Food in the fridge...

I just went to the bathroom at work.

A co-worker came in, and set his day planner down on the small table that is in there. As I was washing my hands, I glanced over at it. I wanted to know it's location because the table is placed under the towel dispenser and I didn't want to drip water all over his day planner. It was set on the far side of the table, well away from the towels, so that was a relief, but as I was looking at it I noticed he had a post-it note in green stuck to the front of the day planner. On it was written "Food in Fridge."

I'm glad other people have to write themselves notes to remind them of the most mundane and tiny things. Sometime I feel like I need a post-it that reads "Remember to Breath."

The mind branches...

Jean was talking about Icelandic dialect, and I can't remember what got her on that topic, I think perhaps I was jabbering on in some lame accent in an attempt to talk about something.... no wait.... it was definitely something I was saying about Iceland, and dammit if I cannot remember what my point was...

While she was describing the dialect to me I asked her about her schooling. She attended CalArts at some point, and I was curious about her studies, and how she came to know certain people and what events brought her to that point in her life, at which point ---

I realized that in mid description of both Icelandic dialects and CalArts schooling experience, that I had interrupted her twice, and was doing so now, a third time, realizing my own train of thought that was following some strange branching path, that, as she said something, it triggered an association in my mind, which, I think, is normal for most people, although, I seem to have a need to follow that branch immediately, letting go of the current topic before the new one slips away. So without hearing her out to finish her talk, I stop her and immediately impose my new thoughts on the discussion, which made her think of ---

Smoking forest rangers. Her and I were in a fantastic scene in improv where we played a couple of foresters who smoked. by smoking, I mean we started forest fires. We were quite the grizzly pair, and many times throughout the scene we were confronted by minions of the law and our situation was precarious, yet we also, with nonchalance, skirted any ill fate from our subversive actions against the land with which we were trusted to protect. A sad and yet funny situation. So much like real life I think, which made me think of ---

The walking around exercise we practiced in improv, where we, as players would simply walk around and carry on conversations about real things in our lives we had experienced, was not a scene, but a real story from our real lives, and at some point, Peter had all the other players step off the stage and Jean and I had continued our real conversation, and at this point we began an improvised scene. We continued, in an honest manner discussing these things in our lives, which I can only remember included something about band in high school and people who played horns, and at the same time, improvised some sort of scene where we were a couple in a grocery store. It was very real and believable, with many layers, complex characters, much like real life. It was a fantastic and deft way to expose us, as improvisers and students, to the higher complexities of character and scene creation.

At this point we realized how far off I had branched from the original topic, without ever resolving the topic(s) we started with, and we began to hunt backward to the start.

I don't know that Jean ever got to make the point she had about Icelandic dialects, and writing this now, I can't even remember what I was doing that made her bring it up in the first place.

So I guess all I've discovered here is my memory isn't as sharp as I'd thought and I interrupt people while they're talking. God, I'm a jackass.

unhope

hope is for those who have none. for it will surely never come. those who seek it, do so in vain. hope is the symbol of that which you long for, the description of that which you do not possess. for hope possesses the hopeful, like a sickness. a siren-song, it overcomes the light in their eyes, it overcomes the vitality of their life. hope saps them into inaction, to drift like derelicts amid the darkened skies, like so much dead wood, trapped in an inland lake. for those with hope, they are delivered only despair.

for those that receive what they wish, have no need for hope.

I used to believe this. I never hoped for anything, or perhaps I feigned that I did not. But I've learned that I lie to myself. I hope for a lot of things. I've found that often, I have nothing but hope. I can't decide if I still believe this, because if you have hope, then you do not have what you hope for, and if you have what you've hoped for, you no longer need hope. What is hope then? Some kind of emotional prosaic? A sort of mental rocking to and fro of the mind to give solace?

As Dante saw upon crossing the Acheron, the message at the entrance to Hell: "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." Of course this refers directly to Hell itself and not our mortal lives, at least as far as the story is concerned, but I can't help but wonder... Is hope ever a promise that is made good on? Is hope benign or benevolent? Is it something worth aspiring towards? Always hopeful for something? I presume those with hope, hope for something good, for others, or for themselves. I guess that people also hope for bad or evil things. I'm not really sure what the nature of hope is, after all this. It seems a circle that leads me back to the paragraph at the top of this blog.... a circular nonsense. I'm hungry, so I eat, I eat, so I'm not hungry. If you have food, you do not have hunger, how can you hunger, when your appetite is satiated?

It's only the starving that hunger so.

I find myself embracing hope now, as I had shunned it before. And I taste my own bitters words, knowing that I may indeed, have none.

Will you pass through this night?

I came home last night and stood in my hallway for like 10 minutes before just sitting down on the floor. I just sat there. Everything was quiet, it was around midnight. I had turned all the lights out except the one in the hallway in anticipation for going to bed. I suppose it was misleading to say I came home and stood there. I'd actually been home for an hour or so, and had done a bit of emailing and drank some water and let the TV run, as if it was a faucet, and not actually using the water for anything.

Sometimes I feel so detached, and I don't know, it's like I was just sitting there feeling my life. I don't have a better way to put it. Like falling into ice cold water and instead of flailing and thrashing about shivering, I just surrendered to the chill. I felt very calm and in the moment. Still. If I was happy, I'd say peaceful, but I don't think that word applies.

I stood upon a frozen lake at night, dark clouds a low ceiling, walls of barren trees, like blackened skeletons circling. They maintain their distance but I see no opening, no exit. No light in the dark wood. And I slip into the freezing black water. Sinking. I'm sinking.

Now this is all very dark and dramatic, but you must understand this is a metaphor. This is required to properly convey the feeling. Sometimes a word or two simply will not do. "I covered myself with a blanket, and I was warmed." That's nice and you get the point. "The blanket wasn't large enough to cover me, and I curled into a ball." Oh, you didn't know that did you? "The blanket was thick, and had a furry texture to it that produced lint, but also held the heat and kept it close to my body. It felt almost like a pelt, sort of primitive." Hmm, not bad, you're getting a bigger picture. How about this? "The blanket wrapped around me, I felt calm and secure. My mind drifting through the gates to sleep and gentle creatures leaped through a beautiful nighttime forest in my dreams." How pleasant.

So, in fact I was merely present in that moment, sitting in a most improbable place for a human to be sitting, in my home. And these are some of the things I felt. Some were internal. Others felt like the stuff of the planet, massive below me, my life and all that I am, everyone alive everywhere yet quiet, maybe even ghosts of the dead swirling about, and heavenly particles rocketing in their divine clockwork play through my very body. No ticking of the clock was present. No sky circling, sun rising or falling. Just a perfect moment.

It wasn't altogether a bad thing.

I wonder if that's what zen feels like?

5:33 or 7:08

I alternate.

For about a month, I woke up at 7:08, every god-fearing morning. 7:08 happens to be 1 minute before my alarm goes off. It also boils down to the number 6 in numerology, which can be a positive nurturing thing, or negatively, bitter and jealous. It also refers to the Hexameron.

5:33 is a more recent occurrence. And for about the last two weeks I have alternated between awaking at 5:33 or 7:08 a.m. In numerology this is the number 2, and it has to do with relationships, and is the opposite of unity, the number 1, which is the perfect number, I think.

They add together to 8 which is a pretty heavy duty number. It has to do with Karma. I'm not going to expound on Karma at this time, but if any of you are familiar and believe in it... well... you can fill in the gaps for yourself.

I do find it interesting in how these numbers, 6, 2, and 8, relate to actual events in my life and what I feel I need to learn at this point. But what is really intriguing to me is not just the fact that I can find something in my life to correspond with these numbers and their explanations (I suppose most or all of us could find something, coincidence or not) but in how they are layered. I noticed 7:08 first, so I take it's meaning first, followed by 5:33 (I have a special fondness for 33, not sure why, like how some people are haunted by 11:11, which I also have been lately, maybe I should factor that into my calculations... note to self... ) and then the sum of the two and it's meaning. In my life, the Karmic implications of these two numbers is very apparent. Interestingly enough, 8 also corresponds to Capricorn, which is my sign. I know I'm not explaining any details of my life at this point, you'll just have to take my word for it on the meanings. But quite literally, the first number begets the second, and the third number encompasses both of those. For me.

I should confess I know nothing about numerology, and any numerologist that comes across this blog is welcome to correct any fallacies I have presented.

What is peculiar though, isn't my pretentious fascination with a bunch of numbers that I see every morning upon waking. It's that, even with the recent Daylight Savings Time shift, I am *still* waking up at those two times. I'm not coming awake at a certain point in the day, I am coming awake corresponding to numbers on a clock, which, when you get right down to it, is pretty arbitrary. My internal body clock immediately shifted itself by one hour to match DST, a clock, not the earth or the rotation of the Heavens.

What the fuck is with that?

Grey guts.

This is about addiction.

I'd like to say that this isn't something that's familiar to me. I'd like to say my recent experience with addiction was a new one. I'd like to say all kinds of shit that appears to be clever and inspired. But mostly it's just sad. Mostly it's just like taking off your clothes. Not hot sex. Not passion. Not ideal. Just naked. Hair, blemishes, knock knees, scars, pot bellies, whatever you have. It's what you are. It's what we all are. It's what we all hide.

My father is an addict. He is an alcoholic. He beat my mother, and me. Although I don't remember much about that time. I remember enough. I'd like to say he isn't a terrible man. But I just don't know. I haven't spoke with him in 5 years. I don't know why. I guess it would be more accurate to say he hasn't spoken to me. He has not communicated with most of his family, if any, in a very long time. I guess that's what he needs. I can't really say. I don't know why. I'm told he is doing well with his addiction, and that is definitely a good thing.

But for me, I guess the damage is done, and I notice that addicts don't really come clean (to turn a phrase) very well, and face up to the people they abuse. They generally consume the ones they love, like they do their drug of choice, and once that is done, discard what is left of that person

My wife is an addict. She smokes pot everyday. She uses several other recreational drugs. She has used them enough to have to hide when she uses them, to lie about using them. She used them enough to become verbally abusive with me. Enough to fight with her friends, and family. I lived with this for several years. One year without it, while we were separated. She is 36 years old and claims that the most important thing to her is being a mother. A coke snorting mother I suppose. I'm not judging you drug users out there, I don't really care what you do. But for me, it doesn't work. I've tried it, it was fun. But I don't need it to have fun. I can do that without drugs.

Really what it comes down to is self medication. Something, somehow, is inside of her, that she needs to cover up. Some people get prozac. She chooses cat tranquilizer or pot. I can go on and on about how empty she is when she's high, how it's like being with a body, but not a person. Indeed, I've written many pages on it already. What I'll do with that I don't know. It probably doesn't matter. It's a painful experience to have someone choose drugs over you. Every time they look you in the eye and lie to you about their drug use, it's betrayal. It's infidelity. So what if she lays with another man? Here she is, looking at me, at our union, our trust and breaking it, saying, snorting coke or dropping ecstasy is much more important to her than being honest with me. She is betraying me in her heart, not just her body. And because she can't go a day or a week, or month (for fuck sake) without drugs, she never really knows her own feelings. She never really sees the pain she is giving to those around her.

My addiction?

I'm addicted to her.

Sticks, with twigs

I realized that I don't categorize my blogs. How can I? I only have like 7. I can't say that I have exactly 7, it could be 8 or 6. I could type out those numbers, which is correct grammar I think. But none of that matters.

What does matter, is that you've read this far, and will soon be rewarded with knowledge and power. For you see, sometimes, something that is important can be right in front you, perhaps, not simply there, but actually handed right to you, placed in your hand, by some benevolent force, or some other run-on sentence.

It can be innately important, or it can simply represent something else, which carries some kind of value. To you, or to your group, maybe to someone else, through you, or maybe carried to them inside your pocket, if it is a tangible thing.

But what is truly amazing is the human ability of self-deception. Yes, self-deception, your old friend. This tangible, or non-tangible item, placed in your hand, metaphorically or metaphysically, can be, with many commas, and little effort on the part of the recipient of such an item, ignored. Looked over as if it wasn't even there, never mind it may not actually be there unless it is materially manifest in nature. Which, if I'm not mistaken, is a redundant way to describe it's nature.

The real question is 'why?' Why do you do it? Why do you overlook, sometimes willingly this thing placed before you? It is important. You need it. It has been delivered to you in your moment of need. At the very time, when nothing else can help you, possibly save you, from something, you act as though it isn't even there. Is this a conscious decision? A willful ploy to increase one's own difficulty? Some terrible blog with question after question pondering some kind of existential nonsensical self aware trivia? Who knows? Do you?

Be aware, for this happens to all of us more than you know, probably more than even I know. But the universe is trying to help. When it's not trying to harm.