Oh, I will be with you, running from the rain

life is nothing without the random, seemingly disjointed things that happen that keep it a tad surreal.

at my suicidegirls account, rather than write another blog, i simply post something short with a link to this blog, and finish by typing, "not even star-crossed, just unlucky."

most of the current beloved non-existant readers weren't there in the very beginning, the earliest days of this tiny shit-stain on the world-wide web, when i decided to use that line from the codiene song, "cigarette machine" as the title of this blog.

a few days ago, at suicidegirls, i get a comment on my blog from someone i have never talked to before, and who, as far as i can tell, would have no reason to be reading my blog in the first place, i.e. we have no friends in common, and i can figure out no other reason why she might've ended up on my profile, saying: hey, that's a codiene lyric.

well, i had to send her a friendship invite, right?

those are the kinds of things that make life fun for me.

the night before last, i had a "long" dream (the kind that feel and play sort of like movies) in which i met up somewhere with my very first crush.

we will call her tm. we met at church. she had long red hair and pale skin, big blue eyes, and she seemed (for the first time i could remember) as interested in me as i was in her. we were eleven.

we couldn't really date, being that young, but for a few years we talked every sunday at church, and our families would often get together for bbq's and the like.

as we got older, she figured out i wasn't very cool, and started crushing on guys who were. but we were still friends and still talked on occasion, though not as frequently as before.

then they moved. to another state.

when i have dreams about her (which isn't very often, but more often than should be considering i haven't talked to her in forever), she is always unhappy with her religious choices, disgruntled, single, hot (of course), and, it seems, every time, looking to fuck me. or be fucked by me. however you want to paint it.

now, i highly doubt that this is the state that she is in. i'm sure she is happily married, with a few wonderful children that she adores.

now, could she just stay the fuck outta my dreams?

darth sardonic

Your journey back to birth...

Is haunting you

we get so little of it, o my beloved non-existant readers.

when you look at this existence as compared to the vastness of the ocean, the immensity of a mountain, the power of a hurricane, we are puny.

why is it then that we are imbued with so much power? the power to lift, to smile, to crush, to destroy. how do we find ourselves here, making decisions that branch out like ripples in a pond to affect so many around us.

even pulling off the butterfly wings in japan would cause damage on the other side of the world.

it's so short, o my beloveds. when you think of the thousands or millions of years a chunk of rock being turned into a countertop has been around, how insignificant we become. and when you think of how easily said rock could pulverize us, how fragile.

but we are not puny. not insignificant. not fragile.

we can stand beneath the sun, with the clouds like dollops of whipped cream dropped on glass, the breeze blowing past us, and we feel alive. below our feet, the fire ants crawl, smelly pond scum decays, but with the right mind-set, we will miss all that for the beauty.

we become less unimportant because we create. more than just other lives, we create: art, music, poetry, bunt cake, power steering, the internet, a prettier color for our kitchen. we create love, companionship, concern, compassion, inclusion, warm hearts, smiles, laughter, tears.

o my beloved, hopeful, caring non-existant readers, i pray that today we create more than we destroy.

darth sardonic

on the other side...

things to do while tropical storm fay rages around you:

eat. like way too much.

drink. my poor liver. and i did more drinking earlier in the day than i ever have before.

watch movies you have seen before that you know will make you laugh.

get wet. on every trip between houses.

change clothes (see above).

drive golf balls into the banana river in 60 mph winds with the rain falling in sideways.

we started off driving balls off of j's back porch. but since his backyard is enclosed by a small brick wall, followed by a largish parking lot, followed by the a1a, and since only j, b and myself were alert enough through the alcohol to realize that driving balls into the road was a criminally insane idea, (the other j from the cove kept trying to hit the balls into the street and then laughing maniacally) we decided to take a bucket of balls, a few clubs, and go down to the banks of the river. not sure why we bothered wearing coats any of us. it is ridiculously hard to try and swing at a golf ball with rain all over you glasses and the wind whipping past your ears, but once i got the hang of it i was able to concentrate on my stroke, and actually was doing pretty good. then diving through newly-formed ponds on our way back to the house to changes clothes.

for the third time that day.

we weathered it fine, o my beloved non-existant readers. we never lost electricity. we had water aplenty. the only damage that anything we call ours received was a piece of siding came loose on the underside of the roof of our front porch. an easy fix to slide it back in. oh, and both our cars need baths. other than that, just fine.

Everybody Needs A Bosom For A Pillow...

jealousy is an ugly emotion, and i don't deal with being the object of jealousy well at all. especially if i feel the person being jealous has no claim on me in the first place.

i was in portland visiting relatives in 1980 when mt st helens blew and flooded the tuttle river with mud and debris. the ash fell on the sidewalks like snow. on our hurried trip back home, we had to take an alternate route, and the mushroom cloud of ash and steam was clearly visible on our right. my mom pulled into an empty parking lot and said, "boys, i want you to look at that and remember. this kind of thing doesn't happen very often, and you were right there."

st helens' aftermath lasted for some time, and ash was being swept off of sidewalks for many weeks to come.

volcanoes, earthquakes (nothing too serious, mind you), floods, extreme heat, extreme cold. been there, done that.

so i guess we are adding to that hurricane. though, in all honesty, fay never became anything bigger than a tropical storm. but the word "hurricane" has been tossed around quite a bit lately.

the kids are out of school today (only their second of the new school year), i am home from work (not that i am complaining, mind you), i awoke earlier than i would've liked to rain pounding the glass of our balcony door, and wind whipping through the eaves.

we bought water, extra batteries, the necessities. i had pulled in all our lawn furniture and hoses and garbage cans except the one that was full and to be picked up today.

there i lay in bed in the dark, the storm pounding outside, no. 1's elbow in my ribs, thinking: i better get out there and get that garbage can in before i find it all over the cove.

the rain died down some and i threw on jeans and a t-shirt and head out there.

to find the garbage truck collecting the trash of our very cove.

as the trashman nears my can, looking like an extra straight from braveheart (broad fair face, long red hair and beard, thick, strong body) who was tossed into a yellow rain slicker and sent out, i say, "i thought i better get out here cause i figured you guys wouldn't come and everything would be everywhere."

"we're like the mailman, brotha."

i put the empty can in the garage, and think:

this aint gonna be too bad at all.

darth sardonic

four by one hundred medley

no. 1 decides today that underwear is unnecessary. he's been doing this quite a bit lately, and i am not sure why. i only rarely go commando, and i don't think it has ever been the kind of thing that no. 1 has noticed.

we go to get some lunch, and when we are about eating, no. 1 needs to go potty. i ask no. 2 if he needs to go too. "nope, i'm just eatin'."

so i take no. 1 to the restroom, where he keeps up a consant chatterbox litany of alice-in-wonderland cum star wars stream of conscious stuff as he pees. now, i should mention here that my oldest has a manlier pee stance than even i have, and it cracks me up. he pushes up the seat with his left hand, holds it, and rests the weight of his body against it, then either a) without touching himself, goes pee in the toilet, or b) holds himself between first and middle fingers like a cigarette, and pees. either way, it is a very cock-forward (no pun intended) way of peeing, as if he is quite proud of peeing, and of the equipment he uses to do so. i pee hunched over as if i am embarrassed both of the process and the equipment with which i accomplish said process.

we get back to the table, and now no. 2 has to go. of course. off i go again to the bathroom. no. 2 doesn't talk as much, but is easily sidetracked from the task at hand.

back to the table. i still haven't sat down when no. 1 says, "i have to go potty."

wife/me: (in unison) again?!?

no. 1: "i have to poop."

back yet again to the restroom, where the litany picks up where it left off as free-ballers sits on the toilet.

"i fell to earth-"

"ok, david bowie."

"-my x-wing crashed and i landed in a place called roosevelt [the name of his school] cause the bad guys had a bomb. when i am seven can i watch star wars: royal n chef? in two weeks is grammy gonna buy us lego indy? i am one of the kids that beats up nanny puffy-"

"p diddy's sister?"

"-cause she is mean and has a wart. i just ran through the forest and had all the elfs help me. then we-"

"are you done going poop?"

"yes, but i am talking!"

"wipe your ass and let's get out of here, jaysus!"

back to the table where i ask no. 2 if he happens to need to go back to the potty. but he, luckily, has had the foresight to finish the job the first time through.

darth sardonic

how come the hole in the roof isn't big enough so i can fly out...

but it is big enough so the rain can get in?

my wife has been gone this week for training in texas. the boys' daycare ended last friday, and school doesn't start until next monday, so i took the week off and reminded myself what last summer felt like.

cleaning broken nightlight pieces up off the kids' floor at 11 pm. the neighbor's kitten (we are cat-sitting while they are on vacation) nibbling on whatever protruding part of my anatomy is unprotected at 2 am. being kneed in the back by no. 1 as he climbs into bed and proceeds to sniffle snort and hock like he is trying to dredge up a loogey the size of an apple at 4 am.

today we have kindergarten orientation for no. 2. he is going to a regular kindergarten with lots of out-of-class assistance with his ot, speech, and other learning issues. i am excited that he is finally starting to near the "normal" range, and i can see things that remind me of just how far he has come: most of what he says is understandable, he can copy his name just by looking at it, and recognizes most of the letters and all of the numbers.

i've updated my pals list. bel's blog is no longer there apparently, pixie's blog has changed again (but is current in the list now), and i finally decided that jaimie's memory was better-served with whatever things we know of her in our head than by some by-line declaring "this blog has been removed."

i do still make my way out to all of your blogs on a relatively regular basis, though i don't always comment.

spose that is really all i have for today.

darth sardonic

I never said I'd take this lying down...

but I've crawled home from worse than this

i've been thinking about it alot lately. not sure why. maybe it's the chemical burns on my hands from either brazilian pepper or rubber trees. maybe it is the current situation with the tenant in new mexico (which may warrant its own post in the future, depending on how things turn out).

my hands are laced with scars. little white lines that criss cross, meet up, split apart, pool, puddle, weave and bob across the surface of my skin. i like building with my hands. i think of my body as another tool. doing many of the jobs i have, getting beat up is inevitable.

my soul is no better. i have been dealt some blows. i've been on the ropes. the stars have been dancing in front of my eyes. the black has been creeping in from the edges of my vision and i thought i was going to be down for the count.

but i am too hard-headed, or stupid, or just-not-sure-what, to actually go down. and if i am going down, by christ i am gonna make sure the other guy is going home with some scars of his own.

i don't really like to think of myself as a survivor (i tend to add that moniker to people who have actually survived something!) but truth be told, i am. when i sit back and allow myself to look at it abjectly, i am a survivor. we all are, in our own ways.

i am also a fighter. despite the boxing analogy, i've not been a big fighter in the physical sense, but i have hit back with whatever was afforded me in a more metaphysical sense.

so the other day when i was mowing and thinking and listening to my ipod, and i heard the lines that i have used as the title and tagline of this post, i thought: that is me.

i won't take this lying down. i may be destined to fail, but i am too dumb to realize it. i may be going down, but i am going down swinging. and i have been hit harder than you can ever dream of, and i still stood proud, bleeding maybe, scarred, battered, but by fuck, proud all the same. and i will make sure a few of your guys aren't going to be there to pick up the trophy.

so i am standing across from you. i am cut. i am swollen. i am dazed and unsteady. but i am raising my gloves. i am smirking my smirk. i am waving you to bring it on. i'm still not done with you yet.

thanks for playing along, o my beloved, patient, tough non-existant readers. this one goes out to each and every one of you, who are real survivors, and real fighters. thanks.

darth sardonic

I ain't a part of no conspiracy,

I'm just you're average Joe.

the other day we were listening to nofx in the car, and my oldest sings along:

"don't call me white, don't call me white!"

of course, i crack up.

no. 2 wants to get in on some of the daddy-laughing action, and sings along as well, but for some inexplicable reason, he changes the long i to a double e sound.

so apparently, i have one kid who isn't white, and another who isn't wheat.

what would that make me?

rye, i guess.

thanks for playing along.

darth sardonic

a conversation...

a real conversation i had in a chatroom once:

me: van gogh was fucking crazy, he cut off his goddamn ear and mailed it to a chick!

chick who wasn't involved in convo to begin with: he didn't cut off his whole ear, he only cut off half.

me: and that makes him any less fucking crazy?!?

have fun, o my beloved non-existants.

darth sardonic