The Texas Bohemian

Word artist. Jack of all Trades.

All the bullshit… and a song: Hate Me!

I posted this on A Lonely Life forums. The heading was “Hate Me.” For what it’s not really worth but what the hell, here it is…

NOTE: OK, so I deleted it from the forum but whatever…

Blue October. I love those guys! They so speak to me!

OK, so here’s the thing. I’m just all fucked up. Always have been. Oopsidoop kind’a nailed a big part of the reason in her post about being a bit too attached.

Ever since I was a kid taking crap from bullies most every day and coming home to a family who didn’t have a clue and who at times threw the same things at me that I got at school I did not, like many kids in that situation, get bitter. Instead I developed an incredible sensitivity to suffering people. I never understood why bullies are bullies. Still don’t. I have always identified with the victims.

For decades I was on a quest to find out why. Just why. WHY?! And what I could do about it. I could write a book about the times I either started up or was involved in efforts to help people. Every time I crashed and burned. Bam! The way people acted, what they said contradicted what they did. It’s probably my fault in the end that everything went to shit but still I did all I could.

I have studied in great depth many, many subjects that most people run from or hide their eyes from. I had two classes on Nazi Germany/holocaust. I studied satanism. I’ve been personally involved in an assortment of dealings with demonology. Once I worked for a christian counselor friend as his office manager. His special clients were satanic ritual abuse victims. On top of what I already knew about the incredible cruelty of nations, dictators and despots I learned about things humans do to humans that I simply cannot tell anyone. These were not the kinds of things one hears or reads about, they were case histories about the deepest levels of horror reality. When my wife and I became foster parents I dug into child abuse and was horrified to discover how some humans destroy their own children. What I’ve learned has so fucked up my head it just ain’t funny.

In the world outside my window I’ve seen bullies and fools run right over everyone else and take power. I’ve stood with my hands in the air trying to figure out how the public can be so blind and stupid. My generation failed miserably, chasing a buck or wallowing in entertainment that has taught them and their kids and their kids’ kids the worst kind of nasty shit. Courtesy, friendliness, kindness, respect, all gone. My wife and I are complimented so many times about our kids simply because they know how to say yes ma’am and yes sir and thank you. They are polite. What a horrid, nasty attitude people have. No wonder so many young folks show up here.

I cannot understand humanity. I’ve been married to my wife for over thirty years. I know her extremely well. I can taste something or see something and know precisely how she will react to it. But still how her head works is a puzzle. Because I cannot fathom how people think, why they say one thing and do another, how they will react, I have always fucked up.

I have never once given a damn for my own safety, pleasure, or financial status. Who knows how much money I’ve put into efforts. I never counted myself important. That’s pretty much why I’m stuck where I am with nothing.

For too many years my quest to save the world over-rode everything and I failed in being a steady provider. But that wasn’t all. I refused to compromise ethics and what is right. I’ve walked away from crooked employers. I filed a complaint about a supervisor who was a bully and incredibly cruel to people in our unit. One of my co-workers wound up having a nervous break down because of it. Being ordinary humans they did not in the least have the guts to stand up to her and when I did I was framed and summarily pushed out. …I could tell other stories, too, with similar endings. Bullies win because the majority kow-tow to them. Whatever it costs, I’ll never hit my knees or give in to them.

I’ve always been good at my job and I’ve had lots of jobs, so many that most people think I’m full of shit when I tell all I’ve done to earn a buck. If you’re curious I’ll give you the link to my blog. Anyway, I can DO a lot of things. Like that matters. I’m not working now because in ’03 we took in foster kids and my boss fired me for asking off to take the kids to the doctor. Another story for another time. I became full time foster parent, hell of a job for a forty-something who has never even been a babysitter.

Since then I’ve been “blessed” with physical ailments that severely limit my ability to do any kind of steady work. In this market, at my age, with my disabilities, I don’t have a prayer’s chance in hell to find work. I’m a good writer and have sold pieces, too, but everybody with a keyboard thinks they’re a good writer so the market is way over saturated and nobody is making money at writing unless they know someone or are a celebrity. So, I am unable to contribute to our household budget. This just makes the shit in my head worse.

I have never written all this out before and probably will not ever again. I will regret it. But it’s cathartic so here it is. Critique away.

I have always been plagued with two deficiencies. Although I can write a short story to make people laugh or cry, in general conversation I have found it impossible to convey what I think or feel without someone taking it the wrong way. Some on this forum have concluded a few things I wrote were meant unkindly but they were not. The other deficiency, related to this, is that in my experience people tend to judge superficially, or mis-judge, and leave me in the dust. I’ve become a bit paranoid, expecting to be criticized when I really mean no harm.

How or why people accept others is beyond my comprehension. I tried most of my life to “live up” to certain expectations. I put on the plastic face as best I could. It rarely worked but I played the game. But then, a few years ago, I said, “Fuck that!” Why should I play the stupid game? Even if someone became my friend because of my plastic face then I’d have to glue the damn thing on. I looked inside myself, figured out who I am, and I’ve been me ever since. I make no apologies for who I am, what I think or believe, how I live, or how I look. I’m genuine, I’m real, and what you see is what you get. This has not endeared me to plastic people… which is the majority of people I’ve known.

Christians constantly blather about how atheists have no moral standards or do not live by any ethics. That is bullshit. My atheist/free thinking online ‘friends’ are screaming about injustice, war, etc., while the religious nuts hate the poor and promote war. I believe in the value of the human race. I believe in the value of life. I don’t subscribe to bullshit religious rules that mean little even to those who promote them. Instead I respect every human, no matter who they are. Some things, many things, people do is horrible, but the person, the life, is valuable. I respect laws designed to keep us safe. Basically I am a nice guy. My wife has seen all my incarnations and even though she’s entirely puzzled about what goes on in my head she has stuck beside me all these years. She knows I am troubled but she does not know why, and does not want to know, and I wouldn’t tell her if she asked. What I know would fuck up her head. But she knows my heart. Nobody else does, with one exception, a young friend who is too much like me for his own good but too far away to spend time with.

I’ve been thinking about all this shit for a few days. I debated on laying it all out. But there seems to be a few here, at least, that might in some ways identify. Most won’t. But one of my other quirks has been saying too much, telling too much, putting people off. Whatever. I have nothing to hide.

The last thing I have to say is to the many young people on this forum. You should not disregard the advice or views of older folks. We’ve been on the planet long enough to pick up a lot of information by default. It’s true many of my generation and the older ones are full of shit. So am I sometimes. But we have been there, we’ve watched the world go to hell in a gunboat. We can give you a few pointers. Respect the elderly, they’ve paid their dues.

Another thing, when you’re twenty or twenty five and “different,” when you are stuck in an apartment alone or can’t figure out what life is about never forget that as long as you are breathing and are fairly healthy, you can do something. You can figure out who you are and be yourself. You can chose to be not necessarily “better” but more aware and more determined. Don’t run to shrinks or pop pills to fix your head. Figure your head out and learn to control it and move forward. But you have to have guts. You have to have a lot of guts. I’m not talking about walking over other people, I’m just talking about stepping out and being a part of the human race, learn to forgive, learn to keep your mouth shut sometimes, learn when to speak up, and for heavens sake don’t fall into a pity party and sit around waiting for someone to feel sorry for you. They won’t.

OK, that’s it. I feel better now, for a while. Take what I said however you want to. Like the song says, “hate me,” if you like. But I sure as hell do not want pity. I showed up here because there are times hanging around this house alone all day drives me up the wall. A friend with whom I can talk freely about the shit in my head is all I’ve ever wanted. Ever. Otherwise, life is just peachy.

Have a happy day! Time for a smoke…

September 28, 2011 Posted by | Blather | , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The days of my life…

are boring.  But besides that, I don’t have a lot of time but I figured I should update this thing.

Know all that save the world stuff, all that activist stuff, all that Rock Texas stuff and stuff like that stuff?  Well, fuck that.  I give up.  And if you don’t like people who give up tough shit.  I figure it is just stupid to keep banging into walls all the time.  I could list all the walls I’ve  hit over the  years but you’d just be bored and not believe me anyway.  It all comes down to money and attitude.  I was a good guy with pats on the back as long as I could offer rock bands something.  Once they figured out they would have to actually do something themselves they blew it off.  So, with the exception of a few good bands, fuck’m.

I shall express my unadulterated contempt for two bands who I trusted, who were the inspiration of Rock Texas, and who ultimately blew me off.  May they live in fucked up anonymity as they so truly deserve.  They were good bands but lousy people… a curse of the music profession I’m told.  I would not cross the street to piss on them if they were on fire.  Oh, the bands names… Downfall Rising and Inura.  Got that?  So, yeah, I’m pissed.  But fuck’m.  No need to let jackasses ruin your day, right?

More recently…

Summer is over.  Kids are back in school.  Damn it’s quiet around here.  I’d really like to escape some now but no fuckin’ way I’ll get to do that any time soon.

My plants died.  All those cute little plants in the other post, they grew up and then died.  I think it is our horrible water.  Central Water sucks.  I have some test strips ordered so I can see how fucked up the water is and try to figure out how to fix it so maybe something will live in my garden past plant puberty.  I want some tomatoes!  Damn!

Today was the first day of school, you know.  My family is off having their lives and I’m stuck here without one.  I redid my shop.  Needed to do that for a long time.  By the end of the week I’ll be all ready for a winter I sure hope gets here soon.  Well, I’ll probably have to wait to get the stove pipe but I’ll have the wood stove up in there.  It’ll be my daily escape.

I’m not much on the computer these days.  (See, I’m not here now! haha!)  Actually I spend most of my days outside.  I don’t mind the heat.  Getting to like it, almost.  Almost!  Sitting on this damn computer sure is boring.  What’s there to do?  Virtual schmirtual, it’s boring.  I want a real person friend to keep me company.  How the hell do I find that?  People have their misconceptions, preconceptions, judgements, attitudes, all that.  Is there not one wild and crazy bohemian minded person anywhere within short driving distance of this horrid town?

I suppose not.

So, it’s, you know, darkness and gnashing of teeth time.

I need a smoke.  And a big, strong drink.  The smoke I got.  The drink I’m shit out of  luck for.  I think I’ll run something over the scales in a few days and get some dough so I can get myself a nice big, huge bottle of alcoholic entertainment.

If you have a bottle bring it over, we’ll have some jolly good fun, maybe.

OK, so I have to go get the kids from school.  And fix dinner of some kind.  I so do not like being a homemaker.

Sigh.

August 22, 2011 Posted by | Blather | , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Battle of Depression

Clinical Depression –noun Psychiatry. a depression so severe as to be considered abnormal, either because of no obvious environmental causes, or because the reaction to unfortunate life circumstances is more intense or prolonged than would generally be expected.

Dictionary.com

Depression, in psychiatry, a symptom of mood disorder characterized by intense feelings of loss, sadness, hopelessness, failure, and rejection.

Encyclopedia.com

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March 3, 2009 Posted by | Blather | , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Aspiring Buddhist Seeks Same

Sounds like a personal add, huh?

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January 18, 2009 Posted by | Religion | , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

All Alone.

It’s been almost a week since mom died. I just don’t know how I feel. Numb, I guess… as expected.

My world is filled with little reminders, very close reminders, of mom’s life with us. There’s food on our shelves and in our freezer and refrigerator, some she bought and some that came from her house. The catfish she loves so much that I bought to fix for her is still waiting for the fryer. There’s little nic-nac’s all over. There’s even a box of medications we’ve not disposed of yet (some of which I really want to know why she was given!). And, of course, there’s that house three miles away from where I sit brimming with Mom Stuff.

I have her rocker/recliner here now. We brought a few other little things from her house, practical items and quaint reminders of her. Other family members took a few things she’d promised to them or that will remind them of her. She didn’t leave much of a will, just a letter that said to sell the house and divide the money. We looked around her house with lumps in our throat reaching for things that we shared with her. It’s just stuff with memories attached. That’s all.

Life is so fleeting, so short, so impermanent. What is eighty six years in the span of the universe? Less than a blink. When it’s over all that is left are memories and stuff. A hundred years from now even the stuff and the memories will be gone. Nobody will remember my mom. Nobody living will have known her. She’ll be an old picture on a wall or maybe just a name on a stone in an old cemetery. Maybe not even that.

What’s it all about? Why are we here? Will we ever know? Are Christians right in believing there’s a “heaven” somewhere with Jesus and open arms waiting for the sacred few? Are Buddhists right, are we cycled through life after life, cranking out Karma, hoping for the enlightenment that will end our cycle and blend us in with the great all knowing? I hope that’s not right either. I’m stuck with not knowing. What lies beyond we don’t know. It doesn’t really matter all that much. Those who remain have only memories and stuff in place of that life we held so precious but never really did right by. What ever kind of place it is, mom is there. We’re not.

There is one part of her “stuff” I didn’t know existed. She wrote a journal. The last notebook she wrote in begins thus:

I was born 8-22 to Rebeca & Emory Self 8 miles from Murfreesboro…

She writes a few pages of her life history and then segues into an account of the days that were passing. I don’t know when she started this volume. We found another notebook, a little older, with more writing, dates and times and simple events. In it mom noted each day, how she felt, and entered the temperature for the day. She kept up. Her days were important. She writes almost exclusively of her kids, we who failed to recognize how important every single day was while she was still here. We spent too much time in our world and not enough in hers.

That final notebook does sound like mom. Here’s her last entry:

August the 12, Tues, the nurse called the doctor. The amb. came after me. I was there 9 days. Bob and Donna came. Vickie and Rusty all came. Bob brought me home the 19. They stayed until the 21. I have cancer. I start the treatment the 4th of Sept. They went home yesterday. I am all alone.

Shortly after she wrote that she was in and out of the hospital, mostly in, until the last time when she was transferred to hospice. We got her home for a day and then she was back at hospice for her remaining few hours.

Even as I know she preferred being alone in her house to being with us in ours I feel a deep sadness as I recognize the depth of loneliness she sometimes felt. I know, too, that even if we’d moved in with her she would have felt that loneliness, that longing for family who left this world long ago, for Dad who was her companion for more than 50 years, for old friends who had passed or were unable to visit any longer because of their health. I know dad felt that loneliness deep within his heart once his only brother died and all his family was gone. Even though his brother was 300 miles away and he rarely got to visit it’s still not the same as him being gone.

The sum of our lives is the people we know and love. Everything else is just “stuff.” As our days pass by and those we’ve cared for disappear into the past we all begin to feel the loneliness so poignantly expressed in mom’s last words: “I am all alone.”

There are those who claim to “feel the presence” of loved ones. They say they can walk through a house, grasp a belonging, sit quietly in the woods, and “sense” someone who has died. Maybe they can. I never could. When dad died I worried about that for the longest. Why can’t I “feel” him here on this land where I live which he loved to wander about on? Why wasn’t his presence felt in the boards and timbers of that cabin I lived in back then, the one he helped build? Why did I never feel him when I visited mom? I never have felt dad nearby.

I can’t sense mom, either. Not walking through that old house she held so dear to her heart and not sitting in the chair she spent so much time in can I “feel” mom with me. Maybe it would help. Or maybe it would just make me more sad. Either way, I really wish I could sense her nearby. I wish.

None of us really know or comprehend where she has gone. We all believe she is not alone and will never be alone. We believe the part that was her, the mom we knew, has become something different, a spirit free from a body riddled with pain. I believe that too even though my concept of the “Undiscovered Country” is not that of my Christian siblings. Though I cannot and most likely never will sense her near me I believe with all my being that she lives and she is not alone. Her final entry, were it penned from over there, would be, “I am with those who have gone before. I am no longer alone.” I’m quite sure it would be that.

We, however, are still here. We’re stuck with memories and stuff. For the rest of our days we’ll live without her blessed smile, her love, all those wonderful looks she always gave us. Each of us will forever grasp at memories and hold her stuff and think, “where did you go, mom?” We’ll look into the void of the unknown with tremendous longing and we’ll say, “we love you mom. We miss you! We are so alone!”

November 20, 2008 Posted by | Blather | , , , , , , , | Leave a comment