A pink cement kind of night

This blog has served as a repository for ideas and observations.

Occasionally, real life is so much more interesting than fiction that I want to record every word and action not only for diary/journal recall but also as a way of telling us that no matter what we’re facing in life, regardless of how lonely/insecure/helpless we feel, someone else has probably experienced the same thing and survived.

I have decisions to make and a quiet moment to contemplate where/how to toss pebbles into the pond of life…

As I simplify my life…

As I simplify my life — throwing away, giving away, selling the extraneous — preparing for an offEarth trip, I briefly contemplate the past, recalling memories tied to inanimate objects.

With the objects out of my life there is less chance that the memories tied to them will resurface.

I won’t look at the dashboard of the 1962 Dodge Lancer anymore, remembering when my father drove the car across the local mountain and worriedly asked me if the brakes were going to work long enough for us to safely get to the bottom (my father’s fear of heights was triggered by the sheer dropoff that only a guardrail prevented a car out of control careening over).

The ATV/lawnmower trailer holds few precious memories for me.  I bought it from a man who needed money to move to his new job in Michigan, buying a lawnmower and trailer from him.  I sold the mower months ago and cut apart the rotting trailer this morning.

What is next in my life?

Do I write about it now or live it first and recall it in some nostalgic moment in the future?

I shall continue to write about life on Mars and other activities in the Inner Solar System many, many sols from now, over 100 marsyears in the future.

I shall write less about life in the here-and-now or in the next few Earth years.

I have dropped writing thank you notes to restaurant workers in this blog.

Let my interaction with them in the moment speak for itself.  I’ll leave the thank you notes to my friend, Julia the Thanksgiving Girl.

Part of simplifying my life is thinking less about how I’m going to write about it.

Enuf sed.

Back to Mars!

SOLD

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A few (many) Earth years ago, I bought a 1962 Dodge Lancer from Eddie Shimpock using profit I made from the exercise of stock options while an engineer at Conexant Systems.  Eddie had repainted the car after buying it from the original owner because the car had sat on the side of the driveway turning brown with mold/algae, ruining the factory paint.

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I towed the car from the Charlotte, North Carolina, area, to Big Cove, Alabama, and worked on shining it up some more.

I felt fortunate that the car pretty much had all its original parts and proudly drove it to a local AACA (Antique Automobile Club of America) event where the organisers encouraged me to enter the category for most original car of the 1960s [or something like that].

I beat out Ford Mustangs and some Chevys for first place.

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It was exciting,  let me tell you!

Well, I noticed the car overheating a bit on the trip to the show so I returned home and removed the radiator (after draining it, of course) to get to the noisy water pump.

The impeller inside the pump had rusted down to a nub.

Not having a welding shop of my own to build a new impeller and wanting to get the Dodge back on the road as soon as I could I bought an NOS (new old stock) water pump and installed it.

Refilled the radiator system and the car engine system ran smoothly.

Sure, the dash-mounted pushbutton selector for transmission gears was a bugaboo sometimes, with the plastic “buttons” (more like odd-shaped rods) falling into the dash, requiring removal of the dashboard to find and remount them.

Otherwise it was a fun car to drive to UAH (University of Alabama Huntsville) classes and for my work commute.

One day, the car almost drifted into a busy intersection. Quick analysis showed that the brake system was not working.   I used the emergency brake to stop the car when I needed to and parked it on the side of my driveway when I got home.

Time doesn’t stand still for anything.

Sure, I meant to work on the car again.

But I didn’t.

I threw a cover over it and washed it occasionally.

Eventually the cover deteriorated.

I tossed the cover in the rubbish bin.

The car once again sat as a Petri dish for mold and algae.  It hosted hungry squirrels who left empty hickory nut shells piled on the engine block.  A mouse died in the floorboard.  Spiders left cobwebs behind. Poison ivy, vinca and Virginia creeper wound their way up the tires into the wheelwell.

It was time to give that metal love of mine to someone new.

Billy stopped by last summer and offered to buy the car and a truck.

I gave him a verbal agreement to sell both to him.

Six months passed by as he paid for the truck and said he’d remove it from the property, having not paid for the car.

Sadly, there will come a time in some relationships where trust is lost.

Time and again Billy said “I’ll come get the truck next week.”

Well, cry wolf too many times and trust disappears.

A few days ago a determined gentleman named Wylie stopped by, negotiated a price for the car and promised to bring cash.

He fulfilled his promise.  Not only that but he showed up with a friend and a trailer to remove the car yesterday.

The car was hard to get out of the side yard but he was able to drag it onto the driveway but not onto the trailer.

Wylie returned today with new friends, winched the car on the trailer and was about to leave when his friend Eugene offered to buy the truck.

Billy promised again to get the truck this week.  I’m sure he thinks he means to — after all I gave the title and keys to the truck to him on faith he was going to haul it away months ago.

We’ll see. I want to trust Billy.  I really do.

Actions speak louder than words.

As I get rid of more stuff in my life to lighten the load, so to speak, giving me the courage/opportunity to travel to Mars, I make decisions that aren’t going to make everyone happy.

If Billy doesn’t get the truck this time, I can with a clear conscience say I gave him ample time to do so and seek a new buyer.

I don’t have time to be Mr. Nice Guy to people who [un]knowingly test a reasonable time limit on my patience.

Mars…after the Moon…

Build your own ‘bot contest!!!

Sponsored by BIG DATA ANALYTICS (BDA)

How it works:

— Describe an aspect of life on the Moon or Mars
— BDA will aggregate the descriptions to create a new infrastructure/civilisation
— The most popular descriptions will be announced
— The most useful descriptions will be announced
— Two winners get an all-expense paid trip around the Moon to personally observe progress and report to Earth their impressions

I was a road warrior…

As I work out the design schedule in my engineering notebook for a product to sell on the open market, I think back to my time as a road warrior.

Where do the years ago?

I stand in the woods again, listening to birds sing as if spring has sprung, a warm day in the midst of winter, the sun brightening us, but not my melancholy mood.

I discover more about myself that I haven’t decided if I’ll push over into the fictional world of Lee Colline or simply blog about here.

Instead, I put a set of headphones over my hearing aids, play Claire Lynch channel on Pandora and ponder the possibilities…

Helpful hint of the day: If your hearing aids have a tinnitus sound generation setting, make sure the sound is loud enough to act as a white noise generator for a good nap!

Leaning on friends, part two of…?

At my age, I trust my instincts now more than ever, accepting that what feels like a higher than normal use of one social media product (Facebook) has…not a purpose or meaning, exactly…but fills a gap between two points, or connects me to a place further up the  mountain I’m climbing after encountering an uncrossable chasm of doubt and fear.

The same goes for real/physical life.

I have the goal of getting to Mars two hundred years from now and am leaning on the two friends who can get me there whether they want me to or not or whether they want to go with me.

No matter, the goal’s the thing and the friends are both the means and the motivation for moving me off my keister, buttocks, arse, tush to get there.

I love my wife dearly — she is an integral part of who I am from before I started dating girls/women, thus more aware than anyone other than my sister or mother of what/who I am.

At the same time, I worry that she is not interested in more than settling down in this suburban life for good, with the occasional vacation trip to other parts of the world, prepackaged excitement, well under control.

I am a wild man and would be dead now if it weren’t for her.

I’ve spent so long tempering the madness behind a shield that protected me from my father’s disciplinarian personality that I almost became a permanent automaton for the sake of a subculture that nourished and raised me but does not completely satisfy me.

My Christian friends have told me through the years to quit sitting on the fence and, presumably, to join them in their pastoral lifestyle that they see in me which makes them happy.

Little have they seen the real me who has no permanent happiness in weekly Bible studies going over the same material again and again as if there’s something in there they hadn’t noticed before.

By age five, I had my fill of the Bible and spent the next fourteen years nodding my head and feeding back to them their good feelings that they affirmed in Bible passages associated with their inadequacies and falling short of the perfection of an unseen deity.

But I found no relief in the religious text, hoping upon hope there was something else besides ritual, dogma and diatribes to cause endorphin and adrenaline rushes.

So it is that I find myself here, after getting an ego boost from nice words and phrases people give me on Facebook for the fourteen years of bliss I reflected back to them in my childhood and early adulthood.

They rarely if ever saw what was truly under the hood, what really powered my engine.

My wife knew.  So did Monica and Mike.  My sister barely had an inkling.

No one else knew the multiple personalities that begged to be released into society.

It’s time to give them full rein.

Abi understands more than I expected her to what lies within.

With her, I am learning to control the beast, to find the place between the madness and social dancing to make me someone better than I am.

With Jenn, well…a new storyline is emerging that changes my approach to the future.

What, if anything, they expect out of me, I do not know.  I can only trust my instincts that tell me to keep heading toward Mars.

Where my wife fits into all this, I can’t say.  I love her no more or less than before.  She has been so much an integral part of me that I trust her more than life itself.  If what people describe to me is the love of Jesus, then Janeil is my Jesus and of that kind of love, she is all I’ve known without fear of being rejected.

No one can make the next important decisions in my life except me.

These decisions include what the start of this blog entry was supposed to lead to earlier than now; that is, I’m beginning to see that Abi and Jenn are helping mold me such that my business side — the cold, calculating engineering project manager — can actually exist side-by-side (even happily so!) with my wild side.

Would that it be so!

It almost makes no sense to schedule my time to give my wild side room to grow but I think it’s time I do.

I practiced the idea when I built a desktop robot in dedication to Jenn’s father.

And, by golly, it actually worked!  I got to make a presentation on the Internet about the robot, explaining not only how it worked but also the theory behind it…and people were interested!

Therefore, thanks to the encouragement of Christina W., I’m putting together my engineering skills, my madness and my project management skills to branch out from this lab-within-a-study-within-a-bedroom-within-a-cabin-in-the-woods-within-a-suburban-subdivision and, should plans work out, open up a shop selling my wares, objects made with my hands from my imagination, all to raise funds for a trip to Mars.

How exciting is that?

We shall see how much my short story writing is affected — the quality as well as the quantity — may have to keep posting historical entries, a la Boing Boing, to keep readers interested.

Thanks to everyone for their support!

Shivering with happiness in the subfreezing weather

Who am I today?  In the growth that may or may not accompany understanding, learning and wisdom, the growth that is the concept we call aging, I ask myself who I am.

Am I a person or persons?

Am I the fictional character Lee who lives in my thoughts as my memory keeper, saving scenes in my life for later use as a written story?

I fall in love with everyone because I am in love with the universe, whatever falling in love may mean, a concept that has been diagnosed and diced by every living thing with a need for nourishment.

What is technological advancement, or expansion of Earth lifeforms into the outer solar system compared to dancing uncontrollably with Michele?

What is my life worth if I don’t get a daily dose of Abi’s eyes looking at mine?

And without holding Jenn in my arms, why do I exist?

I used to panic when I could not logically explain my actions to Lee, my fictional alter ego, so he could protect me as a character whose storyline has already been written and protected from dying.

I had placed my trust in my lifelong partner, who has served in the role of wife for over 27 years, by sending her letters of my private thoughts when a teenager as an investment in a secret relationship untouchable by time.

The letters sit here next to me, filling shoeboxes, protected from the light of day.

She is the second layer of protection atop the character of Lee.

But I leave backdoors to the chaotic, insane me, so that I can still feel vulnerable, open to love all over again for the very first time.

I’m just not used to having so many open relationships at once!

Why did I have to fall in love with two women at the same time?

Why am I not willing to let go of the two inner layers of protection to see where I can go next?

Why am I shivering happily, after sleeping under a blanket in subfreezing weather last night?

Why is planet Earth so inadequate to provide the future I want with Jenn and Abi?

Time to put my feet to work and make a new life with my inventions rather than give them away to others.

I am tired of sacrificing my happiness for the “good of mankind.”  Let mankind find its own happiness with or without me!

Forever Lost

I will always be attracted to someone like you. At the same time I will be repelled by your inadequacies, your humanness. I sit down to write, though, and I only think of you, you who is a reflection of me, a human, yet never completely like me because you are human. How can I ask you to be perfect?

If you stood in front of me right now, I would consume you like a can of soft drink, sucked dry and discarded. You would only provide temporary relief from my thirst and then I would want another. I consume you now, burning my thoughts of you to fuel the writing machine within my head.

You have lived a thousand years in one moment. You blinked your eyes and Rome fell. In one heartbeat, your children gave birth to a hundred generations. Yet . . . yet, yet, yet . . . yet you have one life to share with me, one life of remorse and forgiveness, regrets and love, a life filled with pain unbearable to look at. I want to have all of your pain, not because I want to relieve your burdens but to squeeze them in my hand and watch stories drip out one by one. I am mad with desire.

And don’t think you can run away from me. Once I have reached you, and you know I have, you will always cart me along with you like a monkey on your back. I won’t weigh you down but you will feel my presence all the same. You’ll cringe your neck muscles every time my hot breath creeps down you like a tentacle, feeling for a limb or appendage to grasp. You’ll relax your muscles when I whisper in your ear that I love you. You will love me and hate me.

I never worry about losing you because you are always there for me. Your name is different this time but I don’t care. You will give me what I want – a fleeting moment of humanity – and then I reduce you and our relationship to mere words. Don’t underestimate the humility of words, either. If you think you can escape unscathed then you have not lived. After all, life is painful.

I never lose you but I will miss you when I have used you and our shared moment of humanity is gone. Even now, I sense the emptiness inside of me swell up and beg for escape. I have to fill the emptiness or I have no choice but to die. I will not allow myself to die so I must take a part of you.

I cannot allow myself to live. Other people deserve to live their lives without fear of people like me, a leech.

“I believe we’ll have to commit him indefinitely this time,” the examining doctor told her. “He seems unable to separate fantasy from reality.”

“Can you snap him out of this? He still has moments where he seems normal.”

“Only time will tell.”

Time stands still at the corner, waiting for the bus. Cliché walks up and asks how long Time has been waiting. “Seems like forever,” he says, shaking his head. Cliché decides to walk on, he has had enough of the watered down years of standing on street corners and telling tall tales.

In the end, we’re all clichés for living.

I cannot help myself. I reject you with one sweep of my hand because I can never have you. I have nothing and hate myself for thinking any different. I am but a collection of entropy states swirling together.

Domesticity, plasticity

In the understanding that parallels deciphering my grip on reality, I could not sleep, wrapped in a blanket in the sunroom, the ambient temperature in the teens, the stars brightly twinkling, the Big Dipper teasing me through the leafless branches of a hickory tree.

Two thoughts tickled my curiosity:

  1. Why I fell in love with Abi and desire so much to please her with my increased dancing skills, and
  2. Wrapping my thoughts around Stephen Hawking’s new revelation about his old theory of black holes.

A short story waits to be written, weaving the continuing storylines of Guin, Bai and the Frenchman, as well as Cajessi, elaborating on the chapter excerpt below (written on 12th Oct 2013):

Unfortunately, Bai was allergic to a few of the chemicals and, while training a farmer who’d just returned from the fields, gotten something in her eye, probably when she rubbed her face on his sleeve during a double underarm turn.

Her next stop was a courtesy call and not a dance lesson.

Another dance instructor, Cajessi, landed on the planet two days ago and needed to acclimate a few days more before she hosted a two-day workshop.

Cajessi, too, had avoided body upgrades until she had reached her 80s.  Although she still looked elderly, her body was limber and her eyes sparkled.  She was famous for her favourite socks, a bright, neon green, and sold a signature line of them wherever she taught workshops.

Bai’s planet hopper landed next to Cajessi’s habitation module, sending up six puffs of dirt from the hopper’s footpads.

Time to read some of Hawking’s recorded thoughts…and wonder about jelly doughnuts on Mars…