The More Things Stay The Same, The More They Change

I suppose it should matter that it is Saturday. I know it does to my friends in the ether who are gainfully employed and can rest from their burdens for a few days before going to serve the greater good once more in their chosen professions. For those of you, loving souls who work today and tomorrow as well know I have not forgotten you and I value your sacrifice and dedication just as much as those who work the weekdays alone.

Then there’s me, the unemployed guy with kids who haven’t been to physical school buildings since march and has had to look at his phone every day he has wanted to know the day of the week since very early May. It doesn’t matter what day it is in the long and the short of it, not to me. I mean, we don’t watch network TV, we don’t go anywhere, we don’t do anything. So, Day A is just as monotonous as Day R and even then I can’t tell the difference.

It is more annoying than distressing I suppose. I am sure there are some long-term psychological issues with quarantine I am not familiar with, but I am pretty sure that defeating COVID is far more important than anything that I might want to go out and do and I refuse to bring an illness that might not attack me as virulently back to people who it would decimate in every way.

My brain is very sludge-like today, so I am now going to string random things together until I don’t want to write anymore, sounds like a plan, no?

Yeah, I miss some of you WAY more than others. This is not something you are supposed, to be honest about when people ask about it. I am not going to lie and say you are in the top twenty of my People if you are simply not. If you can not accept that, that is your issue to work on internally, not my issue to change to suit the needs you have.

Who wouldn’t want to see their best and closest friends first? Isn’t that why you give them, justifiably it is mostly a negative thing, a ranking of “best” or “closest” in the first place? If I just wanted to see people I can just sit my fat ass on my stairs and wave at the hundreds of people who come down here every day to buy there stupidly illegal herbal supplements.

I want to hug my best friend and have her do that thing where she makes me believe the world isn’t completely waste and needs to be purged in a fire. I want to hug my Air Traffic Coordinator and spin them in a circle and make airplane noises because I am infantile and the thought of doing that gives me a laugh every time. I want to see the kids of my friends. I want to see the Warrior Princess and stun her with my fly-catching abilities, I want to give bro-hugs, to be a Bruncle, to see if you can play the guitar, to see how gigantic you have got since the last time I got to see you.

Writing sappy emails is fine and dandy, hell I do that out of quarantine, but being able to say those things to your face and make sure by your reaction I am not going to maudlin, or idiotic for that matter, is so much better than that. To see your eyes is everything, you know that, right?

I have a migraine. Yeah, yeah I know I always do. It is a bad one and I have been trying, successfully thus far if you are reading this on Saturday at all, to not go back to bed and sleep until the pain is gone and I can’t feel any feelings anymore, because I don’t want to do that thing right now, it is hard and sometimes you are allowed to do the whole “put down your labors, O ye weary traveler, and rest” thing, right? Maybe I am misremembering my Torah though, it has been a few decades since Hebrew.

I have been reading Edward Lee for the last few days. Now, if you don’t like gore-for-the-sake-of-it, nearly illegally pornographic, horror writers, maybe don’t click on that link. However, if you want to read wonderful books like Lucifer’s Lottery and Carnal Surgery, (for those that may ask, no, there are no affiliate links attached, I am not that kind of an asshole.) then I highly encourage you to read them. Despite the purposeful provocateur approach taken in the writing, the style is beautiful and if you happen to be a fan of philosophy, especially Nietzsche and Kierkegaard, he is your go-to horror writer.

A sweet kitten has just clued me into a thing dysphoric mania, or a mixed state. Think of it as being manic and depressed at once, which is pretty much hitting the nail on the head for where I am right now. I am exhausted and can’t sleep, I don’t want to do anything but sat and spent three hours organizing my Dropbox into a few dozen sub-folders this morning. I will be talking with people to see if I can get any assistance with this, but in the day and age of COVID, well, we will see what can be done.

Yeah, I think I am done now. I have all the thoughts to write all the things, but the energy to move the fingers is gone, so I guess that is what people would call a cue to disperse activities.

Be careful. Love One Another. Wear Your Masks. Stay The Fuck Home if you don’t have to go out. Flatten The Curve. Wash Your Hands. Socially Distance. Yes, I am very sick and very tired of saying this to the fucking imbeciles who need to hear me say it over and over again.

I am tired.

Goddess Love With All Of You, and, as always, until next time, I Bid You, Peace.

Pseudo-Intellectual, Post-Traumatic, Quarantined-Instilled, Ramblings

I will mention, but not complain, about the power going off twice yesterday. It is not like I was the only one affected by this and perhaps a little perspective on the situation would do me some good, no?

No, today I am going to talk about healing, a thing I am incredibly bad at, which, in my own little twisted logic loop, makes me the best person I know of to talk about it.

Physical healing is one thing, but maybe talking about the healing of other things is more pertinent to the discussion. We all have the physical scars from the time life has kicked us while we were down, but those scars remind us that we are, in fact, healed from those physical ills.

It is the deeper hurts, the hurts of the mind and the heart, that take the longest to heal if they can ever be healed at all that is. I am a firm believer in redemption, but there are things that can be done to you that can not be, should not be, forgiven. perhaps re-categorized as something other than what they are. I suppose it is the Viking in me that wants to make sure the grudges are never forgotten and that all markers are called in at the end of the day.

I will not retell the life story, I think that is counter-productive at this point. I will never forgive for some of the things that were done to me and, obviously as I am talking about them thirty-five years later, I can not forget them.

It is this, this memory wound, that I need to heal from.

…..This is not going the way it was supposed to go, so, in the nature of the Seeker learning from the Universe, let us follow this tangential thread as it winds its way to where it is supposed to go…..

Closing my eyes on the bad nights is as bad as being there all over again. Even as I write this, the sun in the sky and the Goddess above, I can feel the whisper of the tar-black darkness of it creeping along my psyche.

The dreams are not nearly as bad as they used to be. They are more images than actual remembrances and even those things that are clear as crystal are obviously behind the safety glass and my consciousness is well aware that they can no longer hurt me despite the vitriol still contained therein.

Safety glass. I have never looked at it like that. Like it is an exhibit at the zoo and I am safely behind that which will keep me safe and away from those things that would remove my face purely for the sake of having a thing to occupy their time as their brutal captors watch with a mere scientific interest in the phenomenon.


Am I the one trying to rip the face off of the innocent? I am the one struggling to break free of the cage I have been put in/put myself in so that three can be some semblance of a return to what that part of me would call order? I am guessing being controlled by the Id is probably not the most optimal situation on the best of the days.

Now that I have your full confusion and attention, maybe I can try to get back to the point of what I wanted to say, which was sometimes we have to look outside of the normal zones of comfort to see where we can find that which will heal us from the hurts that we are so inflicted with. From the medicines of countries that are not ours to things a little farther afield than that.

Food for thought.

So, remember this, all of you.

Epstein didn’t kill Himself, Science will always top Fear, Black Lives Matter, Pride is more beautiful than Hate, Wash your Hands, Socially Distance, and wear your fucking masks.

Until next time, as always my beloved Gentle Readers, as always, I bid you peace.

Help Me. Or, Turn It Off.

My mind wanders, it’s what it always has done and always will do. It’s how I get the best things that I’ve ever written, it’s how I express myself is my love language, it’s how I’ve gotten myself into every single disaster that I’ve ever gotten myself into. It wanders and sometimes all I can do is just come along for the ride and hope that when it’s done, I know where I am and I can get back home okay.

Every since the beginning of the COVID pandemic, it’s been wandering further and further afield because it has less to concentrate on than it normally does. Which is awkward seeing as I actually have my children more often than I normally do, but that’s besides the point altogether I suppose

This morning, I wrote a thing. I’m not ashamed of what I wrote, nothing of what I wrote is a lie or even vague in its meaning. The problem with what I wrote this morning is that it was so purely unintentional. It came out then a torrent that I could not control until I was doing the editing after the fact.

Now, as much as I’d like to say that I’m not in control of what I’m writing and that there’s some eldritch power controlling me from beyond mankinds understanding, what I think is happening is that I am allowing myself to slip into my own head and hide there for a while because I am not a big fan of what I see in the real world anymore.

I’m vaguely aware of what I’m writing now, but I’m writing it mostly because I’m in the middle of a panic attack and a migraine and I’m lying in bed in my bedroom, in the dark with the air conditioner on full blast and I’m just talking into my phone with my eyes closed. Which, is why you might see far more typographical errors in the field of punctuation than you normally would when it comes to writing that I present.

I was telling my best friend just the other day that sometimes I just need to say things. I I’m very well aware of how few people read the things I write, and that’s okay because I don’t write 90% of it for them, I write it for myself and is a record for the things I’m going through at the moment.

So as I’m sitting here feeling like a stranger in a strange land, not knowing if I am sane or not, it behooves me to ask my favorite people for help. Now while I wish I could talk to all of you directly, I can’t. I can’t do that because life is cruel right now and I would give anything to talk to some of you face-to-face. Hell, I would give anything to yell at people I don’t like face-to-face at this point.

I don’t want pity, I don’t want understanding, I want help. Not the professional kind, I’m already on the list or two for that. Yes, the same list that I’ve been on for over a year now. Maybe I just want people to tell me what’s real and what’s fantasy? Where my thoughts stop and the real world begins?

Either way, my head hurts too bad to keep going.

Be kind to one another, love one another, wash your hands, wear your fucking masks.

I love you, and as always, until next time, I bid your peace.

Without Darkness There Can Be No Light

So, I am in a mood to rant and I wanted to bring up some classics, so, why don’t y’all grab a nice warm cup of coffee, or tea, or an iced whatever, and listen to the Bear get some of the poison out of himself so maybe, one day, he will be able to say all of it is gone and he is as normal as people who don’t carry resentment and gate with them like treasured possessions.

Plus, no names, y’all know who these people are, so why give them power by putting their names in things so they can go ahead and play the victim?

I suppose we have to talk about the one whose name actually came up like the gorge from a dying sycophantic whore this morning. She stole thousands of dollars, hundreds of hours of our time, and she even had the audacity to claim that I was taking her away from my children. Well. I mean, yes, when I tell you to GTFO, that is generally what I want you to do is to get away from me and mine.

Every time I saw you it towards the end I was always curious how your hand would end up in my wallet that day. I was with you for some of the things you needed money for, so I know that some of them were actually legitimate things. I di understand that. I have been rat fuck poor for the majority of my life, which is why I never hesitated, even when I KNEW you were lying to my face, to all of us, just to feed some ego trip you decided to go on to see how much you could get from the guy with the shattered heart and broken soul.

Thank You, Drive Thru, Next.

I could rant about you all the rest of my days and never get to the root of it all. I will talk about broken promises today though. How you swore you would never get back on it, over and over and over again. How you said you were done and it was a one-time thing. How you told me you would NEVER drive like that with him in the car. I mean I guess the big one was until Death Do Us Part, right? I mean, did you go a week before Wayne? yeah, yeah I know about Wayne at the Canal in the Buick. Which, by the way, sounds like such a banal and stereotypical fucking “she cheated on me story” as to be laughable. He told me by the way, a few days later. He told me and he was actually upset. I won’t speak ill of Wayne though, that man had a nightmare for a life and all you did was push him a little farther towards the end you and I both know he had. However, in the end, maybe he got the justice he deserved when you died and even now are sitting in a lake of your own filth somewhere begging everyone and anyone for everything and anything.

Pretty Sure That’s Enough, Isn’t It Darlin?

I have tried man. Almost forty damn years I have tried. I tried to be a Friend. I tried to be Brother. I tried to be the Dad. I tried to let you do all the things, I tried tough love, I tried a combination and I even went ahead and tried, well, where we are now. I was so happy when you met Kris and all of them, still am actually. This isn’t blood and water shit, no. No, I gave up on that old axiom years ago, we all did. You found your Family, I found my Tribe, the other one, well, misery is its own company.

I don’t wish you harm, illness, failure, or pain. Quite the opposite of all of them in fact. However, what I can promise you is that I will not do it all over again when it gets too hard for you and you need to quit. You still hate me for the decision I made when Thundercunt was here, and maybe I was wrong, but you need to pretend to understand that no matter my fault in it, you were wrong. You don’t treat a human-like that, never mind someone that the both of us, stupidly I’ll admit, loved. Like meat, like a…thing. I can’t ever let that go, not after what we grew up in, not after the nights when we would listen to the other scream, then you turn and you try to do that? In MY House?

No. Done.

Since I did the baby, I suppose it would scandalous of me not to talk about you now, wouldn’t it? The forced matriarchal figure of the wee little clan that we have now. All of them dead, all of the best parts of the name destroyed before we were even thoughts in drunken people’s minds. You have to go back to Ireland to find any one of them that is worthy of a wooden nickel. They at least knew how to love their children. I don’t blame what you have become completely on you however, no, this is definitely a case of nurture over nature. I remember you when you were sweet and kind. Remember when you were at Columbus and you were in that play and you were the storyteller? That is the best incarnation of you that I can bring to my heart.

That was during some of the worst of it, but you don’t believe that any of it did, and for that, I can never forgive you. I can not simply accept that you will deny my pain and her crimes simply because they are icky things that you are uncomfortable thinking about. I have wronged you, Goddess knows I have, but I have never taken your pain and simply tried to make it disappear, never.

I can’t anymore. I won’t.

Well, now I think it is my turn. Do you know the person writing this? Oh, I hate myself a thousand times more than I will ever hate any of these people. I hate that I was the teenager I was, I hate that it took me so long to talk about what my mother did, I hate that I fought with my wife and didn’t enjoy EVERY second with her. I hate that I am not a good father, I hate that I can be a shitty friend. I hate that I constantly need the affirmations of others to make myself seem less like the fucking loon I know I am.

I hate how I hurt you when you needed me most Bear. I walked away from you and instead of talking and doing, I did drugs, married a whore thrice over and destroyed the lives of others so I could not, would not, feel the soul-crushing agony of just being me.

Now, this is isn’t a suicide note, I will end with a bit of optimism.

I try.

Yes, yes I fail more often than I don’t, but some days I even manage two steps forward and one back so there is actual progress and not just me punching the same wall in Sisyphean idiocy until I am bloody and broken, vacillating between moods like a strobe light between on and off.

My Tribe holds me together, pushes me when I need it, screams at me when I need it, kicks me in the ass when I need it and I can never love them enough for all the things they have done, do still, and will most likely do in the near and far future.

See, happy endings.

Now, take a deep breath and, like me, cast all of this from your mind and remember that it is all just a day by day adventure.

Wear your masks, wash your hands, love one another, and, always, until next time, I bid you peace.

Well, I Knew What I Wanted This To Be About. What It Ended Up As Is The Wonderful Horror Show Of Writing Blind.

In Which I Examine My Parenting…

You know when people who are your age look at you and then say something like “Oh, you remember what we were like when we were that age.”?

See, I don’t.

I really have no concrete memories of anything that happened in my life from about July of 1995 until the Very Bad happened a few years later. That isn’t to say I remember nothing, I mean, I got married three times, had a son, got divorced three times, somehow managed to not fail out of high school and became a gigantic fish in the tiny, tiny pool I swam in. So yes, I remember things from those years, I just don’t remember things.

I don’t remember the subtleties of what it is to be a teenager, because I never lived the normal experience enough to tell you anything about it.

I can tell you what it is like to sit on the shoulders of a seven-foot-tall Ugandan giant named Umaki who I watched die in my arms, but I cannot for the life of me tell you what it was like going through hormonal changes in relation to the attitude and actions of the said teenager.

I can tell you the exact moment I knew that my life was going to end in horror, but I cannot tell you what it is like to get ready for prom, even though I apparently went to four of them.

I can tell you how to swear in Farsi when you see people you owe a lot of money too and you know there is nothing you can do to get away from them and the bad they are bringing, but I don’t know what it is like to ask dad to borrow the car keys.

I am not asking for pity, understanding, or even advice, I am merely stating facts that occurred to me on my yearly guaranteed sleepless night. I sat there encased in a wall of sage and patchouli smoke, my eyes wide open in the darkness while I said and did the things that needed doing to honor so many things.

As I drifted away from the Now, I remembered not just the Then, but the Never Was. I tried to look at it like I was reading a book, and reading it I discovered I had entire chapters missing that most people simply take for granted as everyone has.

The biggest example I suppose is my father.

My father was diagnosed with Colo-Rectal cancer in the summer of 1997 and was dead before my birthday the next March. My mother and I were the only ones who knew the details of everything because my sister was at school and my brother was, we mistakenly thought, too young to handle the information as we would have presented it. So while my mother and I were not surprised that mate February morning, everyone else was. They were so mad at the two of us for withholding all the information we did, and I know now how selfish it was for us to do it the way we did. However, at the time, it was the Now.

The Never Was of it all was having the family gather at his bedside as he passed, tears being shed, love outpouring from every one of us to strengthen the rest of us.


None of us really wept the day my father died. I will pass that as shock, but he has been gone twenty-two years now and I still have yet to shed a single tear over it because, well, he wasn’t a nice and good and awesome dad like we made sure everyone thought he was. Even after his death, my siblings keep up the charade of the Father Of The year, I refuse to expend energy on a lie that vast.

I’ve derailed here, haven’t I?

Oh yeah, Bro…