Today Is About Her

I think I fell in love with her the first time as I was sitting with her on the phone while at work. She was having a massive panic attack and was literally under the counter at Tim Horton’s where she worked because of course, she worked at a Tim Horton’s. She was so scared, so very alone at some hour far past the time where most people get coffee in the middle of the night. She wasn’t scared of being there alone, or robbers or any of that, she was simply scared and she called me to help her with that. Being me, I made her laugh. I made her laugh until we realized she had used the store phone to call me long distance, back when things like that mattered and she promised to call me when she got home to make sure I know she was okay.

A few hours later, home with who I would later call my Elder Duck, she had just got out of the shower and drank some of the coffee she had been making all night and called me. It was a much more subdued, yet pleasant conversation. I am pretty sure she was embarrassed by calling me earlier, but I never once ribber her for it, up until the day she died I never mentioned it again actually. We talked about how abysmally cold it was where we both were, I was in Kansas at the time, and all we wanted to do was curl up with one another and get some much-needed sleep for both of us.

No sex talk, no flirting, just a scared human being calling another human being who they thought would be able to help them through a tough time.

The entirety of the time we were married it is what we excelled at with one another. Even if we were outrageously pissed at the other, which admittedly happened a lot more than it should have, if there was ever a point where one of us went past a place, we would simply know. Whether it was a look, a hitch in the voice, or suddenly needing to leave the room. Not out of anger, but fear.

We would stop and just be there for one another.

So on Mother’s Day that is what I am choosing to focus on, that is what I am choosing to allow into my mind and my heart, and I am pretty sure it will get me through the day just fine.

Music Soothes The Savage In Us, Releases The Primitive, Cages The Demons And Is The Memory We Can Always Count On

It is ironic what can make your heart bleed, isn’t it? For some people it is things that bring happiness and joy, for others, it is that which devastates and brings agony. Most of us are a combination of these things, however. For me, it is music. Music is that which does both for me. I have songs for virtually every mood I am in and the mood that I want to be in. What the music is isn’t so important to this as knowing there is a medium that conveys, nearly perfectly, everything you feel in life. Not everything, no, but enough to call it a majority by a landslide.

The plurality of the available options is staggering, even from the most modern artists. The farther back in time one goes the more exponential the number of things that can be conveyed. Or, and this is a thing that I think is wonderful beyond words, two people can listen to the same song and have diametrically opposite feelings towards it. You can hear me laughing over your weeping and you can see my sobs even as your skin crawls in ecstasy.

Words, while directly describing the feelings from time to time, are not a necessary element. Anyone who has ever listened to Adagio for Strings as arranged by Samuel Barber and felt it the way a great many do knows precisely what this means. Or when you are listening to the bass of the 1812 Overture as the cannons fire over and over or even when you hear the synthesized bass drops of Dubstep. Words may make it easier for things to be understood, but when you feel a song in the center of your soul, you will feel it whether or not it has words or not, I promise.


When I listen to Cry Baby by Janis Joplin, even as I type it in fact, I start to tear up because, of all the demons my mother had in her life, and they were nearly infinite, that woman had a phenomenal taste in music and she passed it to her children. Being the hippie of the family, the folk and acid jazz from the sixties were my birthright and it is one of the few things I can thank my mother for without shaking my head in pain or rolling my eyes with sarcasm. Now while every song in the ten years that were the sixties is not known to me of course, enough are that I can close my eyes and remember the scant memories of childhood that are not contaminated with the foulness of everyday life they were dispersed in.

Couples have songs that they call their own. Whether it is in a laughing way or a way that makes you nearly see their love for one another, they are foundational characteristics of the relationship. My own are near and dear to me and I will not name them, it is one of the few things I keep very safe in a very clean room in the back of my mind that I go and sit in at least once a day with my eyes closed and allow myself to remember and feel everything and anything that was Naomi. I cannot do it all day or else I would be nearly catatonic, but when I need to find respite, even for a moment when the world has told me I am a failure for the hundredth time that day, I think of that room and I crawl to it and listen to these songs and smile with a purity I do not deserve.

I did not forget the anger. Music is a very good conductor of this often misunderstood emotion. It is not good to be violent at all times nor is it healthy to be angry at all times. However there are times when you can release that anger into the world, sometimes even by putting the headphones a little tighter, turning up the music a little louder and letting all of your emotions flow as the music takes away from you the foulness that you do not need and have never deserved.

So I ask you, all of you, during this time when we are all, hopefully, distanced from one another physically to tell me your songs that are the balm for your soul if you are comfortable sharing them. Or, if you are not, then simply listen to one of them when you can and find yourself in your own clean room in your mind and heart remembering that which deserves to be remembered the very most.

Analysis Of Stupidity, Greed, And The Avarice Of The Human Condition In A Little Under Six-Hundred Words

Now that my headache has reduced itself to a passively dull roar, I think I can get to the writing of things that I have been meaning to write for nigh on a week now with absolutely no success. I am going to have to ask you to go on a little trip with me today because I am pretty sure that some people are going to disagree with my interpretation of the motives I will discuss, and that is fine as we are all entitled to our opinions on the matter and, given the subject matter I admit my bias is about as high as it can get.

So, in the words of my beloved witch Corrine, Let’s Get Started Shall We?

I spend far too much time on Facebook for my own good, I know this. I also write about my late wife a great deal. However, as of late, Facebook has been using the latter because of the former, as you can see from the picture below.


Now, I am sure some of you will roll your eyes a bit and say that this is a sweet thing, and as I said this is your opinion. However, after conducting a little experiment, I am pretty sure that it was targeted advertising and that does not sit well with me in any way, shape, or form.

Death Profiteering.

These people/this person/this company has decided that what they want to do is get men, and I am going to assume there are opposite societal gender equivalents, to spend money based on the grief and emptiness they feel as they think of the passing of their loved one.

Now, I will again admit I am very close to this and am biased beyond words. That having been said.

How fucking dare you pick the lowest motherfucking hanging fruit on the goddamn tree and try to siphon money from people who have lost more than is even imaginable.

How fucking dare you try to make me pay so I can wear a thing that tells the world that I love and miss my fucking wife. I am well aware of what I miss, people who know and love me are well aware of what I miss and I do not feel the need to advertise my pain to make you a goddamn dollar.


Now, the experiment I conducted is that for a few days I browsed Facebook solely with the account that is connected to my web page and not me personally. I did not get these ads a single time. Following that, I spent three days counting how many times I saw this ad and when all was said and done after three days I had seen it sixty-seven times.

Sixty. Seven. Times.

I understand how targeted advertising works as much as the standard layperson, but doesn’t a near 70 impression count to a single source over 72 hours, on both PC and Cell, seem a bit much? I need to see the ad nearly once an hour on average? I need to have you hammer the nail into my heart roughly that many times and, what, Ia m supposed to buy your shirt to make the pain stop?

I am pretty sure if that was how it worked I would have bought a fucking coffee cup over the last half-decade or so that my wife has been gone thank you very much.

Thank you for reading, I needed to get that out of the way.


I Used Sisyphean AND Tantalus, So, I Get Bonus Points I Think, Don’t You?

There are so many things that I want to say to people that I am terrified to say to them because if they reject me, that’s it, I will shrivel and hide in a fucking corner until the end of time and pretend that I was never a thing, never mind a vague humanoid type thing. I am pretty sure that is the thing in the Universe I am more terrified than anything else. Not death, not meeting my Goddess, not seeing those who will demand answers that I will never know, but to be discarded like refuse on the highway and forgotten about before I even leave their hand all the way.

It is not the existential that drives my mind into the darkness of itself. It is not the fears of the afterlife, it is the stark and very real terror of being completely abandoned. I am very aware that this is a fear that most people seem to take care of when they are far, far younger than the forty I am turning on Monday. In fact, I am positive all the things I have been feeling for the last three or four weeks are directly tied to that particular fact. I can say that age is just a number and all of the other things, but I never expected to get out of my teens, forty is terrifying beyond rational thought.

So, that is where the lizard brain is.

The Bear, however, is in a completely different frame of mind, or at least a chunk of the Bear.

See, forty is a motherfucking milestone. It’s a huge thing. As I said, I got past seventeen, I am living on time that is beyond borrowed, this is the compounded daily shit the mob charges you when you go to Louie the Knife to see if you can borrow enough to pay off the other guy you borrowed money from. I have made mistakes that only can be made when you make other mistakes. I have hurt people, myself, and all of
that bullshit.

So, here I am.

Fourteen thousand, six hundred and seven days old.

Maybe life is not the Sisyphean horror show that I keep thinking it is. Maybe I am not the Tantalus of lore and just a normal guy who finally got his head just far enough out of his ass to live a life, marry a wonder, have gorgeous children and now I just need to stop and fucking enjoy some shit.

Let’s do this?

Radio Silence

I don’t take breaks from social media very often, and when I do it is mostly because I have a huge upset in me that I need to process and I don’t particularly want to do that in front of my closest friends and chosen family. I am well aware that they, you, will help me with everything that I need help with because you have a thousand times before and I promise you will a thousand times after this.

I am reevaluating my presence on social media completely. Why do I need to be on SO many things? I’m on Mastodon for fuck’s sake, NO ONE is on Mastodon. Twitter and Facebook, MeWe and Tumblr, LiveJournal (yes, that one) and Discord. Why do I need to have that many people have access to the things I am thinking and feeling? I know I am a Stage 24 clinger but I don’t need that many people knowing what the fuck is going on, and not going on, in my head, do I? Do I really need to tell people how sad I am every day? How much that or this hurts? How much I miss Her? Does EVERYONE need to know EVERYTHING?

No, they don’t…….I do though.

I need to tell things, whether it is editorialized things like this or a fantasy of dark faerie queen.

It’s like Rilke says, “If, when you wake up in the morning, you can think of nothing but writing . . . then you are a writer.”

I can’t remember the last time I woke up not wanting to write, I don’t know if I ever have done such a thing since I found the notebook by the dumpster at some no-name motel in Sylmar, California almost 35 years ago and just started writing how much I hated her and how bad it hurt.

I wrote then as I write now, and the pain goes away, even for a few minutes, maybe an hour. I write a story and I can make others happy. I write a book, maybe I will never feel the pain again?

See, you did help me, you do. Every time you read something of mine, you help. Every time you like it, or even casually mention it, that pain just ebbs a bit, not even as much as a moment, but it is there and I will love all of you forever for it.