but more in a cold calculative manner where I can see a given action is not taken advantage. If I look at myself coldly, I can see that I have potential to do so, yet do I have the tenacity to make it work? Is this worth reading? Then again, King said to not worry about that and just put it out there. People will find it who will like it, but if you have the need and desire to write you have to do it. I think I'm there. I have to write. I don't know if this will ever produce a dollar for me, but I have to write to simply be normal. I need to unleash whatever thoughts I have trapped in my head that my mouth is not able to unleash. I need to do so as much as some people find a desire to copulate. I need to simply free my mind in order to be able to sit in a room and veg out as much as I have been doing. It's been at least four months since I've honestly worked out to the point I can call it a decent piece of work, but I have to write constantly, even if it's the stupidest thing my mind can come up with!

And yet, is this enough? Is this what I need to just run with it? At this point, some motivation in the form of a mentor, even or plot device tells me to blah blah blah. Life is not that. Yet I, in my most stubborn and foolish of minds as well as over thinking and immensely calculative seems to state that I should, if only because I can. Not flourish or spice or even petals falling from heaven. I can because I must and I must because it flows. I don't know if this is what people would want to if people would desire to have it. Perhaps given an example or a direction to fulfill my way or something, but I have to state as coldly and calculative as my stupidly automatic and over-analytical as my thought process can be, I can write.

I can write.

I CAN write.

I can WRITE.

I CAN WRITE.

.......1,549 words in 58 minutes.

I think......I KNOW I can write. This may be my talent. This is MY TALENT.

I think I just broke through myself.

........huh, I think this is a breakthrough.

.......now what?

1,582 words in one hour.

Rummaging out the Confides of a Motionless Tank

*takes a sip of strong Chai tea, swallows the hot liquid in more of a need rather than in relish and begins to write*

I'm not going to say that I'm a quick person, but if you give me enough time to reflect I can map out almost anything with probable solutions, errors, and points of reflection where I can usually sit in a sunny room and ponder my options. Then again, I'm at work writing this outside of the Coffee shop with free wifi with enough time to put in about an hour's worth of work before I have to go up and simply do. It also helps that I'm going to therapy considering that I finally have someone who checks my mental math and see if I'm stuck on something, obsessing, or simply making much about nothing. Having the trust to have in them in immense, but I'd have to be blind to negate the benefit of it all, even if it spirals me into places I'd rather not go and ponder things I'd rather ignore.

Above all, I learned that my past week isolation and angst, for lack of a more dignified word, has been caused by the lack of mental defenses. I didn't notice it at the moment. Usually, I'm either leaving with a mind filled with heavy thought or with an esteem strong enough to push me past my usual low point and into charging into a new day. Last week, I was wounded. There's no real explanation for it. I was mentally wounded and it didn't register. Usually, in these moments I have to work against a certain amount of time where I'm in touch with emotions that I usually can not register or have abandoned for a concept of "it's just how it is" and moved on with the struggle I called life. It's the reason why I'm able to endure immense difficulty and move with a speed needed in these dire moments where the majority of people are still attempting to register what has happened and why it changed. This has its benefits with a hefty price of blood, as I spoke with Crazy Doc. I'm not going to lie about my self-medication with alcohol. It's magnificent in blacking me out when needed and silencing the analytical chorus that inhabits my mind in order to get in touch with my own thoughts or simply to silence them for a moment and put aside the anxiety that I now recently realize have been terrorizing me for some time.

In order to uphold the immense stress and pressure of my place in life, I understood not knowing or acting on an conceived whim would cost me more than any chance take. When you carry such mental weight you learn to adapt and speed up everything. You calculate your situation faster than needed and understand the meanings behind meanings and the chances of a misplaced word. I can usually figure out motive, action, counteraction and even possibilities of the moment. It forces me to move in automation and many have considered inhuman and almost legendary.

Yet it's not life. It's not living. It's not experiencing the moment for what it is. It's being the best machine for the job. And lest week, instead of having my defenses slowly rise to the point of feeling once more my confinement of my sense of self in a protective and imprisoning protection where I can relate to the situation at an emotional distance, they simply did not rise.

They didn't take hold or take over or numb me.

There I remained anxious, irritable, annoyed, and sensitive. And it was hell. I was insufferable to my own senses and I knew something was wrong and yet did not notice that I was vulnerable in the real sense. I simply knew I didn't want to be near people or outside. So despite leaving for work, I remained and dealt with it, even though I tried to take my mind off of it with whatever task that would take my mind off of it. And yet, not one drink was had. Not a painkiller was taken. No coping mechanism was implemented, almost as if my defenses cost me more than my perceived weaknesses. I see that now. I understand how being made of stone cost me more than simply being vulnerable and open to anything to rush in and tear me apart.

The Jackels never came.

So if they never came, shouldn't I remove the tank worth of armor I continually don in hopes of never being exposed to an attack? Will the bad people leave me be or have they left me be? Am I more than capable of protecting my emotional self from any situation without always being on?

Wait.....I was off? I mean, I have lived my entire existence now as "ON". How was there an "OFF"? Was this me at my "OFF"? Was it really bad? With everything I've faced in life, is this "OFF" a bad place to be? Can I live here with some anxiety and perhaps a bit of uncertainty instead of constantly calculating my every thought and action before I begin to contemplate to take them?

I honestly don't know. I'm a bit confused. This IS new for me. This is something I never faced or felt and I can't bring myself to understand it because I have no reference. How you explain RED? I mean, how do you explain something so elementary to someone who doesn't have the concept of RED. Am I making sense? I mean, I just learned 5 months ago how to implement boundaries, so this is fucking new.  I mean how do I interact like this. Can I even interact like this? How in the world can I? I mean, yea......how? How do I do? How do you RED?

It all feels so stupid and yet, it's so simply to be overlooked. I might be overthinking this. Then again, how would I know?

Much to Grok.

1,014 words in 42 minutes. 509 words in 22 minutes.

That and I'm realizing that 1000 words is nothing to me and I need more in order to express what I honestly think.

Much to Grok.