Sometimes You Simply Need To See Word After Word Go By

Tidal

It isn’t always about telling a story or making sure that you get your point across to a specific audience. It isn’t perpetually about making you sure you anticipate critique and use it to block the negative carefully. It isn’t even always about letting people read the words that you are writing.

Sometimes you need to write down words as they come into your head with absolutely no destination point in mind, no end to get to, and no saga to continue.

In the summer, blue skies always remind me of laying on my back in the scraggly grass that we had in Lancaster. It wasn’t quite nuked to death by the sun or dehydrated from the sun. It was so comfortable under the fruitless mulberry we had in the front yard. I would look up, and I would see this perfect azure blue to the sky. It wasn’t graduated, it wasn’t layered, it was a solid sheet of the color blue like you were looking at a color swatch in a paint book. When the clouds would come across like little pieces of popcorn, they would always be moving so fast because of the higher elevation that we were in in the desert. They would be there in the shapes that you would turn them into, and before long, they would be speeding away towards the valley to get turned into the movie stars shade and the beach bums weather reports.

The clouds coming over the mountains, coming in from the west, always looked like a giant foam from a wave that would take everything. All that you needed was to wait for just a second. Then there would be a thunderous cataclysm, and the valley would be washed clean of the gang-violence and the broken promises of employers who didn’t need to know your language to offer you a job no one would take for that kind of money. It would erase the pain from the broken families and the terror of the Nightstalker. Even if it had made it down to Millwood Ave, they would have found a way to make the wave wash the truth away and let them hang so desperately onto the alcoholism and deceit that kept the happiest family in the barrio together.

Water is the happiness I have trouble putting into context for someone who has never wanted to disappear in the Pacific and be found like a message in a bottle, thousands of miles away. We would go down to Malibu or Zuma, and they would wait with tapping feet as we tried so hard to get clean in the ocean in the Magellan called the Peaceful Sea. We would dance in the seaweed and the shells and try to keep our eyes open the entire time. We wanted a recording of the moments we got there, of the times when we were truly free. Sooner, always sooner, we would be back in the car driving up the PCH and back to the air that was so dirty you needed to breathe slower on the cloudy days if you would fall over and cough up blood.

We left the ocean, where there is no memory of ill or fault and only raw power and beauty. I fell in love with here, I honestly did. I have sat by the lake with a fifth of Whiskey and a folded over notebook trying to be Dylan Thomas with a heroin problem, or later on, maybe I was Coleridge without the heroin problem. I would write my nonsense prose, my rhyming couplets, my sing-song story poems, and at the end of the day I would walk back down 19 to the shit hole on the corner of 18 and climb into bed and listen to the same five songs I still welcome into my soul every day.

As things must go, days and weeks faded into months and years: death and love, more the latter than the former. I am blessed with beauty in my life that I do not deserve. I look into the eyes of three of the most beautiful creations in existence, and it stops my breath to know I had anything to do with how they have become the wonders they have become.

Sitting here, I never realized how much time had passed, passed with nothing to show for its passage, but scars I cannot heal from and trinkets I would gladly return.

Then, There Are Dark Days

Dark Days

Dark Days. Least fun of all the days there are, but they need to be spoken of regardless of our desire. These are not the anniversaries, those you can prepare for over time. These are not the birthdays, those you can steel yourself for those. Now, these are the days that were special for such hyper-specific reasons that no one but you both knew them.

What today is, for the point of this, doesn’t matter. Plus, even I like to keep certain things behind doors that only I and perhaps a very small few get to go into and discreetly look around before reverentially closing the door again.

I tend to be very snappish on dark days, a shorter fuse than even I have. I couldn’t tell you why. I suppose it has to do with trying to hold all of the other things back against, trying to not flood the mind with the negative bound up in the wonderful.

The problem with the dark is that no matter how hard you try, the light seeps into it. Usually, I am fully in support of this. Still, some things need to stay the same in our memory and not be purged away like a forgotten phone number replaced with some very Disney version of the facts.

It is better for the soul. I think that we remember it the way it was and not how we would have had it been. Sometimes there were fights when you want there you want to be kissed. You want there to be laughter, and all there was in actuality was tears. Disguising the dark with a rainbow is a disservice to the memory of the things that genuinely occurred. A false way of making yourself feel more like a real little boy instead of the puppet we all must infrequently be.

On dark days like this, I tend to hermit even more than I usually do and write or read a great deal. As much as I would love to tell you I am going to write copious amounts, I am most likely going to read comic books on my computer and try not to yell at my children. They have no idea why I am upset and why explaining it would only upset me more.

The weather is definitely not helping, although the clouds will most likely aid the temperature and not allow my brain to get to unparalleled pain levels. I don’t think we need to go anywhere today, so it will be a quiet day if nothing else. Even if I do have to go out, it is most likely for a quick little errand that will most likely do me some good to look at the sky instead of walls and ceiling.

I know I am the height of Bear Emo by saying things like dark days, but the words are in there, and all I am is the court stenographer. You don’t think I actually come up with all of this by myself, do you? No, the little gnome people in my head are awfully busy, and I have to say I don’t particularly mind.

So I will drink my first, and then my subsequent cups of coffee, look at my kind shoot other people on Xbox for a bit, snuggle the little guy, and then see if Stephen King’s kid is as good at comic books as I have heard that he is.

Take a second today, and just take a deep breath and realize that every second you think you can shrug off is retained in some way. You genuinely need to make sure that you enjoy every second of the good.

I Write, Super Secret Psychic Boost

I Am A Writer, I Write

Every time I write something, I get this very delightful endorphin rush. It is nothing like sex, getting the shit kicked out of me, or even chocolate. It is always there, though, a noticeable and delightful little buzz that lasts for a bit, usually just long enough to get to the next thing I need to do for the day.

So, by writing two, three, or even four of the blog posts that I do every day, I get to maintain a nice little mood buzz throughout the day, and, as a bonus, it even helps with my migraines sometimes.

I love to write, so it isn’t as if the entire thing is a chore by any stretch. It is easier some days than others, but I usually have enough juju to get me through a few of them. On the bad days, you will get the one. On the horrible days, you don’t even get that much. I am always thinking of the things I want to write, so I guess there is a little continuity there, if nothing else.

Today, for example, I am full of metaphorical piss and vinegar. I will be posting as much as I can to get the most out of my brain, which has been a deceitful cunt the last few weeks, and by doing this I may entertain you, I get my rush, the world gets more of my rambling and, best of all, I get the purpose of this, the super-secret mental boost.

So, since you have all digitally pinkie-swore never to reveal to a soul what I am going to tell you here, I feel free to spread the right and sincere message.

The Fucks.

True, it has been thought for decades to be merely a myth, however fraudulent this may sound my Family of Readers Gentle, I can tell you with all of the truth in my heart that it is a fact. When I write the short notes, the long narratives, or even the stupidest of laughable entertainment, I am rewarded by the Great Goddesses of the universe with Fucks.

Yes, for a short period, I am given the ability to implement a Fuck about something. I know it sounds impossible, but nay, it is so. I can care about things like television, music, and even Facebook memes in their deliciousness.

It is a short-lived thing, but it is sometimes worth it to get back to something that sounds normal in this bizarre world we find ourselves drifting in. It is this ability alone that has allowed me to spend nigh on one-hundred days with my children and insufferable YouTube.

When it leaves, it is not with a pang of sadness as all of us are so used to not having any Fucks . When the Fucks have left, or flown as they prefer to call it in their gibberish language, we are abandoned in the apathy of their absence.

So yes, as I transition to fancy word man back to the Bear in his living room, when I write, I get to care about the things I customarily don’t have the effort in me to care about these days. When I write, I say hello to more people, I love fiercer than I usually do and, most importantly, I get an opportunity to look down at myself and see the things I need to change to get back to a good baseline.

Take this with the obligatory grains of salt, of course, what helps me may or may not be due to deeply imbedded childhood trauma and escapism, so your mileage definitely will vary.

RAWZ

What Precisely Is The Story, Morning Glory?

The Light Of My Morning

Ever since the pandemic started, the set morning routine has been thrown away entirely and replaced with the slipshod one we have now. A fun (said sarcastically) little thing has been happening every single morning that had not ever occurred in the nigh on twenty years I have been a parent.

Sometimes it is a little before dawn, other times it is just after midnight, but without fail, for the last three or four weeks, my little guy will make his way upstairs and sleep in bed with me for the final few hours I am upstairs. Now, all things being equal, I don’t care that he does this, though, there is a downside I had not thought of until this morning.

See, when my brain decides I am awake for the day, I cannot lie in bed anymore. My back starts to hurt, and my mind finds things I need to go and do. Writing is a big one, of course, calls of nature, the ever-popular search for the magic bean water, you know, morning things.

This morning, this is before six, my wired brain had made its pronouncements. I was getting ready to rise from my opulent and frozen bed-throne and descend to mingle with the wee folk downstairs when a hand reached out like that scene at the end of the original Carrie and yanked my beard with such ferocity I thought that the end was nigh for a moment.

No, no, the end was not nigh.

What was occurring was that my sweet and wonderful Babeh Duck, the apple of my eye, was looking at me with determination one sees in professional athletes. Willing me, willing me, I say, to lay my fat ass back down so he could get a few more minutes of shut-eye before we went down and fought the battles of the day.

Yes, my enfant terrible made me lie back down and forced me to stare at the ceiling for a good twenty minutes while he finished the fight he was obviously in the middle of as he lay there. Unless he always kicks and punches like that when he is dead to the world that is. When he finally did crack open his eyes, his brilliant baby blues flashing up at me with that innocence and wonder he seems to have. He smiled for a few seconds and then proceeded to bounce, literally and 90’s slang word, out of my bed and make his way downstairs, knowing I would follow like the good little lap-dad that I am.

So while I was going to sit and talk about the positive psychological stimulations writing multiple times a day gets me. I decided that I needed to write what I believe in high school was called a Current Events piece for your perusal and see if you are laughing as much by the end of it as I am sitting here with my coffee in my left hand, my fingers absently stabbing at the keys with my right hand.

Today I will indeed write about psychological benefits and maybe go back to The Alley. I am in a mood, so I really can’t promise what won’t come out of my had, I can only hope you will be mildly informed and decently amused by it should it fall within your comfort zone.

I love all of you, even if we have never met or have met just a few times. I love you because you deserve to be loved, and you deserve to be held high and admired for your wonder, splendor, and the joy you have to bring to the world.

Some Final Observations On Polyamory From Yesterday

Peace Be The Journey

Now that I have fully regained the use of all of my mental faculties, the strength of which I will leave to others to decide, I wanted to go ahead and say some things to add the to the conversation to make sure that it ended on the positive note that it should be ended on. 

I am not, nor will I ever, advocate for the lack of polyamorous relationships. I personally believe, entirely and wholly, that the majority of human minds are wired to have incredibly complex, romantic, and caring thoughts and relationships with more than one person. It does not make you “lesser” to disagree or flat out refuse this conjecture as it is, of course, my personal opinion and is as valid as your opinion is on the subject.

My life has been made more fulfilling because polyamory has been part of it. I have met incredible people and enjoyed extraordinary and surreal experiences that I would never have felt or experienced had I been in a purely monogamous relationship. 

Plus, no, not just sexual stuff. I am sick and tired of people walking up to me with fucking winks and nudges and eyebrows when they talk about polyamory. Do you have sex with your partners in polyamorous relationships? Sometimes, yes. Is it a mandatory thing, absolutely, the fuck not. Poly is multiple, amorous is love. Multiple love. Not multiple fuck. Go look at some other very carefully and correctly described words for that kind of thing, more power to you on your journey, and I wish you nothing but happiness and successes on it.

I cannot begin to tell you the benefits generally, so I will let you know about a specific thing that has stuck with me, and forever and always stick with me.

See, if not for polyamory, I would be a dead Bear. That isn’t a metaphor for an empty heart, not a euphemism, not a philosophical construct.

No, I would have slit my motherfucking throat and been dead.

When I tell people I love them, it means I LOVE them. It is not a half-assed thing for me, and I do not associate with people who I, at least initially believe, half-ass this complex and intricate decision. This is a life-altering wonder, and it is not to be fucked with because you think it is a sweet way to get your genitals stimulated.

AHEM

Now, all of that negative stuff having been said, please do not fear. I encourage everyone, even those who choose not to become involved in it, to become educated on the subject. There are local groups who can help you. Yes, no matter where you are. Yes, even there in Jesus-Hates-Different, USA. I have lived there, and my wife and I led the group more than once.

Educate yourself so that you can feel happy for others even it is not directly a cause of your own.

Be happy, loves.