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Already it's the 7th, might as well write for the 1st.
I was always a go with the flow sort of guy yet I was always fed that it is not right for a guy to just go with the flow, especially if he is a Leo or has any aspiration of being a real man. Got this from various sources in popular culture but I was especially devalued for going with the flow by my wife.
I am now learning that adapting to the flow of life's bigger picture lets me use my strength and makes me more powerful.
Don't know if I will or if I won't. Don't feel like it. But I'm sitting here having a beer in the misted shade of a gourmet hot dog stand waiting for S and her two youngest and suddenly I have nothing better to do than write 100 words. I'm on 20th just down from L. I love downtown. Maybe I'll live here someday. Writing, cut to the bone, AND shared with friends and lovers = not a great idea. To much self-censoring. Not enough self-censoring. But I couldn't quite quit. Maybe I'll quit tomorrow. Or day after that.
As ever, I am captivated by the tragic story of Nikolai Petrovich Rezanov and Doña Concepción Argüello. Raise your hand if you know the story.
No one is raising their hand.
He sailed into San Francisco Bay in 1806 on the edge of starvation, and left with the promise of marriage to the beautiful and vivacious daughter of the presidio commandant, should the Czar, the Pope, and the King of Spain grant their permission. A grand alliance between two sea-faring nations was in the balance.
He never returned. Heartbroken, she withdrew forever into a nun's habit.
Here it is the 8th but I am writing for the 4th.
Writing from my phone is a hassle because it's so much more trouble to include the BR tags.
Have a date tonight I want to break. The energy is not there. I made it in a strangely needy state of mind I now don't feel. I feel much better aligned and balanced today and don't want to go on that date.
I feel rotten for wanting to cancel. But our relationship was founded on fearless communication and I must respect that. I'm just not into her. That matters.
Once upon a time, I would have been aghast that I didn't vote today.
Once upon a time, I would have thought it made a difference.
It does, sometimes. It does in countries new to democracy where the powerful have not yet compromised the process. It absolutely does here in the U.S.A. under certain circumstances. Maybe even under many circumstances.
But not in California in June of 2012. A couple voter initiatives. A handful of semi-anonymous judges. A completely worthless presidential primary.
I'm seriously concerned that come November I will have to write in Alfred E. Neuman.
For over a year I've been told I'm probably ADD by a friend who was diagnosed as such and who is very observant. I keep saying, naah, I'm just lazy and undisciplined.
For over six months I've been seeing a woman who was diagnosed as such and learning a lot about it by observation, both its effects and its management.
Today I finally got to the psychiatrist after taking the class at my HMO and holy shit, all of a sudden, based on her questions covering the sweep of my life and how I do things, its so fucking obvious.
Writing on the 11th for the 7th. Those dates have a special connection. Our first child was born June 7th, and on our 1st wedding anniversary we celebrated with a 4-day-old in tow.
He just celebrated his 23rd with a party at the house, booze, friends, a shattered shower door and a lacerated hand. Good times.
Now I feel somewhat disconnected from him. Not too badly. We embrace when we meet, he tells me he loves me ... I just feel as though whatever he really needed from a father he didn't get from me.
Legacy of my own?
I am writing on Saturday the 9th for Friday the 8th. Power is out at my apartment, so I am writing on my trusty little smartphone.
Friday was interesting in that a contractor I've known for years took over a job for me that had been done by a regular employee. He got deployed to another project and the contractor was brought in for mine. What's interesting is I think the job will now go much smoother and faster. This contractor knows how to drive engineers to give him what he needs to do the job. Internal guy: not really.
Can't be bothered writing ... but here I am.
It sucks to be all sick and tired on a beautiful spring Saturday when I had nothing planned. I have so much to get done! But I can't move very fast and I want to get better.
Tried to sleep but that was a no go. I admire people who can take naps.
Feeling very alone. What's with that?
One of my goals when leaving the house was to learn not to be emotionally dependent. Guess what? Haven't learned that yet. My moods always react to what I think others are feeling.
Now and then I'm nagged by the thought I should call my dad. See how he's doing. Tell him what's going on in my life.
I never thought I'd miss him. He made little effort to be close when I was a child, was not a motivated grandfather to my children, and was almost completely self-centered towards the end.
But he was thoroughly decent, pleasant to talk to, solicitous of guests, and nonjudgmental. He always had something interesting to say, even in our last conversation four days before he died.
I'm buried under his stuff. It has to go.
Today is our 24th wedding anniversary. I texted her to remind her of good times, good memories, and no regrets.
Otherwise I feel sentimental only because I'm sick and alone today. I'm not really alone -- I am well loved. But I'm weak and therefore yearning for that old simplicity.
And only that old simplicity. Nothing that I have gained in the past year or two would I give back. None of it.
I like going with the flow and not leading a designed or calculated life. But am I headed in a good direction? Truth is, I have never known.
Eyes are watery dots. Nose is a bubbling smear. Throat is a painful trap door. Ears are pressure plugs. In between doses of ibuprofen my body feels like it just got through a prison initiation.
But I still need to work and I need the remote connection to my work computer and I can't make the connection and I wonder if that means I have to go into the office and log in first. That would suck. But it must be done.
So what the hell, if I have to go out anyway ...
No, I'll just go into the office.
Don't feel like blogging. Don't feel like writing at all, 'cept for this.
Getting over the flu is partly why. Having the flu was worse; now I'm only headachy and pressurized, which is discouragement enough.
Might write about the continuing evolution of matters of the heart, but let's be frank: Too public a forum this. And a private forum is kind of pointless. So I just live it, and let time pass, and we'll see what's down the road when we get there.
Work to do anyway; and surely I can rise above this discomfort to attend to my job.
Writing tomorrow. The 14th I went in half a day. Flu is retreating. Got work done. In to work more today. But let's face it: I am not, never was, made to put my nose to the grindstone. Tolerance for the practice was not beat into me as a kid, and I've never tried to develop it as an adult. So my schoolwork was unremarkable, and now and then I wonder whether or not my current design will even function. Why is that? Because not all the functionally necessary details interest me. Function is not art, except by happy accident.
The prejudices of even the best-intentioned and educated men can be disheartening. Go back a hundred years and they're shocking.
A Methodist preacher writes in the 1880s:
"There is only one being in human shape uglier than a Piute 'buck' -- and that is a Piute squaw. One I saw at the Sink of the Humboldt haunts me yet. Her hideous face, begrimed with dirt and smeared with yellow paint, bleared and leering eyes, and horrid long, flapping breasts -- ugh!"
The gentlemen went on to Christianize a Paiute boy, and loved him dearly, so far as he had become "civilized."
You were right, of course. If she really was cruising us -- if she really did connect with me dancing with her and wanted me to make a move -- then there was no excuse at all for me not to. And you were right that regardless of her intent, I needed the experience of trying.
So I did. And she smiled and was appreciative, but made excuses and declined.
That did not validate my reluctance. More than anything, it highlighted my shocking inexperience and limiting attitude.
For your understanding and encouragement, for knowing what I need -- I thank you so much.
Now, a few days later, the unplanned magic of the day crystallizes into a few scenes.
A quick run through the town history museum and you telling your friend on the phone, "He and I know how to have a good time."
Humorously weak double entendres on the subject of petrified wood.
The perfect natural beauty of the region's small mountain ranges and broad vineyards.
Learning about the rose bushes at the ends of the grape rows. (Still can't believe after all my years and miles I never knew that.)
You among friends both old and new at the restaurant.
My friend belongs to a nudist club. He's gay and in reasonable shape and when the place happens to be full of obese septuagenarians he finds it hard to relax. Feels like a freak.
So he goes down to the river's edge for some solitude, and across the water some boom-box cars park and the men wade across and tell him that because of their children he needs to cover up. They're immigrants, of course. Traditional conservatives, as they tend to be, and probably illegal to boot.
Well, fuck that. Welcome to America. Don't tell us what to do.
Work's going poorly so I won't write about that.
Weather's great but there's no time to go out in it so I won't write about that.
As insecurity is an unattractive quality, so are depression and negativity. The truth that I elevate myself when I'm going to be with people suggests I hide from other people a fair helping of each. But the obverse might be true instead:
That not being with other people draws me down.
Well, I'm "with" people all day -- within reach, within voice. But ours is a quiet professional environment, and "reaching out" is nigh impossible.
I stopped at the shop on this longest day, just to see if anyone was there, to connect if I could, and sure enough. Z has more work than he has time to, and no one to do the work but himself, so he stays late.
C wasn't there. He was not a good candidate for that kind of work. I wouldn't have had a problem if he was there. The anger I developed after grasping what I thought of as his manipulative b.s. continues to subside. Normality will resume eventually.
Z is a good friend. Life is good.
Unexpected treat. Shared / gifted massage time. Beautiful red-haired Irish-American girl, strong sexual persona, direct and kindly eyes. Showed me how to lean into that big butt-and-leg muscle with the point of the elbow. Sweet torture ahead when I practice. Then laid me down and leaned into mine. Hard as rocks and about as comfortable. Rolled the bones around in my back. Ow ow ow ow ow. I've a thing in my hip. Slightly pinched nerve? She found it. Ow ow ow ow ow. Nice chat, good energy, glad you liked to watch. Looking forward to ... more.
Midnight Saturday. Upscale suburb, clubs, music, drinks, sausage dresses, a zillion people in their twenties, a hundred miles from home. I park and walk around and catch the smells and sounds as I walk by. A voice says pick one, go in, mingle, say hey to some likely female or three. Other voices ask who's pressuring me exactly, has that ever even been fun, what really is the point. Reminders that when thrown in amongst random crowds, I have nothing to say. The scene attracts me not. I stopped out of principle, to force myself to ... what?
Continuing on home.
I sit in my car under a tree on a random street in San Jose. I've been here an hour. My son was to work until three or four -- lunchtime shift. Now it's five, and no word.
I don't know his new address. All I can do is wait.
Been reading the reminiscences of a Southern Methodist preacher who lived and worked here and up in San Fran in the 1850s and 60s. A naturally curious and educated American whose mind is further removed from mine would be hard to find.
But he did have a talent for florid prose.
I don't explain it anymore. Eyebrows tangle. Judgment is questioned.
Six kids? Married? A teacher's salary?
Information no one out there needs.
Not long ago I too designed my life. Not tightly. I had no hard specifics. But a certain predictable rationality seemed appropriate. And G exemplified, and A too, those standardized expectations of happiness.
But no. A gekko opened the wormhole to alternatives, and an artist lit the gas jets. We are running now, one foot after the other, no plans, no discernible logic, no checkerboard of predictable love affairs, just this one wonderful stream of fire.
Monday (written three days later). I'll write about work.
My apparent difficulty keeping to a schedule will have an impact come my annual review. While the latest delays can be blamed somewhat on the subcontractor, that only makes sense if you recognize that I didn't understand the entire job. If I had been more diligent and more focused, if I had interacted with colleagues to better learn the job, there would have been no delay.
I can rationally expect that my association with the corporation will end well before retirement age. Next year would not surprise me.
So? I'll write?
"8:40 drive in movie."
A surprise! An invitation proffered in an impulsive moment. It felt like impulse, even if not. Years of providing to children remarkable stability in an inherently unstable situation led to a strong impulse towards protection from outsiders who might not be so stable.
Yet that wall is ever so slowly coming down just a little bit.
"Brave. The movie. With kids. Also the woman."
Meaning the brave woman, impulsively inviting me into the fold for a couple hours. Into the wonderful hugs and smiles of young children. Into the stable cocoon.
Still stable. I'm happy.
A job day. I'll write more about it.
The other day I wrote of impending failure. That may sound merely like the moaning of low self-esteem. But I have analyzed the trends for several years.
I have great difficulty committing to any significant period of time of focusing on work.
I have great difficulty initiating interaction with colleagues on matters technical.
These are two unrelated flaws that combine to make me very inefficient at this corporate engineering gig. Possibly any gig.
While I'm an excellent person in many excellent ways, I am becoming incapable of a very important one.
I will write for the 28th on the night of the 27th.
Today the 28th is my (ex) wife's birthday. I feel peculiar about not having done anything for it. For years I loaded her with presents and surprise experiences and had our offspring do the same. Now? Nothing.
Last year, our first separated, I got them tickets to a Giants game, and Giants sunglasses. Today they are all in another state dealing with her dying mother.
I feel as though I abandoned something. Left a kitten outside. Forgot to take a final. Didn't pay a bill.
Oh. I will.
Saturday, 30th, went to house to evaluate electrifying the new shed. Too much work for someone who doesn't live there anymore. So mauled the dogs and grabbed a couple dozen of my old CDs and got out of there.
The house I built and the life I led in it are more and more remote from me. I see the landscaping and the project possibilities and all the ways it would support a very full life doing nearly anything I would want, but that just makes me melancholy.
I do sometimes want that life ... with the right person or people.
It was fun to enter a subterranean bar where we knew just one person at most, wearing red tights, black boots, utility belt, no shirt, red cape. You were a sexy superballerina in high buckle boots.
What is it about capes that they confer superpowers?
S was there, a delightful supergirl, cape and all.
Meeting E was a trip. She blew me off at first, as a beautiful woman must when approached by a coworker of sorts while out partying. But she came around, I think because she saw me hanging out with hot chicks and not the geek squad.
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