That moment when you know

In a set of states of energy, transactional data stores time.

In a single moment when the one whose life you never knew would slowly and steadily move you off a path you had trained to walk from birth, whose dreams, whose visions turned your solo taichi self-defense moves into smooth dance moves with a partner, a moment so clear you’ll remember the star pattern overhead, the planes flying landing patterns nearby, the smell of the asphalt road you stood on, her eyes in the near darkness when she looked straight at you, twinkling from the reflection of a street light…

Her joke about a scene in Star Wars, “I find your lack of faith disturbing,” in relation to others not clearly seeing her vision.

Is it that moment when you know?

It is.

Love is caring about a shared vision greater than yourself.

The overnight shift

I live quietly, my actions less active than my younger self.

Or are they?

This week, I limit my social media interaction, my thoughts distant from other humans, a part of this world yet alone.

Calm, happy enough to know people around me are living lives without knowing me.

Little need for attention, entertaining those with whom I work a new shift at night, sleeping during the daytime, interrupted by telephone calls from unknown humans.

I planned art projects to occupy myself when I felt the need for attention but, in this sated mood, sleeping occupies me more.

Sometimes, fear of dying drives me to complete a project.

Somwtimes, curiosity about my Maker capabilities does.

Only three people i know actually call me to go eat with them on a whim — my wife, my sister and David.

Does that constitute my circle of real friends? (All other friends are hobby-connected.)

I know it does.

It is life at age 55, very common.

Sometimes, i wish otherwise, virtually crying out in the dark with social media posts, short stories and poems.

I was raised to believe life was one of a few choices: man-vs-man, man-vs-god/nature, man-vs-self. I never fully believed in the contrast of “man-vs-X”. We simply react as sets of states of energy in motion.

My motion today is simply sleeping, waking to play with a cat, eating, and working.

The simple life.

One of my lifelong dreams fulfilled.

Perfectly acceptable.

Simple.

Enough.

What is family?

What is family?

Sitting in a living room cleaned up for a feline foster mom to assess the house before dropping off a five-month old kitten for my childhood friend (who has also been a spouse for over 30 years), I wonder.

What is family?

Rather, who is family?

And, what is love?

Living in the same house for almost 30 years, stuff accumulates.

Life.

Yeah, life.

Beer, cigarettes, toilet cleaner, clothes moths, once-watched DVDs.

Photographic evidence of lapsed friendships.

Love not truly lost, just put on hold until the next hello, the next hug.

Who is my family?

You know who.

You’ve read it here.

Where was I?

Where was I?

I have gotten lost lately, lost in the thick, foggy ME soup.

Forgotten how to have fun, how to write jokes with obvious punchlines (but no laugh tracks).

Is it something about getting older?

No.

Age is just a number.

I have to admit to myself that I have material I want to write down but don’t out of respect for people’s privacy and I am bothered that my artistic independence is making a sacrifice for others — how dare they impede readers who might improve or change their lives based on what I’ve written!  [Not that I have many readers, mind you, but potentially billions might entertain their eyeballs or ears for a few minutes at any time…]

And if I give myself permission to lose all the friends I have to share with quasianonymous readers the stories of my friends’ lives?

I shan’t.

I miss my friends.

I miss a regular job with daytime work hours, with weekends off to spend time with friends and family, temporarily prevented by a lack of self-esteem, no belief in self-worth, feeling like I have nothing to give this world but written words.

It’s time to create a new music video.

With my wife out of town this weekend, and my switching to evening work hours for the next few weeks, I have time to devote to my art, including shooting comic videos.

I have to admit to myself I have difficulty maintaining a thought set that allows me to honestly share myself with my friends, turning my thoughts into a narrative I can control and manage real people into.

Thus, I am an artistic outsider, with imaginary friends who appear on Facebook and occasionally show up in real life.

It seems weird but it’s true.

It’s almost a revelation of some sort, like the blue pill/red pill scene in The Matrix, showing me what my whole life has been, a real illusion, a real story overriding the interconnected sets of states of energy in motion which have no set labels or set boundaries.

When I stop watching television news, stop reading news headlines, stop paying attention to anything that appears to be product promotion or ad copy disguised as a science article, my illusions change…

I relax.

I forget subcultural clues, stop responding to cultural triggers.

I return to my life in the forest, the Wandering Wonderer becoming the stationary Meditative Monk again.

I lose all my friends, stop wanting to love, no longer share realtime observations.

I no longer care about making a viral video and just express me as artistically pure as nature is.

My friend, you said you no longer know what love is and I don’t know if you still feel that way.

I love you and I’m still figuring out how to make more of my time available to you, if you want it.

I want to write about you, about our friends, about the everyday struggles in case it might, like dance, help someone feel better or find a way out of a tough mental situation.

But I respect your privacy and I admit I’m stuck right now finding a way to balance my belief that you support my artistic independence against not writing down events in our lives that others (and probably we) don’t want to be written down, almost lying in the process.

Last time I was at this point in my artistic expression, I walked away from you.  This time, I’m just taking a couple of days to decide what to do next, willing to stand here and feel pain while I’m sorting myself out, rather than running away and hiding once again.

I’m moving forward, and even though I stop in my tracks sometimes, it’s still progress.

You gave me the strength this past week to look back 50 years in my life to see who I really am; in this case, I’ll only tell you in person and not write it down because I’m learning to respect my privacy at this point in my life while I assemble the pieces to build my new life offline; otherwise, it just becomes another short story that sort of ties in with the other stories in this blogosphere.

My life is not just a story.

Sometimes it’s real.

It’s time to practice dancing a WCS routine!

Facing the facts

There was a time, long ago, and a time, long in the future, when I believed there was a person for me in both.

I chose yesterday to believe I would realise who that person is.

I fully believed that person is you.

Luckily for you, I know who I am, know that I’ve believed too many times to want to recall that I would change and haven’t changed.

I’ve cared about your wellbeing, always glad to see your friends step up and visit you when you were ill.

I didn’t expect someone as beautiful, smart, loving and caring as you to walk into my life.

I’ve never felt I deserved you as a friend, never understood why you’ve chosen to stay in contact with me.

I am a terrible person.

I am full of self-hatred.

My wife validates my self-hatred.

I’ve wanted to love myself and you give me every reason to believe I can, allowing me to mentally free myself and believe there is any chance I could be someone else.

But today, when I sat down to figure out how to live by myself financially, I realised first, that I’ve never lived alone and second, I don’t want to end up like Nats, alone, miserable and not giving a fuck about the world.

You have a nice house, a husband who cooks for you.

Why did I think your friendship was more than caring for a fellow human?…why did I substitute your friendship for something that I wanted, not what you wanted?

When did I believe our roleplaying was real?

When did I mix up my thoughts?

Last night, I stood back and looked at the smiling faces taking dance lessons.  I saw the success you’ve achieved, how much I’ve wanted to feel like I was somehow associated with it and realised I’ve lied to myself.  You are naturally a successful person, I just happen to be around in your life as you’re climbing the ladder of success.

The old cause-and-effect correlation fallacy at work in my thoughts.

I apologise for making assumptions.

I don’t believe you ever read these blog entries so I can freely write them to you and not worry about hurting you.

You have inspired me to write them for years now.

Every time I have gotten this close to believing there is something between us that makes starting a new life worth trying, I have written a narrative reason for backing out.

This time, I pushed so far as to talk about divorce with my wife, which, no matter what, has planted seeds of doubt in her thoughts for the rest of our lives together, causing irreparable damage.

But I was willing to take that risk.

I’m still moving forward but I’m scared out of my wits.

I’m afraid that I’ll fall and no one will be there to support me this time as my wife has done for decades and my parents/sibling before that.

Why I fell in love with you the first time I heard your voice, I cannot say with certainty.

Why you’d want me in your life is even less clear.

I’m standing here because I still love you.

That hasn’t changed.

If our separate artistic independence spirits have any chance for compatibility, I don’t know and that’s okay.

We’re not lovers and may never be.

We’re friends for whom time has no meaning.

Marching to the beat of my own drum, at my own pace…

Lately, I have used “lazy” verbs in my writing, variations of “to be,” “get”, “use,” “have,” etc.

I focus on conversational tones to set the tone of this noncontroversial tome.

Because I live in my own world, my own word combinations (but not my own words), I march to the beat of my own drum, at my own pace, sometimes in synchronisation with others, and sometimes not even in syncopation.

I seek no audiences.

I seek no paying audiences, that is.

I seek the audience of self-entertaining writing by being here, writing and reading what I’ve written, knowing only that the self will ever truly understand itself in what it sees in its reflection here in these words.

I nearly died twice in the past year from some random poisoning effect.  Theories abound as to what might’ve killed me — spoiled food poisoning, food allergy, tick/mosquito bite, rat poison or some other industrial waste in manufactured food.

Possibly, my thought process shifted because of those two events.

I do feel a little more desperate to father a child before I die than I did a year ago.

Because of that desperation, I chose not to touch a woman last night when I attended the weekly Monday dance class I thoroughly enjoy.  I only hugged or shook hands with guys.

Last night I didn’t want to be human, I didn’t want to believe I am merely a reproductive set of states of energy seeking a mate.

I gave myself the perfectly acceptable excuse that I don’t really exist and will die childless, walking away from the person(s) who give me the strength to believe it’s possible I am human, after all.

It’s easy to put these words here on electronic scratch paper, arrange them to entertain myself and give impressions about what goes on inside my thoughts which generate these sentences, paragraphs and blog entries.

None of them are real.  They are arranged sets of “zeroes” and “ones,” binary digits or bits.

Anyone who understands the quandary understands why I know I don’t exist.

Any person who first drew a set of lines and circles, recognising the image of a stick figure, understands the quandary.

We are approximations, models, of the ideal person.

We build subcultures around ideals.

We assimilate with what we believe are the best approximations of the ideals we most want to assimilate with.

My problem (and I am not the only one) is I am the only me, the only approximation of myself with whom I most want to assimilate.

That in itself is a quandary.

I want to live with another me.

I have looked.

And looked.

And wished.

And hoped.

When I find a person or persons who best match(es) the approximation of me, I freeze, because I really don’t like me, thus making me afraid that I’m not going to like the person(s) most like me.

I don’t like being me.

I don’t want to bring another me into the world.

It takes a lot of mental processing to handle being with other people.

I can throw so much stuff at people they can’t see who I am or who I’m not.

Even now, I write this blog in dissociative mode, aware that one or more people I know will read this and it bugs the hell out of me because I can’t really, ever, be me in public, if there is a “me” at all inside this everchanging set of states of energy in motion.

I am an approximation of my self to myself, adjusted to entertain those around me.

Some of the labels I use to describe myself as a social being:

  • The chameleon.
  • The people pleaser.
  • The contrarian.

I find the prettiest, the most handsome, the smartest, and/or the most lonely person I can find and focus on that person as if that person is my whole world, in hopes that it will temporarily erase myself from my thoughts.

Currently, I find myself seeking the freedom to be a polyamorous person (meaning more than one person with whom I actively have sexual relations, including the relationship management issues of deciding who is the primary, secondary, tertiary, etc., sexual partner), when, in the past, I had the same opportunity and walked away from it very decidedly, unwilling to sacrifice my mental “intellectual” freedom for the constant mental struggle to manage emotional relationship ups and down.

I have been here before, in other words, with a whole other set of friends and had chosen to walk away, marrying my childhood friend, instead.

I purposefully selected a practical, intelligent life partner who would provide a stable financial home for me to express myself through writing without the struggles to make a living as a writer by myself; in the process, I made a professional management career of my own whilst carving out a little time to write, earning a few dollars as a newspaper reporter, and making a little pocket change as a published author.

Thirty years later I find myself here in a sunroom where I’ve written/typed many words for myself and to others.

I’m afraid I’m too much of a narcissist to ever love more than a reflection of myself in others, my self being my favourite person to hate and punish for being himself/herself/whatever.

I wish I had something to offer others but all I have are these words.  Sexually, I know how to flirt and dance and look longingly into other people’s eyes; I’m a sloppy kisser and get bored/uncomfortable having sex, wondering why I’m having intercourse if it’s not to procreate; I always think, “if we’re not procreating, then can I get back to writing cause this rolling in the sheets is interfering with an idea I’m processing for my next writing session?”.  Financially, I’ve got very little; my wife is the millionaire, I’m just along for the ride, with a small annuity to supplement Social Security payments in a decade or so.

I love to write only because I like recording my thoughts, even if I don’t like me.

I may or may not register a place on the autism spectrum.

I don’t know what normal is, having been told ever since I started hanging out in social settings (beginning with my first grade teachers) that I tend to drift off from others, losing touch with conversations and sometimes literally walking away.

I’m not a lone wolf.  I need the whole village to keep this idiot alive.

I’m not sure but I think I might want to cry right now, cry for the person I should be, for the human that might exist inside me, but I can’t cry.  I feel cold, mechanistic, an automaton, a fractal spinoff of a star.

I will always be alone in my thoughts.

I will always see others alone in their thoughts and know how to temporarily snap them out of their thoughts to share a space between us.

What is tomorrow going to be like?

I don’t know and I’m afraid to ask myself.

Living through today, this waking period of 10 to 14 hours, is all I can ask of myself.

I’m numb.

I’m scared.

I hate myself.

I don’t want to live another day.

Getting older was supposed to make me wiser.

I simply feel old today.

Too old for words.

One day left

Lee looked over his shoulder at himself writing.

He avoided his thoughts for two days, paying more attention to family and friends gathered to celebrate college graduation of a loved one, his niece.

As usual, he observed group dynamics, removing himself from the equation to assess potential storylines while participating as a character in his own narrative.

His mother was worried.

At 83, she wanted to attend her 65th high school reunion but doesn’t drive at night.

She thought her grandkids and their friends were spending the night and the house wasn’t cleaned up for guests.

The next day she was going in for a memory test with a neurologist.

Two days ago, her son, Lee, the narrator, nearly died of shock after consuming something — powdered or processed egg and egg byproducts — and the next day her granddaughter received her baccalaureate degree at a graduation ceremony.

Today, Mother’s Day, her immediate family took her to eat at a restaurant they last enjoyed together 50 years ago.

For her, the last 50 hours were more eventful than the last 50 days or weeks.

Her thoughts weren’t used to social media speeds, where ten minutes offline was a week in realtime.

To her younger family members, her memory wasn’t working like theirs and appeared in comparison to have problems as she repeated questions to get answers she could work with, to integrate into her thought patterns.

Lee watched and listened.

Tomorrow was important for his mother.

Tomorrow was also important to him, for tomorrow, a few hours away, was the first day of the rest of his life.