“I rarely see you when you’re smiling / it really gets under my skin”

I am a man consumed. A passenger in a speeding cab on the Information Superhighway. In the cab the radio is tuned to a podcast; four or five excited voices vie for airtime. The driver is on his own diatribe, stabbing the air with a lit cigarette that never gets back to his mouth while he delivers a slam poem to the windshield. It’s all talk, talk, talk and I want out.

I have to talk to you today about love; what it might be, what it should be, and what it often is to those with depression and anxiety. i.e. – what it is to me.

“I’m working on a new song” is what I tell myself and others when there is a set of lyrics occupying all the space in my brain, but I think it’s really more of me trying to make sense of the words that I conjure. That’s certainly the case this go ’round.

I’ve been listening to a lot of Stars and Sarah McLachlan, which makes for a very specific headspace in which to explore the concept of love, and what I found is both beautiful and tremendously upsetting.

In the mornings lying next to you there should be someone
Who’ll kill themselves to make you happy; they’ll kill anyone.
In the winter they will keep you warm, in the summer keep you wet
They’ll rip out their own beating heart for your Last Christmas gift.

If I could I’d thank god that you’re here
And if I could I’d wish upon a star
If I could I’d whisper in your ear
“You should be happier than you are”

I don’t know how we failed you. Perhaps we didn’t try.
But we can make it up to you; we’ll set fire to the sky.
We’ll drain the oceans so your feet can take you where you see fit
And if you find a place you can do without we’ll scrub the Earth of it.
I’ll tear out my own tongue if I say something that makes you cry
and I’ll blacken both your eyes if you see something that you don’t like.

“You should be happier than you are.”

The concept is essentially the POV of a depressed person, A, looking at someone they claim to love, B, and needing them to be happy because that’s what A thinks love should be, and if B isn’t happy then what is A doing wrong? What more can A do, or in what way can A shape the world around B so that B is happy? If B’s loved, B’s happy, right? Otherwise, what is the purpose of love?

B’s happiness isn’t actually the goal for A, however, because A doesn’t intend for B to happy independent of A. A needs to be a catalyst for that happiness, because A needs to see B happy to believe in love, or validate A’s belief in what love means.

What I’m saying is, as a depressive, I have to see the people that I love happy, because i have to believe that love can make them happy, because I have to believe that love can make me happy. It’s unfair, it’s untenable, and it’s not the truth. But sometimes it’s what my mind makes me believe.

What love should be is the force that brings light to the world. It’s not a smile, or a laugh, or a content face resting without worry. It’s light. It’s belonging. It’s comfort in times of stress, safety in times of fear, strength in bouts of fragility.

What it is actually is often messy, often tearful, and often imperfect. And even then, in those instances, it is the force that brings light to the world.

I don’t know if the song will go darker or dip out towards the end. I hope to finish this song some time this year. I’ll keep you posted.

“Shame you left my life so soon, you should have told me, hey, but you left me Far Behind”

I am constantly, actively trying to be a better person. Better than what I revile, better than I’ve been, better than I am. It is an active and constant effort that I put forth every day.

Let me clarify: I am not saying that I am a good person. I am not. I know this. I am acutely aware of this, which is why I can say with genuine earnest that I am constantly, actively trying to be a better person.

I have misogynistic thoughts. They form in my brain, and I am the only one driving that thing, so I know they are mine. A part of me thinks these things, and then this active agent in my conscience recognizes them as wrong and shuts them down. I do not act on them, I do not own them, and I do not give them any credence. I eliminate them as soon as they form like an antibody taking out a virus.

I have racist thoughts. Classist thoughts. Elitist thoughts. Unconscious biases. Snap judgements. Thoughts of self-harm. Frequent, frequent thoughts of self-harm. There are things that appear in my head that I wish didn’t. Things that I wish I didn’t have to admit come from me. But they do, and I have to be brave enough to recognize that they are so that I can actively fight them, erase them, and reprogram that part of my head where they found life until they won’t anymore.

It is a constant, active effort that I put forth every day.

This active compassion has me taking stock of my expectations of others, as I would hope they would of me. We’re all struggling, particularly in this current version of existence. The year may have turned but the time has not. We’re still ostracized, fearful, angry, and fitful. 2020 has affected each of us differently, but it has undoubtedly affected each of us. As such, I try not to view others’ actions through the lens of my own experience. Some thrust themselves at their support circle, some minimize their presence, some disappear entirely. No one course is irrefutably right or wrong. We’re all doing our best.

So when a dear friend disappears from me entirely, I have to respect that they’re probably taking time to themselves, or their situation has changed to the point that they can’t be avaiable to me, or any other reason they’re distant that has nothing to do with me.

“It’s not always about me,” I tell myself.

“But what if it is?” I ask myself.

I think I may have been cancelled. I don’t know why. This raises a lot of questions, both about me and about my view of the interloper and the affected. First, as always, there is me.

What did I do? Or not do? I’ve combed through my social media output over the past year with a critical eye on what I may have said or admitted to or remained silent and therefor complicit towards. I am questioning every sentence I’ve ever uttered, every thought I’ve ever heard, every little thing that could have caused another discomfort or to feel marginalized in any way.

If you asked me if an accuser owes their attacker an explanation as to why they’re being punished or ostracized, I would shout “absolutely not!” If what makes you safe is removing yourself from the situation, do so and do so immediately. You don’t owe anyone an explanation; why even put yourself through that? Why assign words to their wrongdoing? Just cut ties and walk away. Cleanse yourself of it all. I support you.

But now I feel like I’m the attacker, and of course I want a fucking explanation. I want to be a better person, but I can’t do that if I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. The truth is, as much as I want to be a compassionate and considerate citizen of the world, I know in my heart that I am unpure and broken. As such, I am aware that I may be fucking up without being aware of it, because I know that I am not perfect and haven’t eyes to see or cognizance to know what is empirically right and wrong. I am not perfect, and would never be arrogant enough to assume that I know how to be. Therefor, I need to be told when I am wrong.

This of course is in direct conflict with my belief that the injured are obligated to any dialogue with their attackers. So, what now do I do with my injuries? Have I been cancelled?

Or is this, like most of the mechanics of the world I inhabit, not about me at all? Am I just viewing this through the lens of my own experience? It’s difficult not to when the only set of eyes I have are mine, and clouded by Depression and feelings of worthlessness. As a major depressive, I am almost always consumed by guilt that I’m doing everything wrong, so when I’m called out for such (or not called out, only punished) it stings that much deeper.

“I did not mean to treat you oh so bad, oh but I did it anyway.”

I apologize for breathing your air…

I found this in my drafts, from God-Knows-When, but it looks like it got too heavy so I abandoned it.

Here it is finished in a cold and detached rush. Enjoy a choppy timeline of love, unlove, death, and rebirth.

I had a lovely impromptu date night with the wife tonight. I had the day off work so I slept in, wrote a couple of articles for the site, then took a shower and asked her what she’d like to do. To this, of course, she had no answer. She intimated at being hungry, though I wasn’t, so I suggested we have a cocktail while we decide what to do. We went to a bar, then a pizza joint, then another bar that offered karaoke. If you’re reading this, you know I love karaoke. We sang a song each to start the night, then it got a bit dense, lengthening the rotation. Not the Meredith and Eric Show we’d become accustomed to. Fatigue set in and we closed our tab, but before we could make it to the door, our names were called for a second round. Mer responded with Amy Winehouse’s “Rehab” and I felt like I needed to scream a little and answered with Papa Roach’s “Broken Home“.

As we were leaving she asked me how old I was when my parents divorced. I realized that perhaps, at some point in our fourteen years together, I’d mentioned it, but there was still so much she didn’t know about me. It’s not that I’m not forthcoming; this blog should be a prime example of that. But, as it takes place in medias res, you’re privy to all of my current exploits but the past can often go unvisited. In this vein, I have decided to construct a crude (and I mean, crude; my memory sucks) timeline. Bear with me.

• August, 1958: My father is born to Mary [Maiden Name Unknown], a MENSA-level intellect, and [First Name Unknown] McClanahan, an unknown anomaly of (assumedly) Human DNA.
• October, 1959: My mother is born to Bonnie Sue Johnson and Bill Ray Johnson.
• Sometime, 1960: Mary and [First Name Unknown] McClanahan separate.
  Mary and Charles Loftis Wed. They go on to have three girls: Connie, then a few years later, a set of twins: Rachel and Robin.
• Sometime, in the 60s: Bill and Bonnie divorce; beforehand, they birth Judy Sue Johnson and Robin Ray Johnson, chronologically.
• Early/mid-70s, that era: Bill weds Virginia Hawkins.
• February 22. 1976: Bill and Virginia give birth to their son, Jeffery Ray Johnson.
• 1976: My father is engaged to a young woman; after an unavoidable automobile accident, she is hospitalized and he retreats into himself.
• Mid-1976: My mother is dating [Name Unknown], and they like one another’s genitalia.
• Late 1976/Early 1977: Rupert McClanahan meets Janet Johnson. Sparks!!!!!
• February 1977: Rupert and Janet marry; Yay! Neither complete high school.
• July 21, 1977: Rupert and Janet welcome a son, Damen Cory McClanahan. The math doesn’t add up, does it? This is not Rupert’s son. Undaunted, he agrees to raise him as his own.
• August 19, 1978: Rupert and Janet welcome a son, Eric Macy McClanahan, who is so wrought with emotional incongruence that he weeps at the sight of his own name, but that’s neither here nor there. What is significant is that Eric is unplanned; an idea was formed that they’d wait several years before having a child so that the older existing one can help raise the new one. Burgeoning chemical contraceptives and their youthful inefficiencies result in a differing eventuality.
• The 80s: the Family moves about, for better or worse. There are times spent in apartments with family friends; time spent in one-room shacks that my father literally built around us as we foraged for a home. At one point, we stayed in a one-room shack where we boiled water in a five-quart convection chafing pan then shared baths while we also housed a deaf cousin. I discover what government cheese tastes like and drink powdered milk. We share love and gifts and cherish our extended family. It was quite surreal. Dad joins the Army Reserve for career training and salary. I break my arm quickly after he finishes his three-year stint. I was ambidextrous, then. (I am not now.)
• 
• Winter; 1992: Cory proves too difficult for Janet and Rupert to raise and is placed in the care of Bonnie and her husband, Lewis. He works a small job as a porter, cleaning repurposed household appliances, while staying with his grandparents.
• Spring/Summer, 1993: Cory is brought home but it is quickly apparent that both boys are incorrigible. They are exiled to a pop-up camper in the backyard of their estate. They are allowed to enter the house at night for a shower and dinner, only. They work the land for a meager pay that they remand as “rent.” They’re responsible for getting themselves up and to school. If they miss the bus they can pay their father to take them to school if he’s available.
• Late 1993: Rupert and Janet announce they are divorcing. They assure their shitty kids (who are so rotten they had to be moved into a tarp in the front yard) that it’s not their fault. The kids don’t believe them. Rupert is “immediately” seeing a new woman, Cindy. Mom moves into an apartment near the high-school. The boys are moved back into the house to stay with Dad, who regrets the time he hadn’t spent with them.
• Early 1994: Dad and Cindy marry. His children are not invited to attend the ceremony, and are only told about it after the fact.
• Summer 1994: Cory is given use of the family truck so that he may work at Whataburger, given the condition that he keep his grades up when school resumes.
• Late Summer 1994: Mom moves into a house in Conroe. Her last memory of Cory is a random day in September when he comes by to mow her lawn. They pass like ships in harbor, and she doesn’t even get to say “Thank you.”
• September 29, 1994: After receiving progress reports for the first semester of his senior year with grades in the 30s and 40s, Cory sends a few messages to classmates, then goes to Taco Bell to enjoy a meal. He goes home and writes a letter to his mother, father, and brother. He places the note in a bible near a psalm about Deliverance. He searches our father’s room and loads his shotgun with a slug. He goes into the backyard and puts the shotgun in his mouth and blows the back of his skull out rather than disappoint our father. I find his body in the backyard.
• The rest of 1994 to about mid-2000: I graduate high school, and immediately go to work doing shit jobs for shit pay. I apply to a college and am accepted but forget the $15 application fee. I never reapply. I make poor decisions, eat shit, let my teeth rot out of my face, drink too much, sleep with everything. My mother remarries, and at the ceremony, I give her away. I stare into the bottom of a bottle and cry more often than not. I am directionless and apathetic.
• August 2002: I receive an invitation from my friend to move to San Diego, crash on her couch, and start a new life. I take it, and tell only a few people that I will, most of whom don’t believe me.
• January 2003: Much to the surprise of many people, some of whom were my roommates at the time, I leave early one morning to drive to San Diego. I arrive two days later. I stay for fourteen years, meet my eventual wife, and do ALL THE THINGS.

From there you know the rest. One of these days I’ll write a book; in the meantime, you get this.

On Witnessing What May or May Not Have Been Chuck Norris

I left work the other day to visit one of the other restaurants to pick up some product. I parked in a small parking lot behind the restaurant, which had about five other cars parked there. One cannot easily assume that the owners of these vehicles are in the restaurant as there are many businesses nearby and the positioning of the lot allows for access to any number of places. So, no, I don’t think Chuck Norris was going to the restaurant.

I say that because after I parked my car but before I stepped out, I saw a man sitting in the SUV in the spot in front of me to my right. The man looked like Chuck Norris. This isn’t too much of a stretch as I was in Texas, in a shopping center not too far from Lake Conroe, where Chuck is rumored to have a home. There is actually a likelihood that this man in this truck was none other than Chuck Norris.

But here’s the thing: the man was sitting in his car. I didn’t stare, so I can’t say much about what he was actually doing, but one is left to wonder. What was Chuck doing in his car? Was he finishing a text before starting it up to drive, like a responsible Texas motorist? Was he reading some quick headlines, maybe checking his IMDb ranking? Was he trolling BLM supporters and sending the RNC and NRA white thumbs-ups?

What was he doing? Why was he alone? What are you doing in your car alone, Chuck? Are you on your phone reaching out for human connection? Are you harnessing your Chi before placing a complex order at Five Guys or Jersey Mike’s? Are you squeezing the steering wheel, listening to the squeaking sound of your skin catching along its surface while you contemplate life in other galaxies, wondering if they’d ever brave the orbital detritus to knock on our door and introduce themselves? Are you ranking your personal top 5 Chuck Norris superlatives?

I’ll never know if it was Chuck in that truck, as I couldn’t imagine a scenario wherein I could rap on his window and say hello. Nevermind that we’re in a pandemic; it just doesn’t seem feasible. Yeah, I would walk up to a guy who looked like Chuck Norris in an H-E-B and say “Excuse me, are you Chuck Norris?” But to knock on his window while he’s sitting in his parked vehicle? Absolutely not. What if it wasn’t him? What do I say? “Oh, I’m sorry; I thought you were Chuck Norris.” Moreover, what if it was him? That’s a deeply personal moment, and I would be mortified if I intruded on it.

So, yeah, I may or may not have seen Chuck Norris the other day.

The End

Improv Exercises

A dream I had the other night:

I was waiting outside a friend’s apartment for her the to get home, even though I didn’t recognize this particular apartment complex at all. The only reason I knew it was hers is that I tried the handle and it was unlocked, which I thought was weird because she’d had some recent unpleasantries and I didn’t think she’d leave her apartment unlocked like that.

A man I identified as her boyfriend was there, too, waiting outside. At one point I saw he had a gun in his hand so I asked “everything okay?” He said “yeah. I got my gun so people know I mean business.” I said “o-kay” and walked away from him. The “gun” was a block of wood crudely shaped like a gun and covered in mildew.

I went back inside the apartment and now it was full of people, and my mother was there. She was cooking a sheet of tofu on a hibachi. There was a bag of “ready to eat Lasagna noodles” on the counter that wasn’t lasagna at all. I looked at all this and asked her “what are you doing?” She leaned in close and whispered “No one here can cook.” I leaned in and said “That’s not what I meant. I can see what you’re doing; my question is why are you doing THIS, specifically?”

Cut to: I’m walking down a very steep and long hill in the outdoors with a lot of other people. Some of them appear to be hippies. The strange thing about the terrain is that someone had thrown fleece blankets all over the ground so that no pavement or foliage could be seen. At one point a woman says “Babe, we need to talk.” Five guys respond almost immediately with some variation of “Why do you sound upset when you say that?” At that, everyone sits down, except the lady who first spoke and the five men who answered. She points to one of them and says “You know why,” and the other four sit down. The man standing points to a seated girl near him and says “Well your friend said…” and she stands up. She points to me and says “Well, your friend said…” but I am sliding down the hill on the softness of the blankets, farther away from all of them and I can’t find my footing. I finally realized this was an Improv Exercise but I didn’t recall reading about this in the literature prior to the hike and I didn’t fully hear everything exchanged, so I’m sliding away muttering “I promise I’m trying. Oop, there I go. By, y’all! Send canned goods…”

And then I wake up.

Me and my ‘Rona

I don’t know if I mentioned this, but I quit smoking for good this past October 3rd, 2019. My wife was preparing for an elective surgery and it was suggested that she quit smoking prior to; smoking constricts the blood vessels, raising blood pressure, and the doctors don’t want to go to slice into a person and have unpredictable spurts. Sounds reasonable enough, and I’d been looking for a reason, anyway. So, we quit.
Well, I quit. She started up again about a month ago. I have no intent to pick up the habit once more. It’s smelly, it’s expensive, and it’s not good for one’s health. Particularly in these days of pandemic panic. It’s said that Coronavirus is harder to fight in those who have smoked or are active smokers. I want whatever I edge I can have for the fight.
I work in the public sector, you see: a restaurant manager. I haven’t stopped working since this all began, as many in my industry have. I don’t quite remember when it started, but I remember when it drew close enough for me to see its future clear.
It was March 12th, 2020, and Marc Rebillet was going to be playing a show in downtown Houston. We’d made no plans to attend, but I thought it might be something fun to do last-minute after I got off work. But I’d been watching the news, seeing how the Covid-19 virus was spreading around the globe and growing cases steadily climbed in the United States. Italy was shut-down, New York was discussing Shelter-in-Place orders, and Ohio had just closed. I knew Houston was next. I knew it. I told my boss, and boss’s boss. They kind of laughed about it.
I went home and saw that the CDC had dropped the suggested gathering limits from 250 to 50, and in another twelve hours it would drop to 10. I knew the scope of my job would be changing. I just wasn’t sure how. I suggested to my wife we go see Marc Rebillet and have some fun. She said “nah”. We went to a local bar and I drank a Corona; not my typical beer but I was feeling subversive.
The very next day everything changed. We had closed the doors but would still operate as a to-go and delivery location. However, an errant storm would knock the power out just two days later and we’d be unable to open for a full day-and-a-half. I worked the whole time.
The fear, paranoia, and ignorance that reigned over the next three months was unlike anything I’d seen in all my years on this earth. And I’ve been here a minute; I’ve seen some shit. I saw the Challenger Shuttle explode, I saw the Berlin Wall come down, I watched Los Angeles burn in the aftermath of the Rodney King brutality case, I watched OJ lead the cops on a chase in his white Bronco, I saw the Twin Towers fall, I saw the AntiChrist take the throne of the United States of America. I thought I’d seen it all.
I hadn’t.
Chinese-Americans; hell, almost any Asian-Americans were being vilified in their own neighborhoods for this “China Virus.” People were boycotting Corona beer because the name instilled fear. People were scared to leave the house, and as many were furious to be kept in the house. People were obstinate to wear a mask and as many were furious towards those who wouldn’t. “Science” appeared around every corner, contradicting itself at every turn. No one knew what to think or who to trust. The World Health Organization was brought into question. With a name like that, you’d think they’d be above reproach. Names are arbitrary, it seems, as Corona would tell you if you’d lend an ear.
Now, to give you some further insight into my headspace during this whole thing, I’ll just spell it out: I’ve been horribly depressed, for a very long time. I’ve discussed my general disenfranchisement with the world around me, but it got worse in late January when my job moved me to another location (the third move in less than five months). Since arriving in this living hell, I have been wandering in a daze, yearning for further hardship to make it seem less severe. Every time I would sneeze, I would be disappointed if there was no blood. When my gas tank would be close to empty, I would have to fight the urge to drive it until it ran out completely. When a relative or friend would call, I would anxiously await their news that someone I loved had died, but the news didn’t come. I would stare into a demonic world of hate and disease and beg it to offer something just for me, some special wound I could wear to make my place in it make sense. I wanted to suffer.
I wanted to get the Coronavirus.
It seemed inevitable, anyway. The people who frequented my restaurant were such abhorrent trash that it seemed impossible they wouldn’t rush to get the disease and give it to as many people as they could. They are all children running through the news conference touching all the microphones. They’re the stereotypical self-important prick in the zombie film hiding their bite marks, believing their money will save them, believing in their own invulnerable storyline. They’re human dirt. They practically are the virus.
Obviously, they’re not all that. I’m trying out some vilifying, myself. Maybe if I say enough vile shit, I’ll get the smiting I so rightly deserve. In truth, I’m just tired. I’d rather get the thing than live another week worrying about getting the thing.
So, imagine my elation when Tuesday morning at 5am while trying to pee I was rocked by a chill that set into my shoulders, causing me to begin violently shivering. I barely managed to get all my urine in the bowl and flush as I shuffled across the apartment and wrapped myself in a blanket and sweat as I slept for nine hours, my brain turning to soup. When I finally got out of bed my wife said that I’d been coughing, but I assumed that was from screaming along to Glassjaw’s “Pretty Lush” on the way home after a shit night of work. I went back to work with a slight headache but feeling mostly okay. I had another bullshit night of working way too hard and after locking the door at the end of the night the chill came back in. I’d been checking my temperature with an external digital thermometer throughout the evening, but it never peaked above 99. I finished out my shift and went home, wrapped myself up, and sweat for another twelve hours of soup-brained dream thoughts. This time I was trying to convince people to speak using either Arial or bold font, and they could use them interchangeably if they’d follow a few simple rules, but every time I thought I got it I would throw the blanket off and the chill would hit my bones, and my brain said “Oh, they don’t get it! Get back in there and don’t screw this up!”
Like I said, soup.
When I finally did get out of bed Wednesday, I had a bad cough, my eyes hurt from sinus pressure, I had a headache, heat rashes on my scalp, and agitation at the top of my nasal passage. My wife suggested I get it checked out. I thought it was a pretty good idea, because I didn’t want to spend another night like the past two. So, I pulled my insurance card and researched urgent cares in network and was soon off to see a nurse about my issues.
It should be said at this point that I am not a hospital, insurance, nurse, medication, or medicine kind of person. To casually spend an afternoon off to get a cough checked out is not who I am. I don’t take aspirin. I drink water and get plenty of sleep (sometimes), typically. That’s how I deal with stuff. So, the mere fact that I went to urgent care was enough to cause some concern.
Truth be told, I get these shivers every now and then. There’s no pattern, or no direct causation that I can recall. It’s not directly related to actual cold, either. It sets into my bones and it scares me, every time. It was worth looking at.
So, I went. And I waited. I finally was led to a room and a nurse took my vitals. No fever. Blood pressure and heart rate were good. BMI was high but I’m used to medical professionals telling me I’m fat. The nurse practitioner came in and read my symptoms that I’d told her back to me. I agreed with my own assessment. She asked if I wanted to be swabbed for Flu and Strep. I said sure. She asked if I wanted to be swabbed for Covid-19. I thought it wasn’t necessary since I didn’t have a fever.
“We’re seeing cases now with no fever associated,” was her response.
The night prior I’d had a phone conversation with my boss’s boss because we had an employee who claimed to have the virus, and other team members caught word of this and wanted to know if we’d be supplying testing for them. His short answer was “no” and the reasoning was that we’re taking the necessary precautions to prevent the spread so even if patient zero were among us there is little chance we would be affected. It’s a fair position. He went on to say that if someone wanted to get tested they certainly could, but they couldn’t come back to work until the test had cleared them.
Knowing this, I didn’t want to get the test. I hate my current job assignment, yes, but I don’t want to miss work. I actually give a shit about my job, the company I work for, and the contribution I make. Which is why it seems doubly irresponsible not to get the test. So, I said sure.
I left the Urgent Care around 6:00pm on Wednesday. It is now 5:20pm on Saturday night, and I have not heard the results of the Covid-19 test. I do know, however, that I do not have flu or strep. My throat is still a bit raw, my nose is clogged, and I feel a general lethargy and rashness about my skin, but otherwise I am much better. I want to know if I have it. That’s all.
…
But that’s not all. I hear things, you know. You see, after the two-straight months of busting ass at work, I put in for vacation and through some magic scheduling got eleven straight days off. Eleven! Guess how much I accomplished in that time? How many Tik Tok videos I made? How many short stories I wrote? How many blogs I posted? How many songs I recorded?
Go on, guess.
It’s zero. I did zero of those things. But I did post some articles on AintitCool.com, including an interview with my idol Henry Rollins, so there’s that. What we did do was see my friend Heath in his new place in Houston, see our friends Amber and Matt in New Braunfels, and my friend Sara in Austin. We saw these people, and in small gatherings (literally just us) and we ate food and drank heavily. I watched movies. I started my new class for the summer session. That’s what we did. That’s it.
Well one of the managers at work, after hearing that I got tested for Covid-19, is “pissed” that I went “traveling” while on vacation. One of the above-mentioned friends is concerned that we were “welcomed” into their home. AFTER ONLY THE MENTION THAT I’D BEEN TESTED.
I want a much milder example but none is coming to mind so let’s just go with what I’ve got: is there a Star of David that I can wear while I await the results of this test?
This pandemic is unprecedented, these times are uncertain, and these waters are uncharted, yes. And all of that I got just from big-budget retail market advertisements. The reality of our situation is everyone is fucking scared, and just as with their trust, they don’t know of whom to be scared. And now that I’m possibly “one of the infected” I feel on the outside. I check my phone religiously, monitoring the goings on at work while also awaiting my test results, and perhaps it is the vigilance, but the volume seems to have slowed down. As though I am already gone, a phantom receiving transmissions from the world of the living at a removed frequency.
This is me and my ‘Rona, and even though it’s all I’ve ever wanted, I don’t want to wish it on anyone. Mind you, I don’t even know if I have it. If you want my opinion, I’m 99% sure I don’t have it, but that doesn’t really matter until everyone around me knows for sure.

Stay tuned.

“I Can See All the Little Things/That Once Could Keep Me Whole”

I am… concerned. My mother; my wonderful, insightful, empathetic, awesome mother – is concerning me.

A beleaguered Trump seeking respite in the arms of Christ

She posted this picture to social media this morning, and I get it. I’ve seen similar postings from similarly-minded people encouraging our President to continue to fight to the best of his ability and place his strength in Christ. I don’t fault anyone for having faith in Christ and I shouldn’t fault anyone for wanting to believe that the President is working for them. He’s the only President we have and we should support him if we expect him to fulfill his duties with any modicum of success. I get it.

Except I don’t. “President” Trump is a buffoon, a charlatan, a walking piece of shit, and a bad, bad person. He is a demon that vilifies all who don’t praise him, he is a bully, and he is vile, cheap, petty, and shallow. He exemplifies the worst of us, and some people seem to think he is a saint; a divine gift from God to lead us.

I don’t misunderstand Trump supporters. As I said shortly after he was elected, I listened to the people who voted for them and sought to understand what they saw. I don’t AGREE, at all, but I understand. You want a fat piece of garbage that says what he’s thinking at all times, hates the environment, hates immigrants, values business over human life, and hates all religions other than what he calls Christianity. Got it. He’s your guy.

But he is no fucking saint.

If anyone should be crying in the arms of Christ right now it’s the rest of us, beseeching Him to answer “Why have you sent us this?”

I believe the President should be the best of us. Yes, the American Ideal is that anyone can be President, but shouldn’t it be someone who exemplifies Leadership? There’s a reason Gomer Pyle wasn’t in command, you guys.

My glorious mother has used social media to praise Trump, vilify immigrants and gays, and even espouse estrangement within the United States of gathered minorities and the poor. She’s expressed concern that there is too much voting power in Los Angeles because of the density of population there, and the question is why? Why are you scared of the Los Angelenos? Is it in the name? Is it the Mexican-heritage implied within? Why this division? It seems she sees the world as “us” and “them.”

I’m a heathen, a hedonist, and a pragmatist. I love everyone because I hate everyone. You’re all worthy of the same praise and the same ridicule. The law of probability states you’re just as entitled to all the good in life as you are all the grotesque. I don’t make the laws.

I don’t worship anyone. And therein lies the disconnect. When I first saw that image I was filled with white hot rage. I let it simmer and thought about it logically. I sought to understand. I tried to imagine if I looked at him in such a way, would it make sense? And that’s when it hit me:

I worship no one.

I used to have idols, but all of them failed. Bill Cosby, Kevin Spacey, Woody Allen, to name a few. Mankind will fail you. Similarly, God will fail you. Because even if He is real (He’s not, by the way), we could only ever understand Him as far as our tiny human minds can manage. And what we see is a world ravaged by virus, inequality, petty leaders, and unhappy people. It drives the thinking person to Nihilism. It’s the only thing that makes sense, and doesn’t disappoint.

I’m sorry to say this, but I believe in nothing. I care about nothing. I watched a TikTok last night where a young woman was sobbing because her father was in a position to contract the Coronavirus and she was so scared for him and wished she could see him. I felt bad for her as she was clearly upset but I could empathize. I just wanted to offer her a solution by way of asking “Have you considered not giving a shit?” It’s callous and awful but it’s true. I just don’t care.

Except I guess I do because I’m worried about my mom. Not her dying; Her continuing to spread this hate and indifference in our culture; her actively combatting her fellow humankind in the name of loving her God. Why should the worship of our Creator put her at odds with His creation?

If you came to my house every Sunday to bake me a pie, give me a foot massage, and punch my cat in the face, I’d have some confusion what your feelings about me actually were. That’s what she’s doing. She’s telling God every day that she loves Him and then spitting on His Children. I can’t understand it.

All I seek in this world is to understand. I can’t care so I have to understand what you care about. I can’t feel so I need to know what you’re feeling. And my brain can’t process this hypocrisy.

If you pray, go ahead and pray. Pray to God to help Trump lead, because we need leadership and God knows he needs help. Pray that this virus runs its course. Pray for all of us that we don’t lose the ones we love. That we feel represented in the countries we call home. That we feel seen. That we’re accepted. That we’re loved by those that love us, no matter what our Gods or leaders think of them. That we’re human enough to be enough for each other.

Love one another. Care for one another. Care about something.

Because not all of us can.

“I’m joining the circus/I’m running away/The people I won’t know/The places I won’t stay”

“Everything has changed…

Absolutely nothing’s changed.”

I sometimes wonder how others measure their lives. Many become parents and measure through their children, some use a corporate ladder as their meter stick, some stack accolades. I don’t know. I like words. Stories. I count those.

So imagine my disappointment when I come back here after seven months to say, ostensibly, nothing has happened. Work is going well; I’ve been moved to another store. It’s the same. I’m still writing reviews for the site; more so than I was, so that’s something. But it’s the same.

This Friday I’m going to a film festival that I’ve been invited to based on the strength of a screenplay… that isn’t a movie. I’m going to a film festival without a film. What do I do with my hands?

–

Two nights ago I dreamt of the dead. I was in my grandmother’s old home, though she passed away this past April. My brother was there but he was a child; younger than he was when he died. But I was a man, as I am. He didn’t know me, as none of the children in my family. I’m the black sheep of the family; the weirdo who spent too much time in California. I wanted to connect but I didn’t know how to convince him to care enough to get to know me. The uncertainty of it all unnerved me. I tussled his hair as he ran past and knew that we’d never be brothers. I had to pee.

I went to a back room, passing my late grandmother’s husband who was left to mourn her alone. He sat unmoving in a recliner with a false Santa Claus beard. His eyes didn’t even follow me.

I tried to pee in a box lined with a trash bag, but my penis was so shrunken, yet my meatus so loose, that I couldn’t aim. I pissed everywhere before starting to fill the bag, which hadn’t been shaken out, so it filled faster upwards than it filled out within the box. I tried to take it outside to empty it in a nearby lake but the tied bag fell out when I was interrupted.

It was all very nerve-wracking.

–

I quit smoking two weeks ago.

“A walking open wound / a choking display of bruises”

“And I don’t believe that I’m getting any better…”

I’ve been so busy. So blissfully busy. It helps, so much. Until it abates. Then I’m left with me, trying to entertain myself. Trying to determine a course of action that will make me happy.

What will make me happy? The right food? The right TV show? Movie? Distraction?

Yes, that’s it. Distraction. Distract myself from myself. Hit the bottle; that often works. Until I’ve hit it hard enough that it hits back. It pounds on doors I’ve slammed shut and blasts them open. Then I’m there with that fresh hell… and senses dulled enough that I can’t combat it.

Lose myself in friends. Learn their stories, open myself to their concerns. Shelve myself away and let’s focus on you. Tell me more about you.

But “you” only run so deep; “you” only plumb so far; “you” only tolerate my entertainment for so long. Then it’s me again.

It’s always me. Pushing farther, longer, harder than any other. Prolonging every exchange, every evening, every moment. Prolonging the magic because when it’s over and you’ve gone… then it’s me again.

It’s always me.

“It’s funny / because it’s not”

My dreams are so vivid, so passionate. How many times in the past year or so have I woken myself up because I was laughing or crying or screaming in my dreams? It’s a lot. I’ve chronicled many of them here. I have such passionate dreams; such life in my tiny deaths.

I’ve wondered frequently why. Why do I have such deep, emotion-laden dreams? Why can I read syntax, feel contours, and understand inside jokes in short films my mind plays for me when I should be resting? Why do I unravel great mysteries and tackle life’s biggest hurdles while I fitfully wrestle around on the couch in the dark?

And, furthermore, why is it referred to as fitfully? Because I’ve been sleeping fitfully for the better part of a year and I am no more full of fit. If anything, I’m gaining weight.

Sorry, but I can’t pass up a terrible pun.

Anyway, I think I’ve finally figured out why my dreams are so intense: it’s because my waking life isn’t.

 

 

I lead a predominantly passionless existence. I care for few, I get excited by little, and I anticipate close to nothing. I wake up everyday in a world where Donald J Trump is our President, so already I feel like I’m living in an existentialist cartoon, and coupled with the fact that I fear that all of human existence will come tumbling down with ne’er more than a Tweet, I can’t bring myself to feel anything in this world.

I used to look at the state of our current trajectory and think “Well, it can’t get any worse.” Now, every day, it does. Every day I hear something worse. Every day he says something more ridiculous, the rift between neighbors grows deeper, truth and integrity mean less and less, and the Doomsday clock needles closer and closer to oblivion.

So now I face each day telling myself “Well, it can’t get any better,” and I just live like that.

 

Every.

Fucking.

Day.

 

It takes a conflagration to make me angry. It takes an ethereal miracle to make me smile. These statements seem hyperbolic, and they purposely are, because the level of dramatic tension I am living in demands nothing short of cataclysmic interpersonal conflicts relegated to Mark Burnett-level programming. The world I am living in is the direct descendent of desensitization, isolationism, and screen-worship. I am living in the Millennial Nightmare and there is no escape. To invest in it, feel it, or even acknowledge it would mean certain abandonment of the human condition.

So, no, I don’t give a fuck. About anything. Not because I’m uncaring, but because eating of the fruit currently offered me is assured suicide, and I refuse.

My lifespan is a horror film and this is the part where the squeamish should shut their eyes, and I count myself among them. I’m forty years old, so by my Syd Field-timeline, we should be toward the beginning of the third act. At this point, the conflict is at its apex, setting the stage for the protagonist to clench its fists and prepare for the climax. It’ll be hairy, so as the viewer, go ahead and keep your eyes shut for a while. Peer through your fingers occasionally to ensure you don’t miss the best shit, but rest assured that soon the film will return to the character-driven affirmation that you tuned in for.

Soon, I believe, I will return to a life that leaves my dreams pale in comparison. For now, for the time being, I will close my eyes and wait for this Nightmare to end, and live in my dreams, if need be.

 

I like this song.