Eblo

Exorcise

5:00 a.m.

It's been a while since I've done this. Any of this. Longer for some things than others. Anyway, couldn't sleep. So here I am.

2:30 damned cough, woke me up.
Damned dog got me up.
Damned thoughts kept me up.

I've been obening the boxes in my mind - the old boxes, the dusty boxes. The college boxes. The high school boxes. The growing up boxes. Regrets? I've had a few - things that make me feel stupid. Sadly, more than one involve times I was drunk. Huh, hadn't thought of that, even when this was running through my mind in bed. Anyway, the boxes.

Silly boxes. Sexual boxes. Fun boxes. Sad boxes. My mind looks like my basement, or my desk, or my hard drives. Chaos. Ugh, got to let the puppy out.

How are you supposed to stream when your laptop won't work right, when the dog needs to go out. When you can't type for shit? Let go of the typing. Let go of the typing. Let go.

Paper and pen, that's what this really requires, paer and pen paper and pen paper end pen. there you got, let that go - those mistakes. Leave em. On the paper, youd scross them out - here if you cross them out, they're one for goods. Leave 'em, they slow you down. They interrupt the flow. They leave a trail. Deleting them is a lie. but its a habit - you've been doing it again. Let it fo. let it go. Perhps block the delete key - er backspace, to be correct.

I wonder, do I even know what it feels like to ut pen to paper anymore? So long. Slo long. So long, Frank Lloyd Wright. Simon. Garfunkel. Or Garfunkle.

So these boxes. Thoughts. Too may thoughts. I't s a shock, you know. One day, you're pluggin away in the office, doing what you do, the next day, you're in the car, on the road, and the next day, - ah, let the dog in - and the next day, there you are, out in the middle of the woods, all by yourself, in the dark, cold, woods. You, and a gun. And your thoughts. Talk about gear shift. Mind fuck. There you are with HOURS to kill - unless there are deer to kill. Then the time flys. But in the quiet hours, in the stalking hours, there's jsut you, a gun, your thoughts, a few squirrels, a tons of trees, perhaps a little rain - or snow - and usually wind. And you spend, what, 3-4 hours like that, or MAYBE all day, but usually a few hours. Then you go back to the house, gather the troops,m do some drives, and then sit out again for the evening. Another 2-3 hours? you, and your thoughts, and a sunset.

So you get to do a lot of thinking. Even if it is interrupted by a log of testosterone, some beer, soem tall tails er tales, a few laughs, heh, log. Meant lot. Anyway, even with all of that, that's still a lot of thinking. I mean talk about gear change. Talk about mind fuck. Work work work, slave slave slave, STOP. THINK. And think, and think. And then, what, drive home, thinking the whole way, get home, and BAM - you're back tot the rut. BAM! It shudders the mind. Shutters, it perhaps. BAM!

And they aren't necessariuly deep thoughts, you aren't curing cancer out in the woods, or fixing all of the mistakes you've made - mending, that was a better word, anyway, you're not doing that, but still, it's important stuff to stop and think about more than just once a year. So I think that's part of this. I think even a week later, my mind is still readjusting to 'the world.'

So thoughts. Thoughts. Thought.s Abotu what? Thinkgs. Things. You know, it's a tear - what to write - what to give up - wat to say. Back to a common theme - audience - what's the point of this? Of writing. Is it for me? For my kids? For my ego? Honestly, I don't know. Or I do know and the answer is Yes. All of the above. I don't know. The point is, censorship. What to write. What to leave out. What to make public. What to keep private. If only it were easier to regulate. If only you could share a thought with JUST who you wanted to, and know it was going no further than that. Not because what I have to say is shocking or damaging or evil or interesting, for god's sake. It's just - I don't know - the expectations people have. i don't like to ruin those. I'm such a nice boy. Oh, well, yeah, sometimes I do like to ruin those. Anyway,
Anyway.
Anyway.

So thougts. An boxes. And basements. All cluttered. Some happy, some sad.

Sad. What's sad is that I don't have any video tapes of my college years. What a ( ever-evolving) group we had. I wish we had a video of the scavenger hunt we did. Or B-fest shenanigans. Maybe even a grope-fest or two ;-) Hey, it was college. But no videos. B with LONG hair. B with short flippy hair. ME WITH hair. S. and A. and A. and A. and jesus, everyone else - G, T, B, M - so young - just about always smiling. Laughing. Fun. God, we had some fun. Don't be offended if you're reading this and I forgot you letter. Unintentional, I assure. I'd like a super 8 MOVIE of me, or us, or whoever, hanging out on the rock at the lakefill. The lake would have to be riled up a bit, of course - a little spray, you know, for effect. Hair blowing back in the wind. Ahh, fake memories. . . . .

How the FUCK can my battery be half-dead already? I HATE computers.

*long pause thinkging about Mikey*

So no videos, which surprises me. I b=peged us for a group that whould have made a silly movie or two. But god damn, cameras were so BIG back then! Heh. Barbi-cue, Barney-cue, Stuff-becue. Fun times.

And high school, too. Girls, wrestling, I was SO flexible back them. Gumby. heh, I'm Gumby, dammit!. And friends. And entirely different group of friends. Which, amazingly , all but fell away. Two - there are two I keep in any kind of contact with and one I see about once a year, and the other, maybe three times. sad. But fun. GOD, the fun. I remember my sides hurting from laughing. Bulk foods and tag-team comedy routines. Greg's big red boat. My Buick which had that special place on the gas gauge - beyond full. Beyond full. We drove all night and I just got down to F. Beyond full. What a car. And high school - sexual fumblings. not with the guys. Not then. But sex. Yeah, not REAL sex - you didn't call it sex then. I didnt' have sex in high school. Not by the penile/vaginal definition of things. But yeah, sex. Things were - things, nice - parts were touched, rubbed, licked, sucked, hmmmm. I CAN"T BELIEVE I WAS THAT YOUNG AND DOING THAT STUFF!!!! (Said like a geezer - half sarcastic, one and a half serious.) That does seem so young to me now, and yet, it seemed so right at the time -and to be honest, i was behind the curve. I hope when I have kids, without going TOO far into liberal parent territory to either scar them, or totally turn them loose, I can bear in mind what I was up to at their age - remember how responsible I was - give them some credit for having brains - hormone-addled as they may be.

I think I was a fairly late bloomer. But I was a geek, so that's to be expected. self-made self-proclaimed geek. A popular geek, strangely enough. Even then, multiple 'me's. Another common theme of mine. Me's. The me that did this, the me that did that. they were around then, but I'm not sure if I realized it at the time. Probably at some level. I know I'm not unique at all in that. I'm not saying I'm some deep, complex person because I was a hyper-social clown in class, a wall-flower outside of class, and an outright loner at home - except for my one really good friend, Chris - wha has since also drifted away. Far FAR away. Anyway, I know I'm not special in that regard. Home life - public life - often different. But blooming. Late. Ok, a time line. If you've read this far, you've asked for it. And if you're my parent or sibling and you're better off not knowing or thinking about this, then stop reading. But I doubt anyone's reading, and if they are, I much more doubt they care, but I think it went something like this:

No, see, here's cencorship at work again. Anyway, it's not stream-of-conscious, which was the intention. it's why I'm in the kitchen at 5:53 a.m.

I guess I can't brain dump anymore. Or maybe it's the computer. Pen and paper, pen and paper. My hand could never quite keep up on paper, let alone on a keyboard. it's like a limiting mecahnism so the ego doesn't get out of control.

It: You can brain dump on paper.

Ego: But I want to SHARE.

It: Then post in a blog.

Ego: But I can't get it all out that way!

It: Oh, so sad. So use paper.

Ego: Ok, I'll use pen and paper, pen and paper. And then I'll just transcribe it online.

It: And yes, I'm It, not Id. It - the thing that's limiting the ego in the grander, more worldly sense than the Id could possibly do. Besides, the guy witht the fingers isn't studied up enough to know if id would even be the right idea, so it's It. It I am. Anyway, Ego, could that GET any more desperate? you could scream ANY louder for attention? I doubt it.

Still no stream. It's dried up. Ugh. Sadly, I dont' feel exocrised. I don't feel as though if I go back up to bed, I'll be able to sleep. Ugh. Ok, I'll press on.

Things are cluttered - everywhere - because I'm not a finisher. I can't finish a god damned thing besides a meal. Journals trail off. Programs are left half installed/configured. Puppies are half-trained. Boxes are half unpacked. Songs are half written with only half of that recorded. CD mixes are in eternal rough draft form. Photos are taken, but not organized. Perhaps posted, but not captioned. Databases are built, with no frontends. Fences are built - short one gate. The pool is closed, but the cover slips off every now and again. I went to bed, but didn't sleep. I started a stram and ended wtih a cry-me-a river. I'm not a finisher. Never have been. I'm a starter. A low-grade Idea Man. I'm over-diversified. Airplanes. Computers. R/C things. Music, listening, producing, writing. Photography. Pets - birds, snakes, lizards, dogs, horses. Astronomy. Writing. Reading. Sex. Fittness. Study. These are all things I have an interest in. A distracting interest in. And there are plenty more I can't think of right now. Motorcycles. Things I spend time on. Things I spend varying degrees of money on. At the expense of other hobbies/interest/pursuits. p- <- That's from my glasses falling off my face onto the keyboard - I was rubbing my eeyes, maybe I'm finally getting sleepy. Anyway, simplify. I wish I could. I really wish I could. Simplify. Focus. Simplify. Stop jacking all trades and master one. Master one. Master. I wish I could. be really good at one thing. be really REALY - no not even that. Just be good and focused at ONE thing. To the point where I could start a project in that one field, see it through, and finish it (Jesus, ifmy emplyer ever reads this, I'm fucked). Going sappy now, but it's true - This is one of the things I'm very grateful for in th ewoman I found in my wife. She helps. She motivates. She cajoles. She helps to focus. Though not simplify. . . . But she prods. And she doesn't do it enough - I am gradteful for it but she doens't do it enough - through no fault of her own. I dont' make it an easy job for her. I get cranky and mean. And it's nto her job anyway. It shouldn't be. It's charity work. Because of her, I moved out of my parents' home. Because of her, I didn't wallow in unemplyment when I was laid off, but got out and found a job in a tough market. Because of her, I was able to buy a house - work out the contract, fidn the mortgage, all that. Because of her, I was in my first play since 6th grade this year. And I loved it. because of her, we throw great big parties. We go on cool vacations, that I sometimes plan. She motivates me. She completes me. Cliche, but she does. And it's too bad I make it so hard for her to do. But that's life. I'm certainly not perfect. Wow, I don't know how the hell I ended up here.

Anyway, the puppy is sleepy, and I'm starting to fade, so this feels like a good note to leave off one. 6:16, and my battery is almost dead anyway.

good night.
Good morning.

Amy, I love you.

deamons, be gone!