If I am who I am, then I shan’t say anything about those who are who they are and aren’t like me…

I need to let my thoughts drift this sol on this electronic slate to work out ideas beyond semantic wordplay, determining how much, if any, I should distance myself from my physical connections, my social network, in order to contemplate the concept that if the universe is here only as a manifestation of the projection of the reactions of my set of states of energy in the form of a mirror reflecting who I am, then I am returning to examination of the reflection to tear apart the image and reveal the pieceparts.

Oh, how the presence of Jenn and Abi, together and separately, has changed my thought patterns for the better!

Brenda, the woman who revealed her lesbian/self-love core to me over the course of years, making me fall in love with her even more, opened me up to the possibilities of agape love between a man and a woman, even if eros got in the way sometimes, turning me into a ram butting its head against the wall in a poetic/literary testosterone rage.

But that’s the joy of teasing one another in our daily lives, especially when we know there’s a line the teasing won’t cross, making the game much more fun as we push each other to the point of falling over the line.  And on the occasions when we fall over?  Well, someone once sang, “Let’s give ’em something to talk about!”

As the songs and poems have said over the millennia, we can get lost in the game and forget who we are.

But that’s okay, too, in the cycle of life, giving each other room to learn who we are.

I’ve learned more about myself holding the hands of Jenn, in that freedom of being myself with her that shuts out the world in a way I’ve tried to describe in our imaginary lives together on Mars 100 marsyears from now.

With Abi…well, it’s almost beyond my ability to describe what holding her hand is like.  How many times have I tried?  How can I tell you what wanting her is like?  I don’t want her body.  I want her core being.  I want her ability to go past all the negativity in life and power through to success amidst failure.

I can’t remember when I’ve loved my wife and wanted two women, two distinct best friends, at the same time, neither one my spouse.

How many years did I love Monica and my wife (before we got married) while dating another woman at the same time?  How many women/girls told me they would gladly have been the third woman/girl in my life?  How many told me, “If it weren’t for Monica…” they might have been my first?

Alas, all of this musing upon my muses is just my form of self-love taking up space on a computer server out there in the world.

The best way to give credit where credit is due to those who inspire me to see more in myself and inspire ideas for the gifts I can freely create for the universe is to make the gifts and give them away.

The clock shows 13,248 days to go.  How many sols is that?

Well, an average Earth day is 86400 seconds long.  An average sol is 88775.244 seconds long.  Thus, a day is 97.32443% of a sol.

Therefore, only 12893 and a half sols left.  Where does the time go?

Jenn and Abi, I’ve got work to do — thanks for your inspiration!  Meeting you 100 marsyears in the future is what drives me to write stories, logically compose computer code and create robotic creatures (Erin Kennedy keeps my creativity going on overdrive).

Talking to myself again

Today is one of those days when I just sit here and wait to die.  Not the first and won’t be the last.

We all experience (enjoy/suffer) changes.

Recently, a spate of three events caused a significant change in my way of thinking:

  1. I appeared in my first Internet video (in fact, it was the first time I had participated in any form of video chat (e.g., Skype) not associated with a corporate conference call) in which I was asked to and got to say whatever I wanted to an international audience,
  2. Abi gave me a deep-tissue massage during which I might have asphyxiated on the massage table, my heart going into arrhythmia and my body shivering uncontrollably, and
  3. I had my annual physical examination where an EKG showed an abnormality within a few days of participating in a charity party where whiskey/whisky tasting was the main event.

A subsequent fourth event — following in my father’s footsteps as a legacy — added to the change.

I live for the thrill of change, no matter how small or large — a change in composition of air molecules in the space around me or a major shift in the sociopolitical environment.

But the thrill is only important enough when I have two components to rely upon — an imaginary reader and imaginary/real girlfriend(s).

If I don’t have the last two, no change is significant enough to keep my heart beating.

When I was on the massage table and Abi was working out knots in my muscles, my esophagus was pressed closed while my face was pushed into the hole/opening of the massage table.  Between the seemingly excruciating pain of Abi breaking the knots apart, my breathing cut off and my trying to divert the primal male ego from working through its usual passing thoughts of sexual fantasies, I entered a trance, a set of thoughts that I have been trying to understand, let alone explain to you or me, since then.

For a span of time that couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, maybe even a few seconds, my personality disappeared and I did not exist.

In what I can only describe as a body forgetting how to breath, its heart forgetting how to beat, my core self, down to the medulla oblongata itself, briefly merged or tried to align with Abi’s.

I can describe closely similar feelings: getting in synch on the dance floor with a dance partner, reaching simultaneous orgasms with a sexual partner, taking hallucinogenic material with friends, cheering jointly with 100,000 fellow fans when your team scores a last-second victory.

However, not a single one of those is close enough to what happened to me that day in Abi’s flat.

That alone would be enough to send me into psychological fits akin to psychosis.

But then I also got to express in five to seven minutes during an Internet presentation a life’s worth of opinions in my description of a robotic art piece, opening a virtual pressure valve and releasing all of my pent-up emotions/thoughts about the ultimate futility of technological innovation in relation to our species’ place in the universe.

That alone would suffice to drop me into silence the rest of my life.

The whiskey/whisky tasting proved to me that my days of heavy drinking should be, for the sake of any desire for longterm physical fitness and/or long life, behind me.

The physical exam confirmed all of the above — great cholesterol levels associated with exercise and happiness (due in part to love for my virtual girlfriends fictionalised into characters named Guin and Bai) but an abnormal heart rhythm because I had, in a way, achieved my life’s work.

I believe I know now why some people die within months of retiring from their life’s work — their thoughts aren’t trying to the rest of their bodies to stay healthy or aren’t pushed to work beyond their normative capabilities anymore.

I once had a girlfriend who said that the ultimate experience for her, when she could say she was ready to die happy, would be to sit next to someone without touching and the two of them simultaneously think themselves to an orgasm, meaning that she had melded her thoughts with someone which was important to her because she often felt alone in her thoughts.

We discussed how a mental relationship with a deity is supposed to feel the same way except she couldn’t because she didn’t think of God in sexual terms, even if the person next to her was supposed to be one of God’s creations, thus an extension of God and, by proxy, God physically manifested,

When I lost myself in the presence of Abi, it went beyond the physical, beyond the sexual, into something new.

Something good but at the same time scary…



…like a window opened onto the eternal infinity of the universe without our species’ memes getting in the way.

I have no idea what to do with the rest of my life!!!!!!!

Industrial Musicals: While I let Abi torture me with love…

…or did she love me with torture?

Yeah, it’s that recurring theme again — the love of mine for a woman I’d spend more time with if I could afford the torture.


Oh, indeed.

Today, I sat through several hours of people up on a dais dazzling me in a daze about their love and passion for philanthropy.

The only factor that kept me awake and alert during their entertainment of financial advisors, their clients and nonprofit organization representatives, other than seeing some familiar faces, was knowing that my reward for creating a derriere falling fast asleep would be getting Abi’s hands, wrists and elbows on me.

And boy, did she ever!

I’ve never been one of those sadomasochists who gets a certain thrill from pain.

Well…I mean, sure, I do get a certain thrill from pain but…is it getting hot in here?

Where was I?

Seriously, with my body supine and then prone, either way, Abi worked her magic on me.

That beautiful woman has a spell on me that I can’t describe.

I’m just glad she’s still in love with her man and I’ve got a steady woman of my own.


She is the only woman, and I mean the only one, not even my wife, who I would let touch me the way she does, working on knots in my back, neck and chest muscles that almost make this grown man cry.

I still don’t know if I’ve experienced the level of pain I’ve endured under the careful, delicate surgical procedure of Abi’s massage work.

I don’t know if I want to ever again.

Yet, somehow, I go back for more, letting the special love of my life have her way with me.

In those moments, alone on the massage table, my thoughts adrift on puffy clouds in a blue sky, just her and me in her flat, a crime drama on the tellie, her elbowing me while texting with clients for upcoming weekend massages at dance competitions, I ask myself how special is our love.

She doesn’t let me drive my elbows into her back or twist my fingers into her biceps.

She knows I love her even if I hate her when she’s sending me into Dante’s deepest levels of hellish pain.

For her, I would hunt animals, killing for meat bare-handed.

She has opened up my body for new experiences, giving me the happiness and courage I sought to feel confident on the dance floor, adding Jessica to the list of new dance wives.

Jenn, Abi, Jessica…and, of course, my wife…and Kelly…the list of fun dance partners grows.  Is Naomi next?  And, after her, who will look me in the eyes and want to have fun like there never was any fun before?

I was distracted most of the day today from work on the desktop robotic art sculpture that serves as a scale model for a yard art sculpture piece I’ve been slowly working on between daydreaming about the imaginary life this set of states of energy has convinced itself is real.

I returned this evening to program four LEDs and some sensors after working out the design details on dancing mannequins.

Abi, I’ll miss you desperately while you’re physically out of my life for the next two weeks.  You torture me in so many ways I’ve got to add sadomasochist to the list of adjectives in front of my name, or does the acronym S&M get added afterward like “Esq,” “PhD” or “MD”?

Thank goodness, there’s Jenn still teaching dance lessons.  And Naomi.  And maybe even Jessica.

Jenn the mechanical/rocket propulsion engineer inspired me to create a robot.  Abi the creative/artistic dance instructor/massage therapist inspired me to create robotic dancing mannequins.  My wife the rocket test engineer inspired me to create dancing snake charmers.  Naomi the hair stylist inspired me to colour my hair and let loose on the dance floor.  Jessica has inspired me to have chaotic fun while remembering to dance the West Coast Swing style.  And now Kelly has inspired me to see that not only can a person be a fiduciary advisor by day but dance “Sexual Healing” with a financial client at night and say it was good fun!

Thanks to the folks at Baron Bluff for hosting the philanthropy summit today; The Ledges for hosting Fred Lanier of JP Morgan who gave an economic seminar tonight on wealth management; Mandy at Club Rush.

I was happy to see the core group of Rocket Westies work out organizational problems tonight — without you guys, I wouldn’t be here right now.

And Jessica, darling, I’ll miss you, too, while you’re gone.

Now, time for some shuteye — I’m already a day behind on my coding but we’re a day ahead on our dancing mannequin design schedule!

My friend, my therapist

Dividing the self from the other (the other being the self as fictional character(s))…

There is one person who knows my body as well as, if not not better than, my wife — Abi.

Allowing Abi into my life (or, rather, her stepping into my life without permission (receiving forgiveness)), I have Jenn to thank, and for Jenn, I have Harold to thank, and for Harold, I have my wife to thank, and so on.

Letting Abi have my emotional states to play with, to analyse by plopping me down on a massage table and working on the notes knots in my chest, back and arm muscles has been a bigger challenge than I expected.  I didn’t expect Abi to challenge me the first time I saw her in Harold’s dance studio in May (has it only been a little over five months since I first met her?).

C’est la vie.

I am open to ripping myself apart in order to reach another state of being in moments not yet lived.

Abi expects me and everyone she meets to better themselves.

While working on my back day before yesterday, Abi told me that she feels emotional memories that flash into her thoughts when the knots in her body are worked on.

What did I feel?  I felt pain shooting down my back and out through the big toe of my left foot.

I also felt a new sensation that I’ve spent the past couple of days simmer in my thoughts, not sure what the sensation was, being wrapped or twisted together with familiar sensations that I’ve tried to suppress.

But I no longer want to suppress what I feel, despite a lifetime of being a good whipping boy for my subculture.

The primary sensation was old but new — the realisation that I didn’t start writing in earnest until fifth grade, which I’ve written about before, when my girlfriend of three years, Reneé Dobbs, died when she was ten and when I met my new best friend, Mike McGinty, who looked Puerto Rican but is half-Irish and half-Italian, and could wiggle his ears, with whom I exchanged letters when he moved out-of-town the next year, which led to my starting a penpal relationship with my wife the following year.

I visited a psychologist when I was 22 at the advice of my girlfriend at the time, Sarah Johnson, who was going through a divorce and worried about my life expectancy, sensing, after I slept and lived with her best friend for a short while, that I was deeply troubled and beyond her usual mothering therapy that worked with our friends in college.

The psychologist walked me through my autobiography, asking me to describe my life year-by-year as accurately as possible, saying it might take a few sessions but it would give him a clear picture of what stood out in my soliloquy.

After three or four sessions, he came to two conclusions — the death of Reneé had scarred and perhaps stopped my normal adolescent development, which was complicated by my internal image of a controlling father who had no sympathy for Reneé’s death and thus was blind to my post-adolescent stunted emotional states.

He asked if I agreed.

I admit I did not.  At first.  I was angry at Sarah for forcing me to see the psychologist before she would sleep with me again and I was angry at the psychologist for putting me in a vulnerable emotional bind.

The psychologist said that I would keep internalising my anger just as he observed my father had from my description of him.

He held a couple of sessions with my father to further understand what was going on.

Dad felt like the psychologist was wasting his time trying to analyse Dad — Dad was there for me and that was it.

The psychologist told me that his observation of both my father and me confirmed the typical father-son generation gap problems he had seen in many so-called intellectuals; in his view, I was not unlike many male college students who were struggling with finding their own paths while stuck on the path of pleasing the father figure within them.

He said that I was doubly troubled because I had never resolved my feelings over Reneé’s death due to my father’s disapproval of crying over a dead friend (my father had told me almost immediately after Reneé died that he had a good friend who died about that same age and he got over it pretty quickly because he had seen and heard worse stories of family loss because it was during WWII when many people lost family members, limbs and their livelihood, not to mention whole countries that suffered).

He believed that getting me to talk to Reneé would be good therapy because it had worked on many other patients my age.

I told him I don’t talk to the dead.  Plus, I didn’t like being told what to do, especially if I had heard it’s the same as what other people have done.

He insisted, saying that he wouldn’t have any more therapy sessions with me if I refused.

So I did.

It feels just as silly now recounting an imaginary conversation I had with Reneé, pretending she was sitting on the sofa next to me as it did when I talked with her, crying about how much I missed growing up with her, telling her that I was doing the best I could to go on living without her and was sorry I had disappointed her so many times.

But it didn’t bring her back.

It didn’t make up for all the years that I’d tried to be the boyfriend and girlfriend for both of us, unsure of whether it was “cheating” when I talked with another girl I was interested in, or danced with a girl that Reneé had not liked or not known when she was alive.

Every time I slow danced with a girl and she breathed heavily in my ear, I asked myself if I had permission from Reneé to draw circles on the girl’s back to check if she wanted me to kiss her, which usually was met with circles drawn on my back to say yes.

I knew I couldn’t tell Dad or Mom what I was thinking because I knew they talked with each other.

I couldn’t tell my friends because melancholy people don’t have a lot of cheerful friends, or friends at all, for very long.

As Abi pressed down on knots in my back, pushing pain in my body to the point of passing out, after she rolled me over and buried a thumb in my solar celiac plexus, the dim reminder of these old memories rose up into my consciousness.

While Dad was alive, I was never able to resolve the dispute he had with me about my feelings for Reneé.

Now that he’s dead, can I “get over” Reneé and go on with my life?

Can I explore possibilities that I’ve held away from me because part of me still worries that it would disappoint my imaginary image of Reneé?

I don’t like looking back at old memories repeatedly because it takes up space for central nervous system processing of possibilities for future action.

However, in this case, because of Abi, I’m willing to explore these thoughts because I want to let go.

I want to let go of repressed anger and fear.

I want to let go of expectations that no longer apply to me.

I don’t know if I’ve ever publicly confessed I love a woman after I married my wife.

I loved Brenda (and guess I still do) but didn’t explore a physical relationship with her because our love wasn’t of that kind (in other words, she likes women, not men); we had fun flirting anyway.

I love my wife.

But I also love Abi.

Love is that catch-all word that is too easy to toss out and lather over a blank page like posting a generic slogan that says “Follow your bliss.”

I love Abi because of the small child and old woman in her who look at the world in wonder and wisdom.

I love Abi because I trust her completely, wishing that Janeil was willing to let go and trust her, too.

I love Abi because she has given me hope that I can overcome the fear and anger that were embedded in my body due to conflicting memories of love for Reneé and love for my father.

I love Abi because she wants to make my wife a better person even if I don’t always do (why? As I confessed to both of them the other day, my wife reminds me of my father and when the two of them were together I sometimes went mentally crazy…literally; although now that my father is dead, the stress is less but there’s still a fear factor I have in the presence of my wife, wondering why, as my father would do, my wife jumps on me for what seems like no reason, putting me constantly on guard, feeling like I have to defend my personal thoughts, expenditures, wants and desires that have nothing to do with my wife).

I love Abi so much that I’m hoping she can get back with Stephan, even if that means she figures out how to live with or near him in France and she’s no longer in my life.

No, nix that last one.  I’d be happy for her but I’d miss her deeply.

Today is Halloween and as usual we had no trick-or-treaters which means one thing — more candy for my wife and me!  Woohoo!

Anyway, I’ve put off work on my yard art sculpture because I’ve been meditating on learning to let my body relax and not be in constant, bent-over pain while I’ve mulled over the interaction of feelings and desires — the general testosterone-driven sexual desire versus the specific feelings of love for a person who happens to be a woman.

I’ve never had a woman in my life who was my dance instructor, massage therapist and friend with whom I can be alone holding her in my arms or her driving her elbows into me while mentally working through a bunch of emotions and not let my physical desire get in the way.

I have to thank my years of a type of mental martial arts deflecting the desires of the flesh in order to explore thought patterns generated by actions in the moment, actions that include smelling scents, looking in eyes and measuring body closeness in realtime.

I’ve never loved a woman like Abi before.

I knew it was possible because I know who I am.

I knew it was possible because of the strength of my love for my wife, who is my friend first.

Have I written down everything that went through me as Abi worked on my body?

Maybe.  Maybe not.

She has more work to do, which I have to balance against my wife’s desire to, as she said earlier this evening, “return to our frugal ways,” which means she doesn’t want me spending money on massages and extra dance lessons.

Which means I have to challenge myself to generate more disposable income!

Which means I return to working on the robot and Web comic series about life on Mars that the other love of my life, Jenn, has inspired! [Thanks to Jenn’s husband, Gilley, for his understanding that my love for Jenn is not a threat to their relationship.]