All posts by texbatmart

Personal

Loneliness and the Inadequacy of Words

One of these days, I’m going to find true happiness, and this time it will stick. It’s not that I haven’t had my share of moments over the years, it’s just that I never found a way to make them stick, or gained the wisdom to accept them for what they are: perfect moments that by their nature must be fleeting, lest they consume one in a passion of perfection, normally reserved for the hearts of stars and star-crossed lovers. I doubt that I’ll uncover an answer within these thousand words, but there is always a chance that it may happen, nonetheless. Or maybe I will finally learn another lesson, one which allows me to somehow to stop dwelling in the past, and look toward tomorrow with something other than fear. It could be all of the changes lining up, despite how positive they may appear. I’m not really good with change, as I may have mentioned once or twice before. Sure, I can roll with the punches, and think upon my feet, but I’m not a fan of having to get myself out of my rut and making forward progress. Okay, I’m not sure that I meant to go so deep, but there it is: I’m scared of doing things to better my own life for fear that I might actually have a real shot at success. Now all I need is a large pile of money, and I can finally die happy.

Someone told me once that they didn’t know what the hell I thought that I was doing, that the life I’ve built around myself is naught more than a prison. In a sense, that person could not have been more on point. This isn’t a new theory floated within the confines of this blog: that there are two discrete versions of myself, locked in constant battle for my destiny. There is the part of my that grew up as an only child, in the home of a single mother, that wanted to wash away the failures of my father by being a husband and a dad. But in my moments of clarity, I knew that this was probably a great mistake. I’m not the type of man who is cut out to be a father, and I’m not the type of guy who should ever be a husband. I am selfish, and quick-tempered, strong-willed and terribly afraid. I am the guy who gives advice, but I’m not so hot at nurture. Was it a mistake to fulfill my obligations? Should I have just passed along my genes and run? This isn’t rhetorical. I’m teetering upon the point of crisis, and can’t stop myself from doing cartwheels into oblivion (side note: Cartwheels Into Oblivion should be the name of my new band).

All of this aside, I suppose that I could simply learn to take a bloody compliment. My ego will fill countless rooms and still yearn to spread into even more, but my self-esteem could quite comfortably reside within the envelope attached to a bouquet of flowers that the love of your life has received from someone else. Intellectually I crave adoration for the things which I’ve created, but I cannot believe a single pleasant thing which anyone might tell me. And if someone should dare to tell me that I’m pretty, or that I possess some qualities which might somehow yet redeem me, their words slide in between my ribs and cause my heart to cease its rhythm. I should probably look into therapy. This cannot be healthy. And yet… And yet, it is this self-hatred and introspection which flings me into the deepest recesses of the universe on my neverending search for truth, not that I’m entirely so sure why it is that I must know it. I want my life to have meant something, in the end. A child is an imperfect genetic copy which will imperfectly continue me down through the ages (at least until the madness becomes unable to propagate itself any further). My words, my rhythms, the act of etching myself, line by line and inked with blood into the social consciousness, that way lies the true path to immortality. But then again, who wants to live forever?

All of this, for just a single passing moment where I dared to let myself feel happy.

I’ve decided that I’m going to be happy. I honestly have not a clue as to how I’m going to make that happen, but I want this coming year to be the year when I finally pull it all together. I want to write my book. I want to know exactly what it is that I truly want. I want to stop hurting people because I am unhappy. It is no one’s fault that I am who I am, at least, for the purposes of this endeavor. What is it that I truly want? And who, exactly is it that I want to be? I’ve kept my most self-destructive impulses in check, which I suppose has been a good thing, but I haven’t accomplished anything which I always dreamed of doing. It goes back to being right or being happy, I suppose. Then again, I’m usually never happier when I’ve proven someone else wrong.

A thousand words of insight, and yet I’ve said not a single bloody thing. Just me spinning round and round in a circle, covering the same ground which I’ve been covering since I began to pay attention. I think it all boils down to the fact that I am lonely. I rarely speak to any of my friends (though I’m not up to it right now), and my family life has just become some sort of endless routine. For all that I am loathe to change, I am practically screaming into the night for something new to happen. I want to know the answer. I want to know the right thing to do. I want it to be okay.

I want…

Fables For The Jaded

The Man Who Couldn’t Give A Shit

To My Muse, wherever she may be…

There was once a man who went through life, untouched by anything around him. People who would pass him by, frequently noticed his loneliness, but he rebuffed all efforts to draw him in. He had no time, he’d say, and even if he did, he had more pressing matters on his mind. In short, he couldn’t give a shit.

His dour demeanor drove everyone away, but he found no solace within his isolation. Somewhere deep inside of him, a raging impotence was burning, but he knew that there was nothing he could do, and so he only folded it all down and back upon itself, until he very nearly convinced himself that everything was fine. He simply couldn’t give a shit.

The years began to pass, and still he drove away his fellow man, with naught but his apathy for company. He seemed in search of something, forever on a quest, but for what he’d never say, for it was known that he kept everything to himself, never even letting a nugget of himself slip away. But, of course, this is no way to live, just walking the earth, never giving even a solitary shit, and soon it was too late.

There came a day when he could finally bear his burden for not a moment longer. He fell down to his knees, doubled over in exquisite agony, and for the first time in his life, well and truly began to give a shit. But as I said, it was far too late. He had waited far too long, and as all his sediment and sentiment passed out his puckered jaws of victory, everything he’d held inside simply ripped the man apart.

The people passed him where he fell, and gazed upon what remained of him, a sadness briefly touching down upon them, but soon the feeling was gone. It wasn’t that they themselves could not give a shit: far from it. They’d their lesson all too well, having watched the suffering of this sad and bitter man. Having taken precautions to prevent such a grisly fate from befall them, they simply had no more shits left to give, and merely walked on by.

The moral of the story: Dietary Fiber for the Soul beats chicken soup every single time.

Uncategorized

What Kind Of Year Has It Been?

I’ve had this website for a year now, and I thought that it would be appropriate to look back over the past 365 days and ruminate on how much (or little) progress I have made. Since leaving my job at Blondie’s Pizza, I have written hundreds of thousands of words (some of them readable), and have put out two ebooks for sale on Amazon (earning me tens of dollars). I have been employed by two corporations, though my opinions of corporations have, at best, remained the same. I have wavered between inspiration and apathy, though now I may have found my muse. My son is growing into a little man, despite my firm belief that he will always be a little kid. The world seems on a course for self-destruction, though history has taught me that this is nothing new, and that things are always darkest just before the dawn (except when they are not, because things usually begin getting brighter just before the dawn, as that is, in fact, how dawns work). Perhaps it would be better to say that I hope that we can stick it out until this fever breaks, and we, as a nation, and as a species covering this globe can get over our petty hatreds of one another and our collective hard-ons for things that go boom. There are plenty of people whom I would rather never see or hear again, but to entertain the notion of snuffing out there lives because I have a problem seems just the tiniest bit… self-centered, at the very best. Maybe it was my childhood spent upon the bridge of the U.S.S. Enterprise, but I had sort of thought that we had the potential to be better than this.

Cops are shooting people and never asking questions, and we are bombing countries and then refusing to clean up the mess. Corporations are (still) people, and yet the people who work for corporations on the bottom rungs are frequently treated as less than human. Concentrated money in the hands of a select few has bought and sold the soul of the very world, and I don’t think that it will get much better until we have come together as a species and decided that enough has been enough. Actually, it seems that most of the problems we are facing could be solved by people realizing that they do have agency and can make a difference, if they would only take a moment to stand with their fellow man and shout up to the heavens that they will tolerate iniquity no more. Of course, the problem with that revolution is that the whole system is rigged specifically to disperse the most abused across all days and hours to keep us from uniting and discovering that we still had a voice. But when you’ve got to work two jobs just to slow the descent into insolvency, there’s not a lot of time left to speak up for yourself. I think my generation may have waited just a bit too long to voice our opposition, but this group of youngsters who is marching along behind us may be the group to do it (though they still need to get the hell off of my lawn). They aren’t bound by the realizations that their dreams are those from a long past time (having been sucked dry by the generations which came before), and have, instead, come up with new dreams, and made them into a new reality, finding a way to be true to themselves and yet still finding a way to fill their bellies and souls.

I have met some people who have fundamentally changed my life. Young people. People who reminded me that I myself had once been young. My gut reaction is to pat them on the head, and regale them with all the tales of failure to which my life has been a testament, but I know that I would have known better when I was their age, and that they just might find a way to actually make it happen. Who am I to shit upon their dreams, just because my own have soured? And hell, I’m a writer. The longer I am forced to wait until I find success, the better I will be when it finally happens. I may not understand everything the kids are saying, but I am still young enough to learn. That was the reason I first dreamed up Uncle Walt Enterprises, Unlimited (which is why this blog is called The Vaults of Uncle Walt): I wanted to try to find a way to nurture dreams which would otherwise have been abandoned. Who am I to tell someone that their dream will never work? Am I Morpheus (not Laurence Fishburne), that I may dictate dreams to someone who isn’t me? I used to believe that if I just tried hard enough, the whole world would soon be mine, but I have learned over the years, that time was not quite right.

Everything that’s happened to me has made me better as a person and as a writer, though I don’t know that my younger self could have understood the necessity of living for the experience. Of course, back then, I also believed that if you loved someone enough, you could heal all wounds, so, there’s that. But I feel that I have waited long enough. I’ve uncovered a new muse, and I plan to utilize this newfound inspiration to get momentum on my side once more. Who knows? I might actually do something this time. All I know is that I want to write. There is something in the air that is whispering sweet promises that this will be my year. Three dozen chances I have had to be the man I’ve dreamt of being, and now it is the time for me to finally meet that man. I started this work last year when shame of inactivity prompted me to make some positive life choices, and I hope that I can carry forward and finally make something happen.

Personal

Three Dozen

In less than twenty hours, I will reach another milestone: three dozen years upon this world. That’s about a dozen more than I intended, but I’ve at least managed to have some times worth living in this enforced surplus I’ve been given. After this, there’s really not another one to celebrate until I hit the big 4-0 (unless you count the Clerks milestone next year, which, sadly, I kind of do). But that’s okay, because this year is special enough to last awhile. You see, I am now She was when I was only seventeen. I traveled into the future (albeit the long way ’round), and found myself… diminished. There may have been a million reasons to hold on to a little bit of anger, but at least I could now tell myself to lay off on some of the little jokes, like mocking her for smoking Ultra Lights, or… Okay, I guess that’s basically it. Nineteen years (well, and six more months away), since I began the Adventures of Tex Batmart. Of all the possible outcomes I could foresee, this was never one of them, at least not exactly. Here I am, a husband, father, stepfather, and grandpa, some dude who works a Regular Joe job, having mostly abandoned his calling in order to pay the bills. I’ve redeemed some part of that last self-recrimination, but it’s still a work in progress, to be sure.

As of 1:44 p.m. tomorrow, I will have been around for 1,136,073,600 seconds (margin of error +/- 59 seconds), and I swear I’ve felt the weight of nearly all of them. Although, and maybe this is just the romantic stirring somewhere deep within me, there were a few that lasted for quite a bit longer than the clock recorded (yet weighing almost nothing in my gravitic reckoning), as I tapped into the wellspring of true happiness and rode the tidal waves of love. Sometimes I feel that I’m just too old to feel that kind of teenage ardor, the hopeless throes of passion that only the young can truly feel (or at least bother themselves to act upon). With every year that passes, I keep hearing that some future demographic is now the “new” (different, younger) demographic. Why are the goalposts continually being moved? Why is it that 36 has to force me back into my twenties? Why can’t the 30’s be the new 40’s? I feel like I’m stumbling up an escalator which is rolling slightly faster downward. By the time that I am dead, I will have only been the “New 21”. Forget that! I want to be all old and crotchety, if I am to live that long. I want to be decrepit and scream for teenaged hooligans to vacate my lawn. I don’t mind the trade-off of truly free and uncensored speech, if the only thing it means is that people disregard me. They’ve been doing so for nearly four decades, so I’d rather just go off on random people, if it’s all the same to you.

So what have I accomplished in these past three dozen years? I suppose that it depends upon what you feel merits the title of an accomplishment. I learned to sit up without being held, and to walk unaided. I mastered the use of indoor plumbing before I ever went to school. I made my career choice before arriving at double digits, and the first time that I ever fell in love, I was the same age as my son is now (my first kiss as well. I am grateful that my son has exponentially less game than I did, which is kind of depressing, from an evolutionary standpoint). I learned how to write by devouring the masters, and very nearly managed to almost learn guitar. I fell in love so many tens of times, that I should probably be nominated for some kind of unrequited award. I owned my own business when I was seventeen, and also… you know, became an adult, in the biblical sense (and I’m not referencing a Bar Mitzvah). I started at the bottom of the lowest rung of the restaurant industry to work my way up toward the top by the time my twenties were half over. I finally got married, and became a dad for real (having practiced on another youngster ten years before that), though not in that strict order. I’ve never gotten fired, having always chosen instead to quit (though once I learned about the ins and outs of unemployment, I began to reconsider the pride that I had taken in it).

But all of those are just things, you know? What have I done to change the world (for either good or evil)? I’ve never saved a whale, nor clubbed a baby seal. I have planted trees, but I also eat a lot of burgers. I have done my part to save the Amazon by selling my soul to the Seattle-based usurper, but it’s a hometown business, so I guess I’m still shopping locally? It used to be enough for me that I would be remembered, and now that I’ve passed along my D.N.A., my legend is almost guaranteed (though I should probably make sure that I can get a grandchild out of the Minkey at some point before patting myself upon the back). But now I seem to be hung up on having managed to accomplish something of worth. It’s like I feel that I must justify my existence, though I never really wanted it to start with. I want to write something of such beauty that it will resist the vagaries of time and pass down through the centuries without ever having been misquoted, I want to do something that will save someone else’s life. I want to reach out into the mists of the unknown with the pain which I have felt, and take someone suffering all alone, and pull them to their feet. I want to find out, once and for all, who it is I really am.

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Personal

Bootstraps and Chuckles

I am doing my best to pull myself out of depression. Mostly this involves reminding myself that this ennui won’t last forever, and knowing that it probably isn’t nearly as bad as it seems right now. Right now I’m just strung a little tightly, and even the smallest vibrations in the web of sadness are thrashing me around. Oh, but I was happy. For a single moment I was happy. I do not begrudge its brevity, nor its impermanence, for a perfect moment cannot last forever. And now that I am a bit removed from it, and no longer reeling from the implications, I can appreciate it for what it was: a birthday gift from someone who knows me better than I had imagined possible, who knew that I just needed someone to believe in me. So, instead of wallowing in misery, I will do my best to pull myself up by my bootstraps and put on a happy face, in the hope that by putting on a happy face, maybe some of that will seep beneath the skin, and penetrate my dour demeanor. I’ve yet to hear back from the place I want to work, and so this positivity may yet be fleeting, and I’ve no illusions about what will happen should the bottom fall out of this. I’ve been saying goodbye at my current job since someone let it slip that I was interviewing elsewhere, and I can’t imagine that I’d care to stick around and face my failure to depart. But right now I’ll not be dwelling on the all of the ways I could be worse off tomorrow.

It’s kind of ridiculous, really, falling victim to these vagaries of mood. Perhaps it explains my ingrained hatred of daytime television: no one likes to watch something which hits too close to home. Although, now that I think of it, the descent into a world of tears began in earnest when I shaved my beard. I should probably begin tracking it (which shouldn’t be too difficult as I only shave but twice a year), and see if there’s some correlation between being fresh-faced and suffering from a serious case of mopiness. A little biblical, perhaps, to blame my failings on a lack of hair, but if it’s any consolation, I did it to myself, and didn’t suffer the indignity of being shorn against my will. I mean, there was that one time in the fading light of the 1990’s, when I traded fur for domestic bliss (or a chance at it, truth be told), but after that fell rapidly apart (as haircuts and shaving are not a lasting foundation upon which to launch the salvation of a relationship), I vowed that never again would I allow another person to tell me how I must be groomed. Of course, that lasted only another year or two, until I had to get a job working for The Man, who insisted that shaving was somehow important to the performance of the job.

I am better than all of this. I will not let those who’ve (foolishly) decided to believe in me down any further than I already have. I am going to bounce back from all of this, and somehow land upon my feet (I feel like I’ve just used this metaphor recently). I will find a way to jam the defeat which I accidentally snatched from the jaws of victory back down that mother’s gullet, and pop ’round to the other side to grab hold of its reverse. I would just like to point out how chuffed I am to have put that image into your heads, one of a double-headed beast from whose anus one is obligated to pry out one’s victories. I also like that the “Jaws of Defeat” are now irrevocably linked with a puckered butthole in your mind. And that’s it. The first genuine smirk which I’ve generated from within. I’m actually smiling and chuckling now, which is actually quite disturbing. It’s a good thing I’ve no desire to write a book of fables for the incurably jaded, or I would own that market. Is there a market for those kind of tales? On second thought, it seems like something that I might not only be somewhat decent at, but would also enjoy producing. Hell, in writing them, I might even managed to glean a little wisdom of my own from my bitter ramblings. I could write them at my own pace, and collect them at my leisure. I could do them as bite-sized installments, easily crafted in the empty spaces between my shifts within a common workweek. Stupid muse who managed to get herself stuck within me.

We’ll see how it goes. I make no promises. There’s every chance that I’ll find some way to screw it all up once again, and for the duration of that melancholia, I’ll be blinded to the simple, happy things.

When that time has come again, I’ll ask you to avoid reminding me of all things for which I should give thanks, and just do what you have always all done best: just listen to my ramblings, nod your head in sympathy, and try not to worry too much about Tex Batmart. The day will someday come when it may all be too much to bear, but more so than ever before, and I will finally stop fighting it, and allow myself to fade. What this means, I couldn’t tell you, for that sentence just bubbled up from somewhere deep within my subconscious. Perhaps I’ll finally find peace with who I am, or perhaps I’ll sleep forever. The point is that for right now, for this very moment, I think that I’m okay, and in the nearly three dozen years which I’ve come to know as my existence, I’ve come to understand that I cannot ask for more.

So I offer my gratitude to those who’ve showed me kindness (however brief or fleeting). You have given me something to hold onto when everything grows dark. And yes, that happiness may feel like a blade when I am hovering near tears, but that is my problem, and most definitely not yours. You are the best, and I’m so very thankful that I got the chance to meet you. May your lives be what you want or need them to become, and if there is some way that I can repay your generosity, please don’t hesitate to ask. I may not be able to accommodate you, but I will definitely do my best.

After Dark

The Soft Parade

The week leading up to my birthday has always been a trying time, a constant reminder of the ultimate futility of my entire life. I mean, sure, I’ve managed to not drive my wife away in the nearly ten years we’ve been together, and somehow I ended up with a kid who’s pretty cool. I’ve got skills and perhaps a decent opportunity awaiting me, and yet, I’m not doing what I wanted to when I first began imagining how my life would go. I blame it on my continuing quest for balance. It seems well and good, but every time that something halfway decent comes along, I hold my breath, and start the countdown until the bottom drops out from beneath me. At this point, I’ve almost given up on the prospect of being genuinely happy, as I’m terrified to contemplate what sort of vengeance that joy might bring. And despite the regularity with which this sort of thing befalls me, more often than not, it manages to catch me completely by surprise. People wonder why I hate surprises: the fact is that the number of unexpected “gifts” which haven’t completely bitten me fiercely upon my posterior can be counted one hand, trembling in fear.

But, because I cannot help but succumb to the instinct which inspires me to crawl up to the sleeping bear and poke it in the eye (never mind the tripping on the rock a moment later as I scramble to get away), I’ve decided to try to think of all the things which bring me joy (and therefore tempt the retribution soon to follow). I’m not really in an altogether upbeat mood, but maybe this might actually be good for me. Well, either that, or it will drive me deeper into depression, but as I’m not sure that’s possible (famous last words), I’ll give it a shot.

I actually managed to write nearly every day for six straight months. Before this past year, I hadn’t done that since I was nineteen or twenty.

I’ve met people who have reminded me what youth feels like, and though the searing burn of age follows immediately in the wake of their departure, I find it reassuring to remind myself what unbridled life was like.

For all the struggles I have had adjusting to fatherhood, it’s nice to know that I’m still better at it than my dad. And the Minkey seems to be turning out alright, though I suppose it’s still to early to tell if that is because of or in spite of me.

My wife is an amazing woman (someone whom I do not truly believe that I deserve), and I just wish that we made each other happier. I know that I am a constant disappointment to her, as I am who I am, but I do not blame her for my lack of joy, as that would be akin to holding the ocean responsible for drowning me. I think I’ve said that wrong. I meant that I am naturally inclined towards discontentment, and that there is nothing which she could do to either drive me toward or save me from the black clouds which hang above me.

I’ve got some friends who are somehow still there for me, despite the fact that I’m rarely there for them. Perhaps my absences diminish what a needy drain I am, and leave behind only the impression that I am kind of funny and profound.

Crap. I tried to think of more, but I think that those five are it.

In case we are wondering why I seem to be so hung up on this, I guess I can share with you the news: apparently, it will be a miracle if my grandparents survive another year. I suppose that I could be grateful for this possible year I have to make the time to see them and to say goodbye. Or perhaps I could be grateful for my childhood spent with them, or the several years when my mother and I lived with them. Or the roadtrips which we took, or the every single special moment that I had to spend with them, most of them under or unappreciated at the time. Part of me is angry, because I already said goodbye when we traveled to The Island last December, and I don’t know if I can do it all again. As I’ve said so many times, it’s not death I fear. In this case, it’s the slowly dying. My heart is breaking, and it’s coloring everything else within my life. Combine that with The Soft Parade, and it’s more than I can take. I just want everything to go the way I want it to, for once. I would just like one untainted, uncompromised, untarnished victory which I could unequivocally call my own.

For all my years, and all the weariness which far exceeds them, there are times when I am self-aware enough to know when I am behaving like a child. To that, of course, I say, “So what?!” Am I not allowed, from time to time, to free myself from the bonds of self-imposed adulthood and just feel again?

I’m sorry for the gloom of these past couple of posts. I’ve no right to inflict my pain upon you, and it’s not as though sharing it with you will actually ease my burden. There is nothing that you can do for me, and there is no reason for you to know the pain I carry in my heart. And while I feel I’m drowning in quagmire of my own design, I know (at least intellectually) that I will probably be okay, at least statistically.

Thank you all for being in my life, from those who only briefly touched it, to those for whom it’s been a significantly longer commitment. I’ve needed each and every one you, for exactly the amount of time you had to give. And no, this is not goodbye.

Think of it instead as good night.

Sleep tight.

Don’t let the bedbugs bite.

Mental Illness

Do Not Read This

Do not read this if you love me.

Do not read this if you have believed in me.

Do not read this if you feel that I’m worth saving from whatever malady from which you think I’m suffering.

Do not read this if you’d prefer a happy ending.

Do not read this if you think that everything will be alright.

Do not read this if you have ever cared for me.

Do not read this if… you know that I am right.

 

It hurts inside, like a constant tearing at my soul, a barrage of suicidal butterflies exploding deep within me. Who knows if this is actually a thing, or just something that happened frequently enough to make me notice, and expect it, therefore causing it to come to pass. The last week in November, and the first day of December are always a trial for me. Nowhere else within the boundaries of the calendar do I feel more helpless before the vagaries of my Disorder. You know, I wanted to try to use the pain to write something heartfelt and beautiful, something which could justify my suffering, at least in my own eyes, and force some sort of validation upon this seemingly failed existence which I have been assured on frequent occasions is my life. I am not afraid of death. I do not fear the nothingness which will devour me whole. And after my failures as an author, so starkly driven home this past year, I do not even fear fading into the realms of the forgotten. Better that I end this damned experiment, and let the world move on without me. Better to be forgotten, and allow the wounds which my passing have caused than to stick around just to witness everybody suffer (most especially when gazing into the mirror).

It might sound like I am angry, though nothing could be further from the truth: if I could only feel the boiling passion of the roiling rage, I might feel human enough to stick around, if only out of spite. I guess that I am merely resigned to the fact that I have failed in almost every single endeavor in which I’ve applied myself, and tired (so very, very tired) of getting everything completely wrong. No, that’s not entirely true. It’s just that I am out on sync with everything else around me. I keep meeting people out of order, at precisely the wrong time, and knowing that some other me should have met them later (or sooner, as the case may be). I used to think that I was collecting people who would help me change the world, but it now seems that I am only bumping into strangers to remind myself of how far I have allowed myself to fall. I used to be better than this, I’m sure of that. I used to believe in things. I used to want to make a difference. I guess that I have been a grownup for too long. Too many years of compromising both my ethics and my soul. Too many decades of putting off the things which matter until tomorrow. Too many decades, period.

This isn’t anyone’s fault, beyond my own. I keep forgetting that when I dare to spread my wings and fly toward the heavens, that, despite the darkness of the hour, my wings will melt, not by the heat beating downward from the sun, but by the friction of an exponentially increasing velocity as I try to put infinity between myself and the prison which I’ve built to keep me whole. And safe. My life of the mundane is nothing more than life support as I struggle to wrap myself into a vegetative state. But it’s not as though I didn’t want it in the first place. There have always been the two of me (and I’m not referring to schizophrenia): the regular dude who’d like to know what it’s like to have a “normal” family, and the Phoenix, who burns himself so brightly that he is reduced to ashes, only to climb out of them once more once he remembers how to light the flame. Maybe it’s just this week, or maybe, like some sort of vestigial attachment left to atrophy, some remnant of that egotistic being of purest wrath and judgement remains.

I am not afraid of death. I am not afraid to close my eyes, knowing that they’ll never open again. I am afraid to continue living. I’m terrified of learning just how much further I can diverge within myself before I completely and irrevocably shatter into a million pieces, leaving the both of me in a fine dusting upon the floor. I’m tired of surviving; I’m tired of always landing on my feet. Just for once, I’d like everything to just fall apart, with no way for me to fix it. Sometimes I just want to drive everyone away, so that when I am done destroying the things which keep me afloat, there will be no one to turn to when I lose my nerve, and whimper that I’d rather not face a change.

I just want the pain to go away. I just want the ability to freeze a single moment for forever, and breathe in life once more, before the pace of everything sucks me below again.

I want to feel attractive. I want to feel important. I want to feel that there was at least one single reason for me to have ever have existed. I want to know I mattered. And while I’m listing off all of my impossible dreams, why not ask to be a millionaire as well?

I hope you didn’t read this.

I hope that you just glanced at the picture and gave it a “thumb’s up.”

I hope that you don’t think that it was your fault, because it wasn’t. You made me feel alive, and while that fire may have burned me, it also gave me the courage to face my misery without prevarication.

Family

Sentimental Drivel

This time of year, millions of people come together to spend time with family, and give thanks for all the blessings which they believe they have been granted (statistically). Inevitably, points of view begin to diverge, much as they had before everyone had moved away, and, thanks in no small part to social lubricant, this holiday of gratitude becomes a dirge of regret and thinly-hidden animosity (results may vary). And while I might be willing to risk a conversation taking a turn for the political just that I might see those whom I love once more, the reality is that I have neither the time nor money to make the journey this year (I didn’t make it last year either, at least not until Christmas). And, if I am to be completely honest, as I am wont to do (having been chastised for doing so on no small number of occasions since beginning this blog), sometimes the memory is better than reality, no matter how faded it may have become. The place I want to go is warm, familiar, and somewhere I once called home, but in the background, deep beneath the stories which I’ve heard one thousand times (“So I says to this guy, I says…”) an ideological schism has grown, growling irreconciliations, and tempting ill-dropped commentary which the bonds of family ought ignore. I do not hold myself above this petty label-making, for I am always ready to argue in the name of what I believe is right (actually, I really don’t need a reason to jump into an argument, as I believe that sometimes the journey is more important than the destination), consequences be damned. Perhaps it’s better that I stay away, no matter how it pains me, so that I may use the time and distance to remember better things (sweet memories whose bitterness have long since faded). As the title implied, this may contain some sentimental drivel.

This past decade and a half  have been a time of unprecedented loss. I lost my writing and photography, and then my great-grandmother. I moved away, unable to face the pain of staying, and came to lose a child (though, in truth, it is perhaps better that it never had the chance to suffer through the death throes of the failed and shattered love between its mother and myself). After a span of about a decade of near-happiness, I now face the prospect of losing my grandparents to the ravages of time and the fading health which follows on the coattails of advancing age. I will admit it now: I am afraid. I am afraid of seeing them so withered, and broken, so torn apart by the fleeing youth which had long ago abandoned them. I prefer to see them in my mind as I best remember them, from twenty years ago, when they were not quite young, but still vital, with things to do, and purpose to their lives which seems to drive them no longer. Never again will we take a road trip to Montana, nor go to Disneyland, that I might express disdain, proclaiming that I would not return (seven-year-old me was kind of a pain in the ass. I’m glad that I outgrew that). Where they once fit so seamlessly into the world, their auras discrete, and yet attuned to everything around them, now they sit beneath an empty, hollow glow, which seems to mark them ready for removal from my world. I am not afraid of death, for I am so very tired, and I am not frightened by the end of things, for therein merely lie beginnings yet unknown, but the one thing which I cannot bear is waiting for the end, a long and drawn out march to the very edge of the sea of time (I feel that I go swimming there, upon my melancholy holidays, until my mortal flesh succumbs, and spiritual hypothermia sets in, shocking me back to life).

As I seem to be in one of my moods again, I might as well make the very best of it. Rather than mourn those who fade away, perhaps I will, instead, celebrate the fallen. One of the reasons why Thanksgiving will never be the same has almost everything to do with the summer of 2002, and the loss of my great-grandmother. I’d stayed away, as I’d believed myself a source of shame, and never had my chance to say goodbye (I’m still trying to decide whether to forgive myself), even though I had countless reminders and opportunities, and a mother who constantly reminded me that time was running short.

I will miss the apple pies and applesauce, the smell of her house, warmed to the point of slightly hotter than was necessarily tolerable. I remember living next door to her and running over just to say hello. I remember standing at the edge of her deck, and gazing out upon the Puget Sound, and thinking that somewhere just beyond what I could see, there was a waterfall which would sweep me out toss me down into the endless sea. I remember kindness. And patience. And time for each and every of her many great-grandchildren. And grandchildren. And children. I remember Christmases when we would all pack into her home, and fight for real estate and pole position closest to the tree, sneaking glances to discover just how many of the presents there belonged to us (that was mostly something done by the kids, as the grownups had beer and wine and stories, which always seemed to stretch on into infinity, unnecessarily delaying the opening of the gifts). There wasn’t nearly enough time, as it turned out. How I would kill for just another chance to say hello, or bum a jar of applesauce again (seriously, that applesauce was amazing! I make a pretty good version, but it is a pale imitation of my great-grandmother’s honed and perfected recipe).

I remember at her funeral, when I looked at her (the first time in somewhere close to forever), and thought that I supposed that someone who had never met her, might confuse this corpse for her, but for me, it seemed nothing more or less than an impostor, as this body contained within its features almost exactly nothing in common with the woman whom I had known my entire life, aside from a passing similarity in hairstyle.

I am grateful for the time I had to spend with her when I was growing up, and I am grateful that she died when I was old enough to not forget her (though that’s as much a curse as it is a blessing). And I am grateful for all the time I spent with my grandparents, who lived just a short walk along the beach away from me. And I am grateful for my mother’s brother and her sister, for being there to have some fun with me on special (and ordinary) occasions. Hell, I’m even grateful to my mother, though I don’t often say it, and I won’t say why, because a little mystery is the spice of life. I’m grateful for my wife, for putting up with this past decade (more or less- my soul screams more, but the calendar chuckles slightly less), and for giving me no option other than facing down my doubts and giving fatherhood a try. And I’m grateful to the Minkey for being who is, though I beg of you not to mention this to him, as he’ll only find a way to use my sentiment against me. To my daughter, though by marriage, somehow almost completely my own, and her children whom I love in that way that only a grandparent can. To Fed, and Bad Leon, my brothers by choice, who’ve always found a way to be there when I needed them the very most, though we might be separated by hundreds of miles, at least. And to everyone whom I’ve left out: I thank you for the roles you’ve played in this production which I’ve come to know as the narrative of my life.

Ah crap, I’ve fallen into a steaming pile of sentimental drivel, and it seems that I’ve neglected to pack a shovel.

Have a Happy Thanksgiving, each and every one of you!

(And if you’re tired of checking back daily for columns which most likely aren’t going to come, please subscribe to the email… thing. Every time I find the time to sit down and pound out words, you’ll get a… thing… in your inbox. Or you can keep coming back… Whatever.)

-Tex

Uncategorized

Proper Autumn

So much for my plans to keep up with my writing on my days off. Between falling ill, and desperately needing days of zombie trances, I seem to have let my passion fall to the wayside. But I’m in the middle of four days off from work, and I figure that now is as good a time as any to get back to it.

The other day I saw my Facebook post announcing my retirement from the Food Service Industry, and today marks the one year anniversary (kind of) of my final day at Blondie’s Pizza. I’ll be doing a proper column about the year in review in the first week of December, but even now I am thinking back over the past twelve months and seeing how patterns from my apathy colored my failures (and successes I did make tens of dollars from my writing!). And now here I am, about to embark upon my latest endeavor, dreading tax time and the need to file three places of employment for this past year. Of course, I still seem to be getting ahead of myself. There’s always something about Autumn that puts me in an introspective (and retrospective) mood, not that we’ve really seen all that many proper Autumns here in California for the past few years. Any time you’ve got 100 degree days in the early weeks of December, you’re pretty much disqualified from knowing what the Fall is all about. I imagine children, now in Kindergarten, who are frightened and terrified by the recent streak of 40 degree mornings, having never in their lives been subject to them. Hailing from the Northwest, of course, I merely chuckle to myself and silently judge them for their provincial attitudes.

I myself am thoroughly enjoying the crisp air, with its promises of snow (which will, of course, never be kept), and nearly collapsing in pile of hyperventilation as I misjudge the plumes of smoke I’m blowing out as I smoke in the early morning. This time of year has always been my favorite, at least, that is, since I hit puberty. I mean, sure: when you’re in school, nothing beats the summer and its proffered freedom from the drudgery of learning. But with that comes rising temperatures and tons of pretty girls who seemed only to exist to remind me that I was so terribly alone. Once the weather begins to change, however, and temperatures start sliding down toward more tolerable conditions, something magical happens. The very quality of light begins to change, and the whole world itself seems nothing more than a warm and soft reality contained within a moderately priced frame hanging on the mantel. Perhaps I tend to enjoy this time of year because it is like so many sunsets: soft, vibrant, and life-affirming.

As anyone who knows me can attest, I am not a morning person. Sure, I’ve been working mornings for several years now, but that has had more to do with transportation than any other factor. And while many have written volumes on the beauty of a sunrise, I myself have never had much use for them. They are jarring, and, though beautiful at times, often leave the world painted in migraine colors on either side of their appearance. They’ve taken something primal and necessary, and made it into something less, a shambling, weakened beast which marches up and down the world until it is finally put down a little earlier each day. But sunsets are amazing. They are the lullabies by which the beast is soothed, the dreamscape for the weary, a rainbow for the beaten down. And as they erupt into their brilliance, they are made even more precious by the darkness which soon overtakes them and draws them back down again. Sunsets quietly fade into the night, whereas sunrises are consumed entirely by the coming day, burned away by the insistence of the sun.

I should probably revise my previous statement about Autumn days. I was, of course, referring to those afternoons when the heavens have opened and the rain begins to fall, yet the sunlight somehow sneaks in sideways to make everything not gun-metal grey begin to glow. The browns of ruined vegetation, moistened by the falling rain begin to shine in prodded rejuvenation, and the blues and scattered greens take on a darker, richer shade, and though one might find himself shivering and damp, he feels safe and warmed, all the same. But on the clear days, as the sun arcs across the sky at a slightly off-putting angle, everything looks washed out and somewhat frozen, like a faded photograph, somehow spared from sepia tonality, but with an ancient appearance all the same. It’s a quality of light which lends itself to quiet, an invitation, if not outright commandment to be still and quiet, for fear of shattering the fragile peace which holds the day. I miss the Great Northwest, and feel guilty that I have sentenced my son to experience but two and a half seasons (at best) which we are granted here in Northern California.

A vision of Proper Autumn
… and Fed told me I couldn’t capture a picture of the rain, even during a proper Autumn…

Can you see the vibrancy of the fallen leaves as they are bombarded by the falling rain? Even in the throes of entropy, they proudly announce to the world, that they are not finished, that they will return some day, that there is still a little fight left in them. And now I see that I have made these leaves the metaphor for me and for my writing, placing upon them my growing burden of failing courage, pinning my hopes that this is not a foolish dream upon their cycle of renewal. Time will tell, of course, if I am meant to fade away, washed away and left to rot in some hidden gutter, or if I am spared instead to fertilize the soil in which my dreams once grew. I’m hoping for the latter, obviously, although I hear that the gutters are quite nice this time of year.

Work

… The More I Stay The Same

You would think that on a day in which the number of my paid hours didn’t exceed a half-dozen, I wouldn’t find myself so exhausted, but the truth of the matter is that I’ve been doing work stuff since I got home, as we’re looking down the barrel of another seismic shift in staffing levels at the restaurant. I don’t disagree with the move, as sales haven’t been what we would have liked them to be, and we’ve cut down the Front of House staff to be able to pull this off without losing too many people to frustrated attrition, but the Back of House has been generally protected up until now, with full staffing and full-time hours even during the fortnight of belt-tightening, and I worry that this move might cost us people will we need going into Halloween. It seems that I have become more conservative in staffing levels as I have gotten older. I used to be the bloody hatchet man, chopping away at “warm bodies” and never giving it a second thought, but perhaps I’ve just felt the effects of too many unexpected rushes to be willing to get caught again with my pants around my ankles (metaphorically speaking, obviously). The restaurant industry is a dangerous game, and even when you manage to get everything spot-on, it’s not a guarantee that you’ll still be open in a year. Statistically speaking, it’s almost certain that you won’t. Part of me would like to run and hide, get out of this and try to salvage what I can out of my career and unpaid writing.

There are only two problems with this: I still have to pay off my credit cards which supported me while I was on sabbatical earlier this year, and, sadly, I still kind of enjoy this work, and the logic puzzles which it provides. I’m finally getting enough data in that I can start running scenarios for failure in my head, and the more problems which I can troubleshoot now, the less likely I am to be blindsided by them in the future. There are countless ways in which this can end in failure, and only a handful which could be considered some variety of success. It’s my job to find the best path to the most attractive outcome, and find a way to get us there, whether or not that’s actually in my job description. All that time I spent as General Manager has forced me into this mindset, and even it means that someone else will get the glory, I will know what I have done, and that will have to do. It’s not like I am ever going to mention my successes in this industry when I get around to pounding out my bio for the jacket blurb. More than ever, my time away from Food Service has made me realize that I do not want this to become my career (never mind that I have been in this industry for nearly half my life, whereas I haven’t (to date) made more than $100 in writing sales). I mean, while I’m here, I’m going to keep giving it my all, but at the end of the day, I’m in it for the challenge, and, more importantly, the money to pay off my debt.

There is a possibility that I will wind up only working four days a week, which is actually okay with me. I know that it will push back my credit card payments, but it may also afford me the opportunity to keep working on my writing. If only I could somehow stumble into about $10,000 (to pay off the cards and medical bills which Flor and I have accumulated), then I wouldn’t have to worry about some sort of reduced schedule. I could be one of those part-timers whom I despise. I’m hoping that by March, I will have managed to pay off the majority of my debt, allowing me to consider taking steps to find some sort of balance between what pays the bills and what renews my soul. I suppose that there is still a chance that someone will read this blog (which I have just remembered that I will have to pay some fees towards in the beginning of December) and offer me a job writing things for them. I’m not going to hold my breath, but it never hurts to dream. As I may have mentioned a time or two before, I am bad at this whole “balance” thing. I wish it wasn’t so, but the fact is that I have kind of always been an “all-or-nothing” sort of fellow (from falling in love at the drop of a hat (rich, romantic aching, and drunken butterflies, etc.), to all of the other self-destructive behavior in which I have all too readily engaged), and it’s kind of ridiculous to imagine that I might start “adulting” right now. The more things change, the more I stay the same.

Maybe there’s still hope, though: I have started writing again, now that things have started falling into a rhythm (though not nearly as frequently as I might desire), and I’ve even managed to get some strings for my guitar (which I unearthed from deep within the pile of crap which resides before my closet), and started to play again. I’m still not any good, but at least I seem to have gotten a little better (from my years of not actually playing or anything), and I’ve even begun working on a “new” song, which is only 40% directly lifted from another song which I had written. I even use different chords and everything! There’s even a time change! That may not sound like much, but it’s pretty amazing for me. Death Trudge is making a comeback! Within the narrative which I’ve constructed that I might find meaning in my life, everything I’ve done has been for some sort of reason. I’m hoping that this time around, I get the chance to make some connection which allow me to pursue my dream of writing. It could be that I’m doing this so that when my brother-in-law finally gets around to opening his place, I’ll have the nuts and bolts of restaurant launching down to an art, but I really hope that it’s the writing thing.

Also, in other news: A good friend of mine unearthed some photography of mine from half a lifetime ago. She will be sending me the copies, and once I have them, I will share them with all of you. In the meantime, here is a photo of a photo which I took eighteen years ago:

Actually, this was one of my favorite photos from that era.
Actually, this was one of my favorite photos from that era.

Anyway, it’s very nearly my bedtime, and I have an exciting day at work tomorrow. Have a good evening, everyone!