Recently, I was fooling myself in regard to the man I fell for and could not let go of. It was easy to see in him all the things I wanted to see, and ignore the things I didn't. But I guess in some sick way I should thank him for showing his true colors when he did, sparing me more even more pain and disappointment. Now I don't know what I mourn. A man that never really existed, a man who was just a blank canvas for my imagination and affection, or is it this empty feeling I have without the illusion, which made me really happy, despite the fact that it was all smoke and mirrors.

I briefly thought about using something to take the edge off. But cocaine would only amp me up, and I don't want to catch myself doing a background check, printing out a map and driving to his front door by this evening. When someone treats you like shit, shows absolutely no consideration for your feelings and ignores you at whim, what answer is going to justify that? 

Is there anything he could say that would make it all ok? No. Unless he just broke down and said "I'm a coward. When I can't deal with things, I ignore them. I only care about what you can do for me. I don't think about your feelings at all, " because the truth is better than a handful of excuses. 

The truth I can understand. The truth I can deal with. Ugly silence and insulting excuses don't work for me.

I should know. For almost a year, all I heard from my husband was lie after lie. One excuse after another. And I saw through most of it. Now that he is clean, and there are no secrets, it feels like there is air in a room where I used to have trouble breathing. It is so much easier on all of us. The tension in the house isn't gone... we have a teenager... but it is working much better. Every day is a baby step away from addiction and toward a life we are literally building as we go. On his 50th day without cocaine, my husband bought himself a beautiful silver bracelet. He earned it. He changed. By himself. It was everything I hoped for when I started this blog. There is no illusion to it. No smoke or mirrors.

I feel like an idiot now, for letting some college brat distract me from my family and their needs, push me into using again, and breaking my heart. Now I have to drag myself up out of the floor, pick up the pieces of myself that remain, and find the happiness I deserve. Somewhere inside myself I can feel it stirring, like a baby bird yet unhatched. Hopefully, if I take it one day at a time, my shell will crack, and I'll see a little light. Then later I'll spread my wings... and when I sing, it won't be a song of heartbreak.

For example, I had this unformed idea that it's bad to have more than one knitting project going at once. As my dear S. says, "Whose rule is that anyway?" Where did I get that? Why is it bad to work on ten things at once? I have the yarn. I have the patterns. I have the time. I enjoy it. When I'm bored or frustrated or confounded by one project, I don't have to get stuck, I can move to something else and the solution for the other thing might just present itself.

So I've been doing this, and guess what? I'm not buying so much yarn. I often buy yarn, I think, out of misdirected creativity. By telling myself I have to finish one thing before starting another, I'm putting off the creative impulse. I also find that starting projects is naturally self-limiting. Instead of obsessing about a project, I cast on and sometimes find it's not what I had in mind at all. That frees up my mind and energy for other things.

Speaking of energy, knitting is a way to direct my energy and calm myself. Lots of people find this so. Studies have been done in which it's found that repetitive activities are calming, like knitting or saying rosary.

Knitting is praying. That's not such a new idea, but here's how I apply that idea to my life, since I'm not a religious person inclined to pray. To me praying is a name for what I call "going inside." Julia Cameron writes about a similar thing in her books about creativity. Going inside means my mind and actions are working together. Some people call this Zen. Some call it the Zone. Some call it talking to God. So, when I knit, my mind works at lots of different levels, similar to when I'm walking, and then I'm able to sit down and write, full of ideas and details, because grace or God or the Devil or whatever you want to call it is in the details.

You know what else has come out of this experiment? I might try to start a new career. Yep. I now believe that it's okay to do more than one thing. I now believe that I deserve to have a life. I now believe that if I look to do something I'm interested in, I can do it. I don't have to do a job just to make money. I can have a job and be a writer. I can have a job that involves writing and still strive to be a novelist. I can have a job that's interesting. I can go back to school. I can gain skills. I don't have think of my life as moving nearer to a conclusion and step back to accommodate that conclusion. I'm going to step forward to meet my life.

I've always been compulsive about rules, following them because I sometimes believe they're in place for a good reason, but more often because of a sort of paranoia that if I don't follow them I'll get caught and get "in trouble". I don't believe I can handle the consequences, so I follow the rules. The problem with this is that I'm also sensitive to all the unspoken rules and follow them, too, even when they don't make any sense.

When I "go inside" the rules and self-criticism and other static aren't there. There is no fear of what's right and wrong or acceptable. There are just the details and me taking note. It turns out it's the truth that's in the details. To illustrate this, I've included an excerpt from my novel-in-progress Wanted Things.

"And Auntie, well Auntie did smell funny, but she mostly just wandered and was sweet. She was always trying to plant fallen leaves and little twigs so they would grow again. Auntie thought all things needed rescuing. It was true, she couldn’t be left alone or she would turn the stove on and idle away to another room or just stand and look out the window at the birds. She often asked about her dog, who had died in the first month she’d come to live with them.

Carrie sometimes walked with her over to St. Joseph’s School where there was a fountain with The Virgin Mary standing in the middle of it, looking for all the world like she’d stepped accidentally into the radius of someone’s sprinkler, but being Saint Mary she had to look serene about it. Her eyes were downcast and Carrie always thought it made her look a little embarrassed."(copyright Gillian Hull 2008. This may not be copied or reproduced in any form. Thank you.)

I am not implying that you have to give up your six-figure salary or professional career to reach the gates of heaven. Washing dishes is a lowly job but it contains two important principles behind salvation.

One is humility. We cannot approach God without humility.

The other principle requires something from us that is a bit more challenging. We are to ask for the Lord’s help in both uncovering the “dirt” in our lives and helping us to clean it out. This is why the Lord said that we were to “clean the inside of the cup.”

We all need to become dishwashers - spiritual dishwashers.

I bring this up because there are some Christian doctrines out there that falsely teach that, because of the crucifixion and resurrection, we now only need to approach the Lord through faith rather than adhere to the law of the commandments.

In this doctrinal “misstep” the Lord is said to have taken all our sins upon Himself while on the cross. To use an analogy, this form of cleansing humanity from its sins is like putting all our dirty dishes into an automatic dishwasher, then having them returned to us in a spotless condition (imputation) merely through faith alone.

This doctrine of convenience allows Christians to evade introspection and responsibility. In other words, it allows us to take the position that it is not our problem to get the dirt out of our lives (cups and dishes). But that kind of thinking gives Christians the license to avoid making changes in their lives (as if the Lord’s suffering on the cross could clean up air pollution).

Who doesn’t realize that if an alcoholic does stop drinking nothing has changed? The alcoholic, if he or she truly wants to change must recognize the problem, ask for God’s help, plus offer real resistance to the compulsion.

One is not saved, by continuing one’s transgressions. I can certainly understand that salvation by faith alone is a doctrine that would be favored by a modern, overly busy world, but nothing worth obtaining ever comes without personal effort.

Eternal salvation is worth obtaining!

What have you been taught concerning eternal salvation? 

He used to try to describe it. Now I know.  Every time I want to call or email or IM or check my inbox, I know.  When you are ruled by an addiction to drugs, the compulsion is to use. And when you are addicted to a person, the compulsion is to contact them. 

I'm a junky in my own right now. Miserable. Distracted. Needing a fix. Thinking about & wanting nothing but just a phone call or email to tell me how to feel. I have it as bad as he did, only in a different way. Will giving up my former boyfriend be as hard as it was for him to kick cocaine? I have no idea. That took a long time.

I act like an addict now. I pace. I check the phone, the email, etc. I think of little else. I don't eat well, or sleep well. I am skinny for a skinny girl. I look terrible, with no motivation to try and look better. My willpower and motivation have all but abandoned me. I need to go to bed and eat. I need to detox, withdraw, rehab. I need to forget. Like letting the toxins out of the body, I need to somehow extract him from my heart.

I started this post saying that I will read anything. That is true. I am not ashamed to say that I will conversely write anything. I will write any kind of story that possesses me. I will write whatever needs written, for whomever needs to read it. I used to think that I wouldn’t write just anything. But I guess I had no idea how deep the compulsion in me runs, like an inclusion of quicksilver, bright and elusive. Sometimes I am compelled to write things I will never admit to. But like in love, we don’t choose what we write. It chooses us. And we either decline, and fight against the urge, or we run with it, like a human among wolves. The stories nip at our heels, keeping us just ahead of being devoured bodily. If we can keep ahead, we just might last the night, live to worship another moon.

I write. That is the one thing I do that needs no justification. The power of blood compels me. Just ask my grandmother, with her assassin’s fire. She wrote for the pure sake of it. She wrote, and then murdered what she wrote, like a woman in the throes of some sort of writerly post partum dementia. I never wished I could go back to the moment, in time to rescue the legendary manuscript from the flame. I feel such a sense of communion with her, a deep soul understanding. I am quite the word arsonist myself. And that is proof, for me, that the thrall I am under was honestly come by.

Here’s to you, grandma. We haven’t spoken in 12 years. Our differences divide us. But that one sameness makes us kindred.

]]> http://markalan.wordpress.com/?p=246 Wed, 23 Jul 2008 13:35:31 +0000 markalan http://markalan.wordpress.com/?p=246 I know why I was forced to buy a hew hairbrush.

It has become the community brush.  My wife uses it, my daughter uses it and the boy is using it.

My old one was small and could fit in the medicine cabinet over the sink and the new one that I was forced to buy was large and not suitable to store anywhere but on the side of the sink or on the tank of the toilet.

I knew it was a conspiracy!  I knew that there was something more than just my wife wanting me to "update" my hairbrush.  They don't go out of style.  It's a hairbrush!!!!!

There are a few things that skive me.  Things that no matter what - I am just not going to share with anyone!  They include my toothbrush, underwear, bathing suit, and my hair brush! 

So you know what?  I kept my old brush.  That's right!  I saved it!  Hid it so that others could not find it and when I discovered this nefarious little plot the family had going I pulled it back out.  I pulled it out and used it.  Yeah, so you all can go on with your bad selfs and keep using that new brush and I'll have mine safely tuckered away. 

Momma didn't raise no fool!

Today's topic: Recommendations. Do you use LT's recommendations feature? Have you found any good books by using it? Do you use the anti-recommendations, or the "special sauce" recommendations? How do you find out about books you want to read?

Can we use photos to save space and money (and have more peace of mind)?

Dutch photographer Aarsman finds out that a photo can be a good substitute/reminder of a superfluous object and that photographing objects helped him to reflect and to slim down his consumerism. Hence the exposition "Photography against consumerism" : we should consider our compulsion to own, keep and collect.

NRC | Liever een foto van een espresso-apparaat dan een kopje koffie / Rather a photo of an espresso machine than an espresso.

„Het is makkelijker om dingen weg te gooien als je er een foto van hebt gemaakt."

"It is easier to give away/throw away stuff if you have made a picture of it"

"Door de gewilde artikelen te fotograferen neemt de consumptiedrift af, aldus Aarsman. „Om dit te stimuleren vraag ik bezoekers hun foto’s van gewilde objecten op de muren bij te plakken.”

"By phtotographing desired objects/consumer goods, consumerism slims down, according to Aarsman. To stimulate this I ask visitors to contribute to the display".
The photographers gallery.

I need to get rid of my unnecessary knick knacks and stuff that I no longer use to have more zen in the house. (Some objects are only collecting dust and indeed becoming a burden). Probably/hopefully an after-the-holidays-project for me. But, I don't think that I will need to photograph my redundant stuff and end up saving stacks of photos or photo files with the burden of tagging and preserving them ;-)). And I don't think that photographing a new Macbook or Hasselblad makes it less desirable. Probably the opposite, the more I see/photograph it, the more I want it. But luckily I do think twice before buying. Yes, I am getting older...

So, I doubt that I will consume less if I start with photographing the things that I really want/need. Serious reflection on the necessity should be enough for me. But I can agree with Aarsman message : „weg met die ballast, bezit moet je kritisch beschouwen.” / "Get rid of ballast, be critical of your possessions".

And now I would like a real espresso...

Contrary to the popular, well-meaning, Christian belief... it is Biblical to get my needs met!  This was the eye opener of this first false assumption that it is selfish to get my needs met.  On the contrary, it is good stewardship to get our needs met as Galations 6:5 states that we should each carry our own burden.  Why?  I can never give to anyone else what I don't have myself.  If my own gas tank is empty, how can I fill up yours?

 Granted, in our broken world, we will pick the wrong people and often go about getting our needs met in our own sinful, broken and sometimes very hurtful and manipulative ways, but those committed to the process of growth will learn better ways as they journey through life.

In a nutshell (or larger!) we discovered several truths about our own needs.  Check them out!

We were made and intended by God to have needs, therefore, we are incomplete without them!  When I go through life relationally independent and act like I need nothing (often because I learned at a young age that this was not possible), I not only s God's instruction and guidance to be a good steward of my own needs but I will never be able to give to you what is missing from my own soul.

Our needs are Incarnational (we need people - flesh).   Jesus needed his Father (Luke 5:16 and Mark 1:35) but he also needed his friends (Mark 13:34).  Many say we only need God and many of us distrust (and rightly so in a broken, unsafe world).  But, God is the Head of his Body of Christ... so we need Him and His resources!  Vertical and Horizontal Connection!  Even Jesus chose to reach DOWN to us first!  Even God saw that Adam needed flesh and thus created Eve!  How cool!  Ecc. 4:10 tells us that it is pitiful for the man who falls and has no one to pick him up, yet many walk through life in isolation and that isolation is played out in many different ways; smoking, drinking, obsessive compulsiveness, sex, addictions, etc.

Our needs are logical!  2 Corinthians 1:3-4 says that we can only give what we have... period.  I can only give you comfort, understanding and love if I have received those first.  It may be better to give than to receive (an entire discussion alone!) but we can't give what we don't have. 

Our needs drive us to Growth.  If we don't need, we don't seek help or resolution.  I began my journey of growth because I needed life to be working better than it was!  God can't fix something that is not broken or should we say people that cant' bring their needs to the table. 

Our needs drive us to Humility.  When we carry our own load as Galatians instructs us to, we become Functionally Independent.  When a man becomes lowly in spirit he gains honor... this is when we move into becoming Relationally Dependant.  It seems that there is a huge shift in America in this generation of becoming functionally dependant and relationally independant. 

Our needs drive us to God.People with nothing to fix have nothing to say to God.  When Matthew 5 says "Blessed are..."  He truly meant that those who need are those who are blessed.

"We are drawn to this gospel message because we have problems.  And after joining a church, we spend our next forty years trying to hide our problems.  Having no problems is a problem."

Neglecting our needs leads to spiritual and emotional problems.  Since God made us with needs, we should and can expect problems when we allow our needs to go unmet.  Just as physical pain signals us that something is wrong, so psychological symptoms are God's way of letting us know the same thing...something is wrong.  Medication has its place but generally is overused to cover the symptoms of depression, anxiety, eating disorders, substance abuse and compulsive behaviors.  They don't help us understand that there is a deeper problem.  These symptoms, the Bible calls fruit in Matthew 7:17-18.  The bad fruit is not the problem, the root is the problem.

Getting our needs met helps us meet the needs of others.  Meet our own needs and then we can be free to meet others needs WITHOUT resentment.  John, the disciple Jesus loved the most (John 21:20) later became the apostle of love.  He gave what had received. 

As we grow more and more aware of our deep and desperate incompleteness, of our need for love from God and from others, we truly become more like the Master... more like the Image Bearers of God that we were made to be!

We will NOT be meeting July 19, but join us at the Poland Fire Department for the Annual Fish Fry! 

We will meet July 26 at 6pm.  We will begin study of the second False Assumption:  If I'm Spiritual Enough, I Won't Have any Pain or Sinfulness.  Please read the chapter and look at the discussion questions in the back of your book so you can address your needs and concerns.

Post a comment for directions if you are interested in joining us.  Light food will be provided i.e. popcorn and fruit.  Please do not bring other food items, our space is limited.  See you in two weeks!

Of all tyrannies, a tyranny exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive. It may be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies. The robber baron's cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated; but those who torment us for our own good will torment us without end, for they do so with the approval of their own conscience.

— C.S. Lewis

is he capable? then cape him.

cologne clone colon

writing is pretty much what a person says when they shut up and write

what am i writing for?
oh
theres a fundamental belief i have that somehow i'll never be able to find what i want
like an instinct to be averted from actually following through on any type of responsibility or dream that i might be inspired to pursue
irate pirate

those chicks are getting laid,

from one prison to the next

we are all little chicks in our own little shells

hoping to get laid

Yesterday, after work, I stopped by my sister's house (the same one I spoke about in the last post and called to wish a happy belated birthday) and needed to take her to pick her car up at the shop.  While we were driving I pointed to a guy standing on the side of the road like he was waiting for a bus and I said to her, "See that guy over there?"

Her:  Yeah!?

Me: So do I.

The car gets really quiet and after a moment she asks:  What was that about?

Me:  (laughs)

So then we pull up to the repair shop and before she gets out I say to her, "Guess who I saw today!"

Her:  I don't know, who?

Me:  Lots of people! (laughs my ass off)

Her:  You're a dork! (slams the car door as she gets out)

I laughed all the way home. 

I know.  It's stupid, it's childish and idiotic but what can I tell you, I am just in one of those moods.  It is certainly no way for a 30ish guy to act.  But that was 3 times yesterday that I got my sister with something stupid.

Indulgence is very different from compulsion. It entails control, which is something compulsion lacks entirely. With indulgence you are enjoying every second of being...naughty---whether that means eating a few...extra pieces of birthday cake or having sex a few more times than you probably should have.... The point is you are enjoying every second. There is something about limits that makes one enjoy more than when "the sky is the limit".

Have you ever noticed how when you go to a buffet and eat everything in sight, not only do you feel sick (there's the negative consequence), but you forget half of what you managed to shovel down your throat? That would be compulsion: doing it simply...because you can. With indulgence you take the time to enjoy because you know the pleasure is coming in limited quantities. And not only that, you are still going farther than is considered appropriate. You still have the idea of doing things because you can, but now instead of being a dull compulsion, the act has purpose: enjoyment. You're not trying to make up for anything, you're not trying to rid yourself of boredom, you're simply pursuing something that pleases you, and taking more than your share. Nothing wrong with a little extra....

Indulgence is the best of every world. Sure, there is still backlash---there always will be---but now it comes only in small amounts, and is never enough to have made the experience an entirely negative one. Yes, maybe you'll have a bit of a headache after drinking too much the night before, but that's nothing like the hangover you would have had if you had drank just to do it. And now you won't have to deal with the entire vomiting-up-blood-into-the-sink issue.

So what's the moral to the story?

Do what you want, just don't be stupid.

I am so bored.
And so rather stupidly entertained.
Don't ask why, but I am.  Very, very easily entertained.  It's more of a curse than you may think.  Yes, I am a teenager who happens to be entertained with lots of things that tend to be somewhat okay.
This one?
Ya, not so much.
So sorry to a certain person who will find this rather creepy, but I have gone through a year and a half of archives since yesterday.  Archives of blog, that is.
Creepy?  Kinda ya.
Stalkerish?  Eh, not really.  Stalkerish would be to, oh, send a million emails about how I wanted to have nasty kinky sex with them and then tie them up in my basement for the next six weeks, only to let them out when they've thoroughly convinced me that they are not the spawn of satan.  (And since I am not stalkerish, I don't write a million emails, nor do I want to have "nasty kinky sex" with them, nor do I even have a basement, nor do I think they are the spawn of satan, for all those who were wondering).
But, still, it is creepy.
Yet.  I.  Can't.  Stop.
It's compulsion.
I have the weirdest compulsions.
Someone should take me away from the internet for two weeks.
Oh wait, I'm about ready to do that already, huh.  Well, lucky for me.  It'll work out nicely.
God damn it.  I was doing it again.  I just sorta clicked over after typing that last sentence about it'll work out nicely, and then bam....I got through, oh, I guess five, seven posts?
This is bad.
Step away from the computer.  But, wait, I'm at the end of March of 08, and I was in 06 yesterday afternoon.....And I am in March, almost up to date....
Step away from the computer - after I get to what I've already read.
God this is bad.
Really....Really....Really bad.
I might be a little obsessed.
Not like it hasn't happened before.......But that's beside the point.

It is my suspicion that most of us at one time or another have either felt the impulse to jot down a few profound thoughts, or were prompted by some fellow salad-bar survivor to do so. In the minority, though, are those of us that truly consider such a specious suggestion as being an actual possibility. If we ponder the prospect ( like, more than a second or two), we are beset by feelings of inadequacy for even entertaining the thought of attempting such a monumental task. We recall those daunting essays in junior high school…the “What I Did Last Summer”, or “My Favorite Pet” essay. Two-hundred words or more about nothing, when punctuation and spelling actually counted, was a pretty tough assignment! I remember being assaulted by waves of cybernetic tummy toxins, invariably arriving the evening before the assigned paper was due. Racking my brain, I would stare at a few pitiful words, flagrantly scrawled across a mostly void sheet of loose leaf, all of my gray matter entirely focused on “How To Be Sick Tomorrow.”

For many years, my maxim in life has been, “one should never do today, what one can delay until tomorrow.” And my old buddy, “Procrastination”, has always backed me up…. 100% of the time. Ahh…yes! Slumming with the “Big P; mastering the art and science of self-rescue by haphazardly mapping the shortest escape route. The dogmatic selection process of a selfish society to the spurious safety of disproportionate self-esteem, both assessments freely distributed by the same hypocritical clique. My most dependable buddy, “P” and I have hidden under a bushel basket of lame excuses, hugging memory ravaging delays, as we smooched the cold cheek of our own impotence. Somewhere between the bloom and harvest, I fell in love with the idea of wasting time, so, me and “P”, spent most of our time peeling another day, slicing another month, and sectioning another year from the fruit of “my life.”

Until this day……. (Of course, you don’t know if it really is today, do you? Only me, De’agoni De’feat, and “P” know for sure. Ha! Gotcha!)

Anyway, today, I send my dawdling old friends whichever way they decide they want to go. Today, I will use the dividing knife of time to prepare for you, a “real life” story buffet for public consumption. I intend to skin, slice, and bare my inner core in a communal manner, before my thoughts are devoured by words like, “shouldn’t, couldn’t, can’t,” or, “won’t” …their intention being; consume my entire yield…. fruit, seed, and all. Let the juice splash where it may! It is my conviction, that even the slightest therapeutic value of spilling the contents of one’s anemic soul and dumping one’s tiny puddle of tears and laughter into the immense, polluted river of jettisoned journals and orphaned opinions, must be, in itself, reason enough to consider launching a pig. I invite those of you who fell a little too soon, and a little too far from the tree; some who may be a little bruised, and slightly soft in places; those of you whom often observe the firmest, more colorful, and tasty fruit being chosen, while you inadvertently fall to the bottom of the barrel…. join me, as I indulge in my very first “experiment” on the author’s launch pad. I have to see if this piglet will fly!

Powered by ScribeFire.

I spend most of my money on food. There are three different types of meat in this photograph.
Do you doubt that I am rich?

I need to stop complaining about being broke.

Yes, I'm broke.

I owe the credit card company (companies, rather) upwards of $800 right now. On my slim income, that's probably 1/8 of my yearly earnings. Pathetic. And hurrah for those bloodsuckers.

I have about $40 in my bank account, soon to be less, thank you Time Warner Cable, for the Cable that does not work, and the internet I don't have a wireless router for.

But this is not much to complain about. No, it's nothing moral; it's not about not complaining because there are starving children in Africa and obese children living next door to me (actually, they're pretty skinny; this is LA).

Realistically, unless I die, money is the most renewable resource in my life. Everything else is ebbing away. Like health.

Health and Pain

This is not the reason my leg gave out.

Honestly, I might enjoy being sick sometimes. It gives you a time to take a break from things that make you sick, like work, stress, responsibilities, and general irresponsibility.

Seriously, though, I'm a bit scared this time around. I've been having a lot of pain, dehydration, apathy, etc. more so than normal sickness.

I took a shower, got into bed, read a bit of Nathaniel Hawthorne, and woke up about an hour and a half later (after surreal dreams of twin brothers killing each other in the bleak cold of New England).

I tried to get out of bed, and I collapsed.

I tried to get back into bed, and fell again.

I realized, slowly, that my right leg was not working. I could move it, it wasn't asleep, but it had absolutely no strength in it. It was like rubber.

It was all in a dreamlike quality, but painful, so I knew I was awake. I jammed my toe pretty hard, and hell, I fell. Ain't pretty. I felt like an old woman, sans broken hip, thank god.

Somehow I pulled myself back into bed, and wondered what the hell just happened. I'm getting old. I'm sick? Hallucinating?

It's frightening when you realize your body is falling apart, but cannot figure out why.

It's my birthday soon.

Zits

Okay okay, so I'm actually not that far-removed from puberty (in terms of my chronological age). And I still get zits.

But when I do get zits, just know:

1. I'm probably PMSing.
2. Don't bother me. I relapse into my early pubescent years and I promise you I will hurt you.
3. They get worse when I'm stressed or reading, because I pick at them without noticing.

Currently I have a dot on my forehead. A very big red dot. And I had to take a passport photo. That red dot, that I get maybe twice a year, will show up for the next 10 years on my passport, haunting me, and possibly prompting customs to ask whatever became of my eastern religious affiliation.

Compulsion

I have this bizarre sense of urgency. Like tomorrow I might become incapacitated. So I'd better finish my dealings today.

Compulsion.

What truly drives us?
Well, for me....it's something along the lines of "I WANT" and "NOW".
Only life is not as simple now that I don't have someone wiping my butt.

Can't be a kid forever.

The National Impact of "I WANT" "NOW" "A LOT"

This, ladies and gentlemen, is literally a bucket of Pepsi. A BUCKET, PEOPLE! My hands are on the big side too.

Note the patriotic colors? Thank you, Colonel.

The Darkroom

This is the site of my future darkroom. My roommate might kill me.
Nevertheless, I will make it happen. And yes, that is a poster of dinosaurs on the floor.
Because dinosaurs are pretty cool. T.Rex, ladies. T.Rex.
Poster is courtesy of National Geographic.

Once upon a time, (three years ago) I wrote something that I still go back to when photography becomes just a job.

" I didn't quite get the SF prints out the way I wanted them to, but it was alright. I made some other decent prints. Too bad I didn't have any 5 X 7 paper left. That's my favorite size, though it's impossible to find decent frames for them. Sure, film photography takes a lot of patience, but heck, that's what I need to develop, no pun intended.

I've realized why I love photography so much. It's therapeutic. And tonight, I had the entire darkroom to myself. Just me, the enlarger, and the processor. Well, actually, I was using two enlargers.

It's quite peaceful in there, regardless of whether I'm the only person or if there's an entire class of 28 people. The rhythmic hum of the machine, the intermittent clack of the negative tray, the rustle of photo paper, and otherwise silence... it's a serene isolation. And I can think about things beyond myself.

There's something truly novel about recording the world the way I see it. And in a strange way, photography also makes me change my perspective of the world around me. It forces me to look at the normal, the plain, the mundane, in a different way. Kinda makes me appreciate the small things in life a little more. It makes me notice the tough little flower (or pretty weed) growing out of the tennis court, or the harmonious geometry of pipes in a dingy parking garage.

Photography makes me appreciate things for just being. It simply reflects the inspiring reality that I see. In a sense, it parallels writing. I write what I know, what I feel, what I see. I write to express what I perceive. And just like writing, my photography isn't necessarily for other people's enjoyment. When I write and when I take pictures, I realize that it isn't me trying to create something, it's me trying to preserve the moment. But in preserving the moment, I'm not trying to battle against the inevitability of time passing. I'm simply trying to understand the moment.

And I'm trying to understand myself. Myself in relation to the moment. Myself in relation to the people around me. Myself in relation to the world around me, because there are things bigger than myself out there."

So today, partially out of that childish compulsion, nostalgia, and the futile effort to know myself and to express my subjectivity to other people (best way to get people to see it how you see it), I decided to buy a darkroom. (Not the dark, or the room, but the stuff that goes in it).

The equipment is almost as old as I am. And just about as dusty. Some of the cords are corroded, so I will have to figure out how to do some rewiring and repairs. Most everything looks in working order.

It's my little baby, my little project.

I've been meaning to get my hands dirty again. It's been too long. I just missed that darkroom too much. I had to bring it home with me.

So I have these two huge boxes filled with graduated cylinders, tanks, these cool (but useless) machines that rotate your developing tanks for you (I used to hand-shake, like a martini), very odd, puzzling pieces of metal that I have yet to figure out, easels, a really monstrous enlarger (HUUUUGE PRINTS), lamphouse, and some specialized stuff for color processing.

I got it for $100. A big expense for one in debt, but hey, I only live once, I will get money eventually, and I love this. Sorry, Mom. I may be unwise now, but see, I am smiling. And I'll smile even more later.

This usually gets me into some trouble, especially my wife, who hates that I will embarrass her or, in the case of the children, encourage them to continue their funny ways.

The latest occurance is one involving my soon to be 5 year old son.  My wife and I were strolling through the local farmers market and were browsing in the furniture store where they make all the hand crafted wood tables and shelves and such and in there they also have many of the rustic or country decorations. 

My wife and I were very involved in looking in this store as we are looking for some new pieces to go with the newly painted rooms.  We were having a discussion when out of the handcrafted gazebo inside the store jumps out my son. 

He lands in a karate stance and yells "Look I am Michelangelo!"

He begins to swing wildly two hand crafted candles, the kind that have the wicks attached that you hang from a wall, like they are nunchucks. 

For all those that don't get the Michelangelo reference, that is the name of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.

My wife was mortified. 

I laughed. 

She scowled at me and yelled at him.  She yanked the candles from his hands and hung them back up in the gazebo and stormed out of the store all embarrassed leaving him and I standing there.

I took his hand to leave and find my wife when he looks up at me and says "That was a good one, wasn't it?"

Yes Buddy, it was!

There the paparazzi waited for him knowing every step he took before he knew he was to take one. It baffled him as the string of camera flashes blinded him slightly; he would gently stop and pose as if he knew his image would be on the front cover of a tabloid. Neurotic Writer looked in the housewares section for a crystal ball he thought his new found psychic friend might be able to use in the séance. He found a clear glass dome used as a flower vase container that might be usable. NW debated between that and a fish bowl and opted for the vase. He didn’t have very much belief in the hocus pocus of his own spirituality and acted as if he did believe giving every superstition, belief a benefit of a doubt.

Neurotic Writer walked to the grocery section of the Bull’s Eyes Store to retrieve refreshments and a few snack items for his guests to munch on at the séance. It was a big deal for him undertaking all the preparations for this one time event. He pushed the red plastic shopping cart as he spotted the paparazzi moving down the aisles to catch another image of this famous celebrity writer. People in the store looked at him thinking he was out of his mind since there actually wasn’t any paparazzi only the customers like him shopping. Everything in Neurotic Writer’s mind somehow partially transferred into reality. To him it was real. He thought if other people believed in space aliens, why could he have his own reality fantasy. Neurotic Writer could see the paparazzi and the flashes of their cameras actually really happen, somehow everything in his mind precisely fit into the reality of the real world, except people could not see what he could. NW didn’t know if his mind was lying to him or if he was lying to himself.

The lines of reality and those of his relationship with Judy were actually blurred. He didn’t know if Judy was entirely honest with herself about her need to be with NW. It left him heart broken when she left. Neurotic Writer sent an email into cyberspace hoping it would catch up to her to wish her a happy birthday. He cried as he read previous emails they had exchanged wondering what he had done to drive her away. He received an email calling him cowboy and what a pleasant surprise it was to get the message from him. She hoped all was going well with NW and his artistic endeavors. Neurotic Writer sent a response that things were good and his work was going fantastic. He asked how things were with Judy and if she had forgiven him.

Judy never answered back. Neurotic Writer felt very depressed as the days turned in weeks, the long deep cut in his heart heal into an invisible scar.

rolling cameras, electronic machines, magnetic strips, return policies ~ i thought i could beat them all. for example, if i got hungry, i'd head over to the protein bar section, open one up, eat it slowly while i 'shopped', as to not seem paranoid & then leave the wrapper on the bottom of the cart at check out. if they asked, i'd say, 'oh, that's just garbage'. a thief and a liar.

sometimes i'd be at home, bored w/an overdrawn bank account & have an intense desire to shop...or should i say, attain something new. once the urge got in my brain, it was like nothin' could stop me. i'd take little items easy to hide in my purse. if i didn't have the money (i read shoplifting rarely has to do with the lack of money), i'd think, 'there's got to be somethin' around the house i can return. then w/that cash or credit, i can buy something else.' i'd frantically search the house for items or search my purse for a good receipt & then look for an item listed on it. in essence, i used the socially acceptable & legal right to return things, so as to justify it. i'd take back all kinds of things i'd had for up to 9 months, clothes worn & washed countless times...i'd literally break things, un-stitch a hem to make it seem defective, even hot-glue a plastic price-tag loop back onto a garment so it looked never worn.

one time i even returned a dress jacket i gave to my husband for his birthday. it had a small rip in the armpit & i made it bigger, stating it was defective. originally i paid $29. @ fred meyer...& i got credit for it, but not before several cashiers looked at it with an 'oh my god.' examining me & then the botched receipt (another trick i was fond of ~ i'd make the purchase date illegible w/water stains or just just rip it). they had a small debate team meeting as i stood there with a long line of people behind me. yeah, it was embarrassing. am i really writing all this? my gosh, it still is. but at the time, all that was worth a $13. gift card to me so i could get something new. to this day i can't believe it 'worked'. in fact, to this day, i can't believe i was never caught.

i watched a dr. phil called, 'can't stop stealing'. i completely related to this woman. only she'd been arrested 4 or 5 times & was still addicted. he basically used her kids' innocence & the threat of prison to scare & shame her into accepting the gift of cognitive therapy he offered to pay for "in her own home town".

it was far from a message of grace & forgiveness. now that's a real gift.

i thought getting caught just one time would break me. the sheer humiliation of being hauled off in from of my toddler while he waits for his daddy to come for him...or the thought of being handcuffed in public...it still scares me. but that's not what helped me stop. dr. phil's guest made me feel less alone in my addiction, but that wasn't it either.

i read that confessing something to God with your mouth - it cleanses & saves you. confessing it to someone close you can trust is what starts the healing process. i believed that. i finally told my husband last year, then later my mom, that i had struggled with this compulsion for several years. like food addicts who have to eat to live & are therefore continually faced w/temptation to overeat as they stand in front of their fridge, i had to shop for necessities & groceries weekly. the temptation was always there.

but after confessing to God & someone who could hold me immediately accountable, my urges to "lift" started...lifting. when i'm tempted to steal (yeah, i'm still tempted), i ask myself, 'self, why!?! do u need that? what kind of example are u setting? would it be worth getting caught? do u think you're more special or entitled than others who actually pay? get over your...self.' or i'll just say a simple prayer for the strength i need; recalling that there's One who promises to supply all my needs, when i need them. sometimes i don't do either, & end up taking something anyway. the last thing i can remember lifting was a birthday card that played 'who let the dogs out' when you opened it. angel had used it as entertainment while @ wal mart, even during self-check out. that was 3 or 4 months ago.

i've been thinkin' about it lately. my reasons for doin' it & for me, it comes down to three things ~ not trusting God nearly enough, refusing to die to my selfish desires, & clutching a perverted sense of self-entitlement.

today as i type this, i am nearly free of that issue. not because i tried hard, faithfully attended a 12-step klepto program, or was caught in the act. instead, thank God grace was poured out on me.

before it got worse, i was shown in my heart how confession & reliance {on strength greater than my own} can join forces to really change a person ~ from the inside out.

Fight Club's estranged narrator leaves his lackluster job when he comes under the thrall of Tyler Durden, an enigmatic young man who holds secret after-hours boxing matches in the basement of bars. There, two men fight "as long as they have to." "Diabolically sharp and funny." - Washington Post Book World.

The only person who gets called Ballardesque more often than Chuck Palahniuk is, well... J.G. Ballard. So, does Portland, Oregon's "torchbearer for the nihilistic generation" deserve that kind of treatment? Yes and no. There is a resemblance between Fight Club and works such as Crash and Cocaine Nights in that both see the innocuous mundanities of everyday life as nothing more than the severely loosened cap on a seething underworld cauldron of unchecked impulse and social atrocity. Welcome to the present-day U.S. of A. As Ballard's characters get their jollies from staging automobile accidents, Palahniuk's yuppies unwind from a day at the office by organizing bloodsport rings and selling soap to fund anarchist overthrows. Let's just say that neither of these guys are going to be called in to do a Full House script rewrite any time soon.

But while the ingredients are the same, Ballard and Palahniuk bake at completely different temperatures. Unlike his British counterpart, who tends to cast his American protagonists in a chilly light, holding them close enough to dissect but far enough away to eliminate any possibility of kinship, Palahniuk isn't happy unless he's first-person front and center, completely entangled in the whole sordid mess. An intensely psychological novel that never runs the risk of becoming clinical, Fight Club is about both the dangers of loyalty and the dreaded weight of leadership, the desire to band together and the compulsion to head for the hills. In short, it's about the pride and horror of being an American, rendered in lethally swift prose. Fight Club's protagonist might occasionally become foggy about who he truly is (you'll see what I mean), but one thing is for certain: you're not likely to forget the book's author. Never mind Ballardesque. Palahniukian here we come! --Bob Michaels

Order Fight Club, A Novel from Amazon for $7.96

Don't have Amazon Kindle? You can always purchase it from here
Or if you prefer to read the Print editions instead, you can get it from here

Other Kindle Books of Interest
Choke: A Novel
Diary
Stranger Than Fiction: True Stories
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

Since I am beaten down I am going to open up a little and let you into my mind. 

I love to listen to music but I find that when I am on long drives, like up and down the New Jersey Turnpike, I find that I cannot listen to music.  Why?  I have no idea.

I just know that I drive better listening to Talk Radio than when I am listening to music.  It could be anything, NPR, Rush Limbaugh, Sports Talk or some radio preacher, I just need some bland and boring talk in the car. 

It is not because I am lonely or crave the sound of the human voice.  It is not like I talk back to the people on the radio, or actually listen to what they say.  There is something about the drone of the talking that comforts me while I drive. 

I have found in the past that I have been driving at illegal speeds when listen to the radio.  I get a great song on and all of a sudden I look down at the speedometer and I'll be pushing 90 mph.  On the NJ Turnpike 90 is usually the norm.

 Does this make me odd?  Probably.  I mean who listens to talk radio unless they really want to hear what is being said? 

That is the thing about my mind.  I have these totally weird, odd quirks that separate me from the normal. 

What have I learned from the radio?  Jesus loves me because I'm a Democrat hating Republican that thinks that Pete Rose should win the Stanley Cup in Israel because a Palestinian State would help the NFL drug policy become Hannaitized.

You're all a great American!

My husband is hang up on socks.  He looks for socks the first thing he steps into the house. Stray ones?  Ones with holes.  Or ones that sink.  Ones missing a partner--one lone sock sitting forlorn?  Well, invariably his eyes focus on any likeness of woolies that encase feet.

Next, the stock question.  It never changes through the years and despite my plea, "What's the deal with socks?', he always asks, ,"Why are these socks lying here?"

Hello?  If you have a child or two or more, the chances of socks decorating the confines of your house are almost 100 %.  No exception--unless you have a special maid whose sole responsibility is picking socks up.  From the sprawling floor of the family room or the tiny crevices of dark corners.  Since most of us live without the luxury of such personalized service, you just have to let the socks be.  Right?

Apparently not in my household.  My husband is bent on seeking the socks out.  Poor things, what have they done to deserve this militant hunting down?  All you socks, you have my sympathy.  Personally, I could care less.  There are more pressing things in life to worry about.  Like drinking my tea and putting my legs up for a sanity moment.

So the standard argument in this house goes something like that?

What are these socks doing lying here?

IDK (shrugs my shoulder)

Who left them here?

IDK ( roll my eyes)--ask Shaina. She was last since with one purpose sock.

I don't understand.  How can she run around with one sock and not know it?

IDK (hands up in frustration)--she's only three.  What do you expect?

Sometimes, this "sock" conversation can go on for a long time.  So anal.  So analytical. What's there to rationalize about socks?  They are just socks, for crying out loud.  Leave them alone.  They do disappearing act, that's what they do. They are suppose to lounge around and remind people that life doesn't always have to be perfect and rosy.  Life can be messy and usualy is.

So do you hear?  Leave the socks alone before I sock you, honey.  And I'm already totally socked-out.

So all you, fellow bloggers--does your spouse have a certain compulsion that needs to be exposed?  You can vent your frustration right here.  I'm with you.

I've made a few pages and am starting to get a hang of all the features. I recently decided to try to make one lens per day on Squidoo. I don't know how long I can do this for, but I'll track the progress here on my blog. Visit my A Lens A Day page for more info.