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Deep into that Darkness Peering

16 Jan

Last night I had an Inception-like dream within a dream. I know how it sucks to listen to someone go on and on about a dream, but I’ll make it super short.

In my dream it was the middle of the night and I woke up and noticed an old-fashioned, flickering, seven thousand pound TV bolted high on my bedroom wall. I was groggy and confused. I squinted at the news report. What? Bill Clinton died from a heart attack? Holy Shit. I was shocked and sad.

The next day I went to work and told everyone about the tragic death. Some people cried. Everyone pulled their phones out to call friends and family. Soon it was all over Twitter and all the news outlets, spreading like this year’s influenza.

Then I realized: I don’t have a television in my bedroom. It was all a dream! I told a stranger that Bill Clinton hadn’t died after all. He grabbed my shoulders: Do you realize what you’ve done? The media storm turned and was coming right at me. The big story quickly became: some a-hole in Edwardsville made it all up. Let’s get him! The whole pissed off world was trying to find me.

And that’s it. I woke up. See, just three short paragraphs–not too tortuous, right? You’re probably thinking: Jeez, I dream bigger and badder than that, bro, what’s the big deal?

And there is no big deal. I just needed something–anything–to write this morning because, lately, writing has been . . . well, writing has been nothing. It feels impossibly difficult. It’s the hellish dysthymia–I know it. On a typical day, I’ll have the thought: Okay, I’m going to write a thousand words today. So I throw my laptop in my bag and head to the coffee shop, get settled.

With my fingers hovering over the keys, steaming coffee to my left–YOU SUCK, GO HOME, DON’T EVEN TRY! That mean voice in my head. Some call them ANTs, automatic negative thoughts.

So I end up reading The Times and checking e-mail. Or Today’s Deals on Amazon. I check the movie times, refill my coffee, stare at the walls. And then I go home with maybe one crappy sentence written.

But at least I know what’s going on in Syria and Mali.

So my crappy dream is something more than that today. It led to four hundred words on the screen.

And hope for tomorrow.

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Irrelevant Pre-Christmas Update with No Photos, Three Links, Four Colons and Three Ellipses

11 Dec

I thought I’d get something posted today to prove I wasn’t killed in a natural gas explosion or something.

It’s not that I’ve stopped writing; I’ve just switched to fiction–thousands and thousands of words of . . . fiction. Plus, I  haven’t fallen down the steps or anything funny since summer, which is good in a way, but that stuff’s always fun to write about.

(I also went through a period of deep, dark, redonkulous depression thinking douche-bag Romney had a shot at winning the White House. Phew! I actually voted for Jill Stein, not Obama. Go Green!)

This is some news: we traded in our 2010 (I think) Sonota and our 2009 (I think) Prius for a space-age 2011 Prius. I know it’s bizarre for a two parent family to “get by” with only one car, but I’m committed to driving as little as possible for various reasons. I’ve written about all that before–my “war” on automobiles.

So, yeah, I’m super-pumped about that and the one car is cool-as-hell. Example: pretend the car is locked and the “keys” are in my pocket, or, if I’m naked, they’re lodged between my butt cheeks. I can unlock the door with a swipe of a finger (any finger) on the door handle, start the car, drive a half mile without using a drop of gas, stop, get out, and lock the door, all without touching the keys. The car has no ignition or key holes! It’s almost like putting a small comb and toothbrush in my pocket and having my hair styled and my teeth cleaned without having to do anything. Okay, not quite like that, but . . . sort of.

Other news: we’re remodeling the back of our house–the “family” room. There’s nothing funny about it; it’s a mess right now, but in a couple of weeks come over and experience the magic of new hardwood floors and fresh paint and light fixtures and . . . all that. It’s not nearly as exciting to me as it is to Jennifer.

The kids have the sniffles, the dogs and I need haircuts, the cats are on a new, expensive “limited ingredient” diet, and I’m–as I type!–listening to 80s music on Pandora. It’s a clear, chilly, beautiful day in my world.

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Hermey Doesn’t Like to Make Toys

29 Jun

The innocent decision to write a novel has seriously screwed up my week. I can’t write. Creating a 500 word blog post has been like trying to catch a buttered kitten. (Which, by the way, happens to be one of my favorite things in the world to do on a lazy Sunday afternoon.) I actually wrote something the other day about writing a novel that was to be published here, but it sucked too bad. Then the next day some other words sucked. Yesterday … it sucked.

Writing a novel is hard work. I almost had a complete breakdown in the first hour of the planning stage. Then I tried to write a scene. What a mess that was. So I just slid under my desk and sucked my thumb for six hours … like I did in college. No, not really, but it kinda sounds nice. In college, I just pushed through it. I had professors and bad grades to deal with if I didn’t.

Before this silly novel idea, I shut down the virtual t-shirt shop to free up two hours from each day. Now, with more time to create and less to show for it, the pressure to DO is maddening. One can’t create staring at the clock with abusive thoughts (like “Do something idiot!”) flitting about. That’s when I say “Nap time!” But I wake up dejected all the same. At least, that’s what happened yesterday. So I’m forced to chop vegetables or vacuum something filthy to feel better. Anything mindless works, really.

Then if one day turns to two days turns to three days, I begin to think about other, better ways to spend my time, like grad school or sitting in a nice cave somewhere. That little monster on my shoulder yells “Stop writing … FOREVER! You’re wasting your time, jackass.” When it gets that bad the new blog posts dry up and I disappear. I disappear into conformity–working, but not living. Not growing. Shrinking. Suffering.

I have never felt like a conformist. (That’s putting a positive spin on it. Really, I’ve always felt like an outcast, partially from self-esteem issues.) I’ve always connected with Hermey from Rudolph. YOU’LL NEVER FIT IN! But, after 40 goddamn years, I’m beginning to see that as a positive. I look around and see no good reason to fit in. Fitting in is conforming is deadening is boring is television is commuting is shopping is fattening is believing is a perfect waste of time.

Anyhoo, today’s been better. Much better. What I’ve earned: Don’t believe your bad thoughts and shitty moods. It’s all a scam. Sure, it feels real at the time, but …

Say it with me: Tomorrow’s a brand new day.

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548 Damp Words on Moods, Indecision, and Dysthymia

15 Jun

Dysthymia - A word I can’t pronounce

The sky opens and finally hands us something to work with: a summer storm. (I get bored with the sun.) Ainsley decides to herd the various balls from the yard, so she pulls on her raincoat and water shoes. And then: “Daddy! The cushions!” I put on my raincoat and we run out and drag the chair cushions, already soaked, into the garage. (I don’t care about the cushions or balls; all I want is to share this experience with her.)

I say “Let’s run out to the road and back!” She says “You first!” I take off and she’s right there with me. The rain is heavy and maybe laughing at our wimpy coats. We’re soaked. Then we stand with the back door open and try to coax the dogs out because we know they’ll be like “Are you friggin’ nuts? We’re not goin’ out in this.” They back away slowly.

Inside, I suggest we do this in every summer rain and she’s all for it.

All the wind and rain and motion has jerked us awake. We shed our dripping coats. We laugh and jump on the furniture and then watch the downpour with our elbows on the back of the couch, our hands on our chins. The dogs have caught the buzz and are zipping through the house, ears bouncing. Dexter finds a long-lost rawhide. The cats’ tails are puffy with excitement.

If only life were like this more often.

Alas, reality returns in a hurry. Ainsley slides a movie into the PS3 and plops on the couch. I wander downstairs. The dogs fall asleep and snore. The cats disappear. Things begin to feel wrong. Before the rain my coffee tasted funny; now it tastes funny and it’s cold. I find a clump of cat fur on my desk.

Life is a fight to reach and maintain a certain state of mind, a better than average mood. Life is peppered with highs, lows, and endless “middles.” Some people, people like me, have to fight harder to stay in the middle. Below average is no place to hover on the happiness scale.

My attention is divided and I feel frozen. I feel sad about nothing particular. The rain has moved on, but the clouds remain, at least in here. Dreary. I’m distracted by the internet. I keep turning to Google News to find good articles to read later on the Kindle. At the same time, I’m browsing eyeglasses after opening an e-mail from eyebuydirect. I don’t need glasses. I have work to do, words to write, kids to engage, to feed. Errands to run. If only I could focus on … something, anything. It overwhelms me and makes me want to sleep … just for an hour.

And my basement space is set up for naps, for times like these. I have a blow-up bed leaning against a wall for longer slumbers. I have a folded, cushioned mat for quick floor naps. And I have an anti-gravity recliner that folds up into nothing. So this isn’t just an office; it’s an exercise-meditation-office-yoga-nap center.

I really am going to nap now. (I’m leaning towards the recliner.) For the next hour I won’t feel like I’m being pulled apart by all that needs done.

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Aside

Swearing is Better When we Do it All Together

8 May

I’m sitting in my car at Saint Louis Bread Co. wondering if I should feel even a teensy bit guilty about using their WiFi. I went in and bought coffee, so hey, screw ‘em. Right? At least I’m not taking up precious space inside for all these bagel-munchers walking by me in the rain.

Normally, this place has decent coffee, but today it tastes like shit. I mean, this is the foulest, burnt-ass stuff ever to cross my lips. I honestly detect funky undertones of straight-up ass. I’m going back in and I’m going to say “Can I trade this hot ass water for some actual coffee?”

*** 5 minutes later ***

Okay. Much, much better. Now, focus Mike, FOCUS!

I’ve been thinking that this blog is missing something. Something essential. But what? If you said rainbow-colored woodpeckers wearing safety glasses you were damn close. This morning, I woke up and thought “Fuck! It can’t be time to get up already.” That unspoken foul four-letter swear word hit me in the balls like a sack of marbles. (I almost typed “like a ton of bricks,” but that’s a horrible cliché. I’m breaking new ground here people.)

Still in bed I thought “That’s it. That’s fucking it! I need more profanity on my blog.” So today’s an experiment in vulgarity. If you are offended or thinking about unsubscribing, please leave a comment; I’d love to know. I won’t cuss just to cuss (after today). Instead, I’ll censor myself less, because I do swear in my head. When I’m writing I also have this inner critic saying “You can’t write that, asshole!” The goal is to write boldly, without overusing the “Backspace” key. I hate that stupid key anyways.

Strangely, I don’t swear much around other people. I have to be mega-agitated to say the “F” word and that just doesn’t happen much anymore. And if I’m, say, in Target and you’re swearing loud enough for  me to hear, I’ll judge you big time and think you’re trashy. But swearing in print is different, right?

I know I’ve used a few swear words here on the blog, maybe a level one on the vulgarity scale. But I usually throw up some grawlixes, which are the symbols in “Hey ass*!*#, shut the *&!* up!” Another example. If the late Bil Keane, author of The Family Circus, had drawn the father with his penis stuck in a waffle maker, he might have thought to use grawlixes to depict a realistic reaction to such an event.

“eeeouch, *!$!**!@, *!&! *!*&%-**!%&#$. My **!!!* is stuck in the &%*$#!! waffle maker!”

Bil thinks back to when he got his penis caught in the waffle maker.

I do swear out loud at home when I’m out of earshot of humans when our domestic pets barf, shit, or piss in the house, and, lately, that’s been common occurrence, unfortunately. Ick. And when the mischievous dog, Dexter, chews up a shoe or a toy (like this morning), I might drop an F-bomb or two.

“Oh fuck! You little shit, wait ’til Ainsley sees this dismembered Barbie.”

I squirm internally when I type the F word and hitting “publish” will be a little stressful, but, believe me, it’s for the betterment of the planet.

Here’s a book dedicated to the foulest of swear words.

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No more forking around!

10 Feb

I’ve been thinking about taking some classes, maybe towards a philosophy degree. Who knows. Like usual, I’m conflicted. I can’t make a decision.

Here’s what happened.

I was driving along last summer, content, singing to Bohemian Rhapsody, car dancing, and I came upon a fork in the road, so I pulled over. The road split into four. (How many two-tined forks do you own?) Each road had a sign:

  1. Go back to school
  2. Get a “real” job
  3. Write (seriously)
  4. The road you’ve been traveling for years.

It’s now February and I’m still sitting in the car staring at the signs. My battery’s dead, I’m shivering cold, and I have to pee.

Yeah, that’s about it.

Okay, now I’m out of the car, walking.

Let’s see, to stay on the same path would be the easiest. It’s comfortable. I’m used to it. But it might be time to challenge myself, shake it up, take some risks.

My past attempts to focus on writing were disastrous. It takes mere days to feel myself falling into depression as I struggle with self-doubt. I have thoughts of meeting my end like Edgar Allan Poe. I’d be found in downtown Edwardsville, delirious, before dying in a local hospital. The only difference: he was a writer, and I’m, well, not.

School sounds attractive right now until I think about student loans, homework, and, of course, the whole “social anxiety” issue. I guess it’s the idea of having a master’s degree that’s attractive, but I have doubts I can sustain that kind of commitment. I’m comforted by a plasterer who told me his sister completed–completed!–medical school only to decide medicine wasn’t for her.

Well, how about the road to a full-time job? Not yet. The little one is in first grade. I’d rather wait a few of years before taking on something that would keep me away from home upwards of ten hours a day. When I’m old and gray I’ll look back fondly on being around for the girls after school, greeting them off the bus, asking about their day, etc.

<sigh>

I’m just going to pee on this bush, put on my heavy coat, crouch down under this big tree and think about it a bit longer.

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Thinking About my Thoughts About my Shoes (huh?)

17 Jan

I’m writing about shoes today. After I wrote the following and read over it, it dawned on me why I can’t focus. I think too much. Just a glimpse into my head.

*

I love these shoes. I bought them on sale two years ago at Payless, probably as part of a BOGO (buy one, get one half off). They’re kind of dressy, but they’re not dress shoes; I can slip into them without sitting or bending, but they’re not slippers; and they’re comfortable enough to wear all day, but they’re not hideous looking like my beloved Crocs.

If I could snap my fingers to call forth all my adult-life shoes in a pile here in front of me, I could put them in order from best to worst. This pair would be in the top ten, maybe top five.

I’ve noticed some recent wear though: little white threads poking from the seams, a few more creases on top, worn down tread on the bottom. I found myself wondering how much life is left in them and how I’ll eventually set them free; will I toss them in the trash or drop them off to be re-sold in a Goodwill store?

Last week on a rainy morning as I walked from the car to the bookstore, I felt water on the bottom of my left foot. Sure, the parking lot was wet, but it wasn’t like I was skipping through deep puddles. Immediately I stopped and inspected the area between the upper and lower expecting to see a flaw. It looked fine, but my sock was definitely wet. I thought of a painless cut, leaking blood: wet from the inside out.

Later I was sipping coffee and writing, enjoying a productive stretch without distracting thoughts. But then I remembered the earlier shoe problem, so I put my pen down and looked at the bottom of the shoe. And there it was–plain to see with the shoe bent, not so apparent flat–a crack in the rubber under my forefoot, all the way across. Ah, man!

In that second I felt the death of a favorite possession, grieving. And the end of writing.

Well, there’s no use to trim those little white threads now. They’re finished. I can’t overlook this crack.

My brain automatically calculates if a purchase was a success or a failure. If an item is a bargain, gets much use, and is able to be recycled, that a clear-cut victory. If I over-pay for something, ignore it, and then toss it, well, that’s a bad purchase.

As I sat there, I thought of other good purchases: a ’98 Honda Accord, a sherpa-lined gray hooded sweatshirt, a pair of Wal-mart jeans.

I thought of other “winning” footwear, like my current Saucony running shoes and a pair of brown Skecher boots from the late 90s.

Then: Are they too far gone now for Goodwill? I don’t want to just toss them.

I imagined a man pulling my old shoes from the shelf, sticking his feet in them, thinking: well, they’re a little worn, but I can trim these white threads. They’re worth three bucks for sure. Of course, without me there to warn him, he would overlook the crack.

And then one day, in the rain, this guy might walk outside and feel that cold shock.

What the?

He would inspect the shoe like I did, finally noticing the flaw. Ah, man!

What if he’s elderly? What if that cold wetness startles him? What if he’s crossing a busy street and it causes him to stumble? What if, God forbid, he falls into the path of a speeding car? Holy shit!

If he survives the wet sock incident, I can see him sitting at home, looking at that crack, wondering: should I throw these away or would someone else be able to use them? Heck, I could still wear them, just not when it’s wet out.

I was staring at my shoes when I looked up and saw that the barista was looking at me. Why is that guy staring at his feet? He looked away. I looked away.

And then I left.

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Reading and Writing in Middle School

9 Jan

Chloe wrote a six page story for the annual Illinois Young Authors Program. This is her first paragraph:

Rayne slowly opened her bedroom door and glanced down the hallway to make sure that nobody was awake. Once she was positive, she slipped out of the small opening and silently walked down the hallway to the kitchen. She winced as her heavy feet made creaking sounds on the old wood floors. When she got to the kitchen she grabbed her blue jacket from the hook, putting it over her blue jeans and green t-shirt. Then Rayne opened the back door and walked into the night.

Last year in her fifth grade parent-teacher meeting, we had asked–after hearing nothing but positives–what area she could use improvement.

Writing.

And that didn’t surprise me. I thought the same thing when I read her early-year essays.

But I’m astonished at how her writing has improved since then. One explanation is the amount of reading she’s done. That girl loves to read. Wow, just writing that sentence fills me with joy. Let me write it again. That girl loves to read. Thanks for allowing me to fill myself with joy twice. I take credit for a portion of that love of the printed word. One, she see’s me reading every day. Also, since, well, forever, I have preached on the joys and importance of reading and warning of the dangers of watching too much television. Read all you want. Watch television with moderation. That’s the message I’ve been sending to both kids.

Nothing can improve one’s writing more than one’s reading; they go hand in hand. And I think her interest in writing increased as she read more. At the end of fifth grade, she won  honorable mention, which amounted to second place, on an essay she wrote about the importance of education. It even came with a prize–twenty dollars.

Inject a kid with some self-confidence and watch them grow. Maybe that essay was the beginning. Yesterday she asked if she needed to go to college to be an author. I said no, but it definitely helps. This was after I told her how much college she’d have to attend to become a veterinarian.

When I read her story, my first thought was her previous work. From kindergarten to fifth grade, they also illustrate their books. The drawing takes up most of the space and there’s a line or two of text. Even last year, after I suggested more of an involved story, she turned in a picture book. This year, before I knew she’d begun, she emerged from her bedroom with a stack of handwritten pages.

Beyond writing, I’ve also noticed how her work habits have changed. Fifth grade brought very little homework compared to what she’s doing now. Before, I had to get on her a bit to do her homework, but this year, after raiding the kitchen for fruit after school, she gets to work without a word from me. Yesterday, she worked all day on her “mummy sarcophagus” project . . . and with no complaints.

Dammit, there’s only one explanation: she’s growing up.

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Getting it from Behind on the Bumper Cars

5 Jan

My life is like a ride on the bumper cars at the Illinois State Fair: I switch directions often and crash into things, and all I walk away with is a sore neck.

I’ve been making and selling t-shirts online for six years. It’s part-time, easy, and I don’t have to talk to people. It’s perfect for me.

Still, last winter I shut it down so I could write every day. Then in the Spring, I woke up one day and realized I was done writing.  I re-opened the online stores and worked through the summer and fall. Then one cold day, again, overnight, I woke up and was a writer again. I tried to do both, but found myself neglecting the “business.” I have put the store “on vacation” five times this winter to catch up (people get cranky when their little t-shirts are late).

And within these shift are mini-shifts. I began two other blogs and posted around 15 times to them. Now, the newness is gone and I don’t like to think about them sitting out there, feeling neglected. Yes, blogs feel. I began a long writing project, a middle school novel aimed at my middle school daughter. I’m still “into” it, but will that last? That kind of project takes some dedication; dedication I might have . . . until opening day.

Every day I try to decide what to do. Should I do what I enjoy or stick with making money at what feels like a real job? I’m almost certain that whatever I decide to do now will change in mere months.

So. What the heck is going on with me? All I can figure out is that I’m suffering from some kind of seasonal affective disorder that changes my brain chemistry from November to March. In warm months I think about baseball and bicycles, but when it turns cold I read philosophy books and think about death.

Dr. Oz told me (not personally) to consider light therapy for seasonal affective disorder. Yesterday, I browsed Amazon for just that. I didn’t buy anything. Yet.

The thing is, I don’t feel depressed. I don’t feel sad and hopeless. But when you’re buried in depression it takes awhile to realize you’re in it.  Am I in it? Am I–right now!–figuring it out?

If it’s not lack of sunlight, it could be what I’m calling the “Too Much Freedom Hypothesis.” I’m fortunate to have this problem. Most people are stuck in crappy jobs they can’t walk away from. But it’s not all ice cream and puppy dogs living with this freedom. My only deadlines are self-imposed. In College I had due dates. Write a ten page paper by next Friday!  At work they expected me to show up at the SAME TIME EVERY DAY. They kept track of how many days I was late or “sick.” That all takes discipline. They’d hand me a stack of papers and expect it to be taken care of by a certain time. It’s easy to be a corporate slave. Just tell me what to do boss!

Do you know why some men can’t handle retirement? It’s the loss of a sense of purpose, of a sense of accomplishment. All of a sudden, they’re no longer “productive” members of society. Former executives are working fast food drive-throughs.

I “vacationed” the store on Tuesday. Today, I’m feeling some of this retirement distress.

In the end, my problems are probably a dash of depression, two tablespoons of plain-ol’ neurosis, a half cup of social anxiety, and a third of a cup of “too much freedom.”

And for the record, I’ve never liked the bumper cars.

Oh, you like the bumper cars, huh? Oh, look, here’s the merry-go-round, let’s do that.

With the bumper cars, I don’t like the interaction with the other drivers. If you ram into me good, face to face, I don’t like that moment when we’re sitting there looking at each other. Wipe that smirk off your face. I don’t go after people randomly either; I attack jerky-looking men (however, at a young age I do remember trailing cute girls intent on little love taps and never from behind).

And at this age–pushing forty–if you blindside me at full speed, bring in the damn stretcher ‘cuz I’m not walking out.

No, this guy would rather be sealed into a private pod and taken on a leisurely ride. An hour would be nice. Is there a ride where they hand out (clean) pillows beforehand?

Excuse me Mr. Carny, can you tuck me in?

 

 

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The First Two Days of 2012

2 Jan

It’s odd to me how two consecutive days can be so different. It’s difficult to explain my moods, my energy levels, and why I am creatively stuck when I expect not to be, and creatively free when I expect not to.

Yesterday, the first day of 2012, I pulled into Starbucks at 7 o’clock in the morning. I drove a circle around the building and saw a couple of people behind the counter. I had wondered whether they would open, but it’s not like Christmas when everything is closed. I went in, ordered a grande light roast coffee, and asked what time they had opened. Seven. I asked if I was the first customer of the year. Yes. The woman said I should at least I should get a free coffee or something. Free coffee for the entire year, I thought.

I want to write something other than blog posts. This has been in my head for three weeks. I’m just scared to begin. Yesterday, I started. In Schrivener, I titled the project “For my Girls.” It takes the pressure off to think that I’m writing a piece of fiction for the girls and not for some faceless agent or editor.

I sat in Starbucks for over three hours. It was peaceful. The coffee was good. The music, tolerable. A normal day in Starbucks is much busier. The atmosphere was prime to allow the words to flow from my brain to the screen, but the process was like a car rolling down a hill with the brake pedal stomped every two seconds.

This morning I went to The Y at six and felt, well, BLAH. Last month I started a new twenty minute routine on the treadmill. I began on the “hill” workout at level 5 at 5 mph. Now, I’m at level 10 and 6 mph. Good progress. Today, I plodded through a leg workout and petered out on the treadmill after four lousy minutes. The incline felt too high, the speed, too fast. I hit the stop button and left, predicting more “petering out” here at Panera.

Then I started writing. From the first word it felt good. The words were spilling, the sentences forming. The paragraphs. The ideas. This was ten times easier than yesterday. And I can’t explain why.

And I guess it doesn’t matter. I’ll just roll with it.

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