Jus' livin'

The spank patrol spanked me. Sheesh. I guess these folks operate some sort of program to troll blogs. I could opt to erase the comment, but I am all for freedom of speech, so have at it.

* * *

I slept for about 18 hours yesterday. I continue to hide. I seek numbness, I think.

* * *

Sometimes we fail to accomplish something we have set our hopes on. We put our every effort into the project. We know we did not fail to do our best. Still the project is not complete. Should we continue or be satisfied with our effort?

If the project consumes our lives to the point of preventing us from doing and enjoying anything else, then call code. If the same problems plague the project continually, time to scrap it. We should not punish ourselves if the outcome fails to meet expectations.

* * *

I ran across this graphic. Think what you will.

* * *

You still are in my heart.

Later.

Who's to bless and who's to blame?

Though the past lies in the dust of yesterday, some of it clings to me.

I earned my stripes as a child in a small college town.

My father served as head of the journalism department. My mother, who worked at Phillips Petroleum during World War II, taught for a time at the high school, but eventually became a lady who lunches.

I never, not once, heard my parents argue. While this may sound utopian, in reality I missed out on a valuable skill. I lack the ability to argue without taking the words personally. I walk away before I argue.

My parents did not spoil me; but I never lacked for something they considered essential. I had ballet lessons, music lessons. I played softball. I got my first car as a senior -- an almost 20-year-old Chevrolet that we called Old Brown. Dad won Old Brown in a poker game, though I did not know this for years.

My parents spanked, though not often. Two times stick out. A young friend and I decided to walk to my dad's office. We made it. I was 4. The other time involved misbehaving in public. I had to wait a couple of hours for that spanking. My conscience worked overtime that day.

My parents came from large families. In the early years, we made the journey to grandparents' houses for Thanksgiving and Christmas. The grandparents lived a hour or so apart, so we would spend time at both sets. I had bunches of cousins. Good times.

When I was older, I spent a couple of weeks in the summer with my grandparents and a cousin. My grandparents owned a small weekly newspaper in an area that was drying up even then. There in that dusty, dark shop, I fell in love with newspapering.

The rhythmic slap of the old press mesmerized me. The literal bells and whistles of the Linotype. The rollers that applied ink on the small job press. The shiny metal ingots transformed into liquid silver. The big, backward wooden letters in their drawers.

My parents did not hug nor show affection. Was there love? I think so. But not what my soul craved. As a consequence, I yearn for affection but shy from someone's touch. A total mess.

Life goes on. I wish you peace.

Later.

Life force

No matter how old we get, emotional issues continue as a force in our lives.

We want responses when we reach out. We want validation. We feel the chill of a cold shoulder. We might carry on day to day with the pain and uncertainty of an incurable disease, but the emotional equivalent of stubbing a toe sends us to our beds.

Preconceived ideas weave themselves into a relationship.

Today, we have relationships with people we never may meet. This places new emphasis on trust. That makes the random thing even more mind-boggling.

You know what? I care.

Later.

Holes in my heart

The whole world seems a bit off.

The weather throws her fits earlier this year. Most everyone I know stresses. And even the people who seldom fall to illness find themselves down.

Bright spots burst through occasionally. Old friends reconnecting. An email. A phone call. The spontaneity of a child.

* * *

I finally did some chores that hung over my head and weighed me down. Tape, CD in the mail.

Sometimes a simple act can turn into the biggest hassle. Wonder why that is?

Silence deafens.

Everyone acts. Some work at perfecting the art.

* * *

I have your IMs, your pictures, your music -- remnants of a friendship. The evidence we existed.

I think I knew from the beginning our time would be short. Each moment both taken for granted and relished. I wanted to be there for you. I wanted to be there for me.

I do not bring out these treasures. They remain just out of sight, ready for the call.

Dude, it's another miss you day.

Later.

Tell me why

Some questions never find answers. You pick them up and turn them every which way, but you never discover the hidden latch or trigger to unlock their mystery.

For some questions, the answers reveal themselves in time. Rather like a crossword puzzle. Slowly filled in.

For some questions, we know the answers but refuse for a variety of reasons to acknowledge them.

Questions, like worry beads, always are there.

Did I do the right thing? Did I fail you? Did I fail me?

The what if questions have to be the most destructive.

I know in my heart you were leaving no matter what. Nothing I could do would change that. But I wonder why you chose to tell me what you did. I wonder why it went down the way it did. I will never know.

Later.

Colors of my life

My kaleidoscopic life shifts again. A slight nudge and the whole pattern changes. A colorful, fascinating show, sure to delight and entertain. Humph.

I am powerless to stop the shifting shapes, and they mesmerize me.

At times, I focus on the pile of darker shapes at the bottom. Useless as they seem, soon they will combine their strength to change the picture dramatically. Often the tiniest piece causes the biggest shift.

The constant movement separates pieces which fit so uniquely for a sole pattern. A shift or movement followed by awareness of a new pattern and the slowly fading memory of the last one.

Every piece in my kaleidoscope shines at one time or another. Some play prominently in several of the compositions, some fall to the pile at the bottom often.

* * *

I confess I use a questionable diversion in the mornings so I can write. I throw a treat party for the boys. Open pouch, shake treats around on the floor in the living room and soon the guys are following their noses and munching. No fussing at me. Free time.

* * *

I finally gave in to the craving. Sometimes you do what you gotta do. I ate half a 12-inch deep dish supreme pizza and almost a dozen cookies yesterday. Not in one sitting, by the way. Results: gained two pounds and cankles. Maybe now the urge will cease.

* * *

True friends rise to the surface when the waters are rough.

* * *

Later, dude.

Rockin' with nature

Yesterday humidity hung in the air like a translucent curtain. Last night, Mother Nature finally erupted into a bitch fit. Ms. Nature uses our area as her laboratory. When she needs attention, she mixes up some nasty mocus overhead and hurls it across the area and into Okieland. Last night she was testing her fits, vintage 2010.

A former colleague, Alex, took this shot as Mother's brew started to gain potency during a storm last year. Last night, Mother yelled and screamed and cursed for a few hours, but finally decided to call it a night.

* * *

I have reached the point in my illness where I wonder if one more day of isolation will serve me or not. I have a growing list of errands that add pressure in the decision-making process.

The food situation remains steady, though I seriously thought about driving to the store for ice cream and cookies about 6 p.m. yesterday. Thanks goodness that urge went away. I had French toast instead.

* * *

Thanks for being my friend.

Later.