Catastrophe keeps us together.

i am on the ropes.

a few years back i posted about how i never quit fighting though i am low, and bleeding, and hanging onto a turnbuckle for dear life.

and i am reminding myself of having said that. over and over. because, o dear beloved non-existent readers, who so lovingly commiserate with me time after time after motherfucking time and still keep cheering from the cheap seats; shouting: "get back up! keep going! you can do it!" i am reminding myself that i have said this because i am on the ropes, and i really want to toss up my hands, toss in the towel, wave the white flag and sink onto the bloodstained canvas for a very long nap.

i want to piss it all away into a mud of self-loathing and self-pity and wallow like a fat pig.

needless to say, it's been a rough couple of weeks.

i kinda don't want to dwell on the why too much. suffice to say, in the past week i have: taken my car to the shop for the third time in a month, thought i was done with my kiosk project in pictorial drafting only to find out today that the teacher failed to let us know clearly that there was still more to do, ordered a new cell phone after i washed my old one with the jeans the cats used as a litter box one morning, and showed no. 1 pictures of homeless people so that he might start getting prepared for the career his current attitude is setting him up for.

that's the cliff notes.

i am exhausted. i've lost count of the rounds i have gone, let alone the jabs and uppercuts that have landed soundly. i am reeling, punch drunk and dreaming of being normal drunk instead. i can't remember the last thing the coach said as he slathered me with vaseline and spread medication on my swelling eyes and nose.

i don't quit fighting.

i also remember a time when a very tiny darth sat in a very tiny room at a very tiny ronald mcdonald house and begged a very large god to take a very tiny break on a very tiny family and its very tiny newest member in particular.

i was punch drunk then, too. i was seeing double. i was stumbling around trying to avoid any more blows, cause i knew another one would lay me out.

i was begging for the bell like i'm begging for the bell now.

i won't stop fighting. i won't. but a nice sit on a hard stool, a swig of cold water, a bloody spit in a bucket, shouted advice from a grouchy old cuss with a stogie jutting from his gob; these might be in order.

i'm hanging in there, o my droogs and only friends, but i'm tellin ya, one more solid punch and i am going backwards through the air, my hair whipping sweat, like brad pitt's character in snatch to lay flat out on the boards, watching from a watery metaphor below as my opponent kicks me repeatedly in the ribs.

hey, god? can we ring the bell, just for a bit, please?

darth sardonic

this song is a...

poem to myself,/it helps me to live...

i love brit slang, and kudos to pixie for dropping the phrases that really fit: "barking mad" and "can't be arsed" (or that may have been sparx), and the latest, "knackered."

yes, i have been knackered. still am, actually. and knackered combined with certain outer stimuli, leads to being down.

the kids, and friends' troubles, are but a few of these outer stimuli that lead to negative sensory overload and the resulting funk.

one of my friends is on the mend. the other seems to continue having a rough time, for many reasons, some of which may be her own fault. whatever.

nothing is quite as good at dispelling the funk as the right soundtrack.

because i was grumpy friday, i found an old mix cd i knew to be chock-full of grumpy music that i had made to listen to whilst hauling pizzas prior to leaving pizza hell when the wife left. this cd is a message from the past-me to the present-me. in essence, the past-me said, "it aint fucking worth being this grumpy, but hey, i am gonna help you get ungrumpy in the way that i know works best for us."

the cd starts off with the angry music, which allows me to get mad (though, admittedly, in this case, mad at nothing in particular. just angry in general. which is a natural and necessary follow-on to being in the funk). not sparing the horses while belting out: You had time to waste and I'm not sorry,/such a basket case, hide the cutlery./I had time to kill, it's dead and buried./You've got guts to spill but no one trustworthy is good for the soul, though a tad hard on the vocal chords.

then it handed me a few of my happy songs (most notably, nofx's cover of gin n juice, which i simply can't listen to without smiling), which i had honestly forgotten were on there, and came at just the right time to burn off the remaining anger like cooking wine and taking with it any traces of the funk.

so now i guess i am just plain knackered.

darth sardonic

Hoping for the best but expecting the worst...

Are you going to drop the bomb or not?

ever start a post and get about ten lines into and decide it sucks ass and you have no real point an no one really would want to read what you have written and delete it all and ask if anyone has ever done that before?

yeah, me neither.

there are times where the line "Kathy, I'm lost," I said, though I knew she was sleeping/I'm empty and aching and I don't know why makes perfect and complete sense to me for reasons that are beyond my ability to understand.

i have conditioned myself, in the course of my existance, when i am not sure of how something is going to turn out, to hope for the best and expect the worst. this is kind of a candide pansy way out, i realize, but i look at it like this:

if i am expecting the worst case scenario, i am prepared then for that to happen. if anything less than worst case occurs, i am pleasantly surprised.

i am still concerned for my two friends and their situations. i still feel helpless, and i wonder if my repeated attempts to find out how they're doing or what is going on is only making matters worse for them, or maybe coming across as creepy, or god know's what.

so i begin just assuming the worst. and what is funny is the other side of my head, the one that usually plays bastard, will actually pipe up with, "now why would you think that? you have no reason to believe that things have gone that far." that stupid "other voice" in my head likes just playing devil's advocate, i think. he is just gonna pick the opposite of whatever the majority of my gray matter is going for.

i am tired, the kids have the day off from school, and i have to work later. i've no idea why i would be so grumpy...

yeah, my lack of inspiration and motivation continues. maybe it's the season change, lots of gray skies here. maybe it's lack of sleep, although that really has just become the norm under which i function, so not sure there. maybe (most likely), it is just the rotation upon which i spin. fun and laughs and smartass remarks all cleverly tied together, followed by the funk and trying to just plow through the day and put on my best face.

who knows?

i sure don't.

darth sardonic

Well I can hardly wait

...until I get the sun and your lips both pressing on my skin

i was informed by my wife last night via email, that they are, in fact, flying out on the 5th of sep again after all. for dead sure this time. as in, bought plane tickets, made hotel reservations.

all i can say is:

FUCK YEAH, MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!!

funny, how i seem to convey glee and despair in much the same manner, and written out here, with no inflection, had i not explained what i meant, we would've expected more bad news, heh heh.

that means in less than two weeks (13 days, specifically), my eyes will be laying across my wife like a naked woman across crisp, white-linen sheets, her skin on my lips like silk, the two of us entwined like a magician's puzzle carved from sandalwood.

there was little left for me to do but drink margaritas, tell itunes to play some of my favorite sturm und drang, and mosh with a vengeance around my living room until my old war wound (stretched ligaments in my right knee from a mosh pit i was in when the wife and i were first dating) started aching and i was bathed in sweat. i almost grabbed my bass and gave it a toss (nothing more satisfying, really, when i am pumped up and need a release, than to watch my bitch (read: the barney bass (so-called because of it's purple hue; i bought it at a pawn shop, i couldn't be picky about color!)) arcing gently through the air before attempting reentry with a resounding dischord that hums out unending as the instrument bounces softly once or twice), but decided that i was probably too pumped up, and would end by fucking the poor dear up.

and the sun is shining in its heaven.

and the funk, o my beloved non-existant readers, my droogs and only friends, o thou patient and long-suffering and hopeful and tireless ptitsas and malchickiwicks, has pissed, sodded, and fucked straight the fuck off. join with me, if you will, in offering it a bird, two-fingered, or thumbnail-off-the-front-teeth salute as it goes. i am actually flipping the computer screen off right now. yes, i am a huge dork. no, i don't fucking give a shit. yeeeehaaaw!

on a more brass-tacks level: the other day, no. 1 had his assessment to begin kindergarten. the day didn't start well, and he had repeated meltdowns at various times before the appointment, i was sure the whole thing was going to go down like a flaming mezzerschmidt.

this is when, thought i, everyone figures out what a liar i am, and how much i have fooled everyone with my parenting abilities. this is the moment when they all finally exchange that look and make a quick phone call while my back is turned, and a handsome but expressionless man in mirrored aviators and a black suit and tie takes me be the arm and says softly, but firmly, "sir, we'd like to have a word with you. come with us...."

having accepted this as law, i sighed and took him in there. i spent the next 15 minutes with my mouth agape as my oldest son amazed and dazzled me at his ability to listen, follow instructions, and accomplish tasks i had no idea he could. he wrote his name, for fuck's sake! i didn't even know he could write his name! nor did my wife (apparently, those few years in developmental preschool have taught him more than i would ever have). (note to self, buy teacher karen and teacher cheri modest but pretty boquets as a thank-you.)

i lavished him with praise on the walk out to the car, and as if the things he had done were daily occurences, he was concerned only with being able to play games when he got home. god, i fucking love my kids!

again, a big thank you to all of you, for, as always, playing along.

darth sardonic

a thousand miles aint shit to walk if i'm walking to hold you

in true military fashion, they have changed the date my wife flies out from the 5th of sep to the 8th. so tack on three more days to whatever numbers i have been spouting in here (i think the adjusted number is now 20). everyone keeps saying, "it'll go by fast." i know that. i fucking know. but it is still three more fucking days! three days is three goddamn days, and the way they have been dragging increasingly more and more with each passing minute like some kind of physics cum algebra equation, descending until one motherfucking minute passes like 80 years, three days will be a sodding eternity.

ummm, yeah, the outer edges of the funk have been creeping in since sometime last night. i am trying to circumvent it, but, meh, fuck it, doesn't matter.

it is a testament to my wife's love that simply by telling her which movie i was watching (stranger than fiction) she cottoned to my need to get to bed and sleep. the tones of her emails changed completely (lots of "aww, honey" and the like), and i was in a hot bath before ten, and in bed and assed-out completely by 10:30.

and dead to the world until i beat the sun and the sons up at 6:00 am.

i should've been good, right?

since i was rested, and since i had nothing on my plate for the day, i decided that the bathrooms needed to be cleaned today. i seriously imagined it would take me all day.

it took two hours.

a little dizzy from mixing chemicals (wheeeee. mixing chemicals is dangerous and fun, kids!), and tired again, i stretched out on the couch for a nice nap.

and now, i still have half the day yawning before me like a chasm into which i will fall and subsequently from which i will never return.

three fucking days. motherfuckers.

darth sardonic

I've got it now,

a thorn in my side the size of a Cadillac. Drive it through, cause backin' up now would be next to impossible.

even with only 26 days left, the funk still rears its ugly head and thumps me on the noggin like some lowbrowed thug attempting to steal my wallet.

i awoke to screaming and crying. nos. 1 and 2 fighting over the same green-plastic gun.

the skies are gray, the kids are grumpy, i am tired, the house is a mess. the day looms ahead like a barren stretch of potholed road, empty, mind-numbing, soul-crushing.

i force myself to clean as the kids keep up the neverending litany of "games food drink" over and over, parrots on crack, attempting to obliterate the tiny shreds of my sanity hiding in the corners like refugees driven from their home. i don't even have the energy to attempt at retaliating with odes to the virtues of music.

gravity pulls harder. remaining upright is a battle. i would sleep, but the mound of clean clothes in need of folding completely occupies the couch, and laying down in another room is simply asking no. 2 to get his hair glue (for hawking his hair up) down and spray it on my guitars again.

i drink too much coffee, and get the jitters. i shuffle back and forth between dishes and the clothes and the vacuum.

i set the timer for the video games. "when this goes off, what happens?"

"it's time to put the games away."

"that's right."

but instead, it is time to say, "i'm not done." then: "but i am still not done." then: "no daddy daddy i don't want you to put the games up! no, i don't want the games put up. I DON'T WANT YOU TO PUT THE GAMES UP!!!" (if he had a working knowledge of swear words, the last shrieked sentence would be riddled with words found quite frequently within this blog.)

the games get put up. the shrieking and throwing of things shifts to a bedroom. i sit, defeated, exhausted, lost, alone.

as the tantrum settles, i sit with no. 1 and attempt to get him to understand why the games have been put up and what kind of behavior is necessary to ensure the safe return of the console:

"what is it that you need to do to be able to play games?"

he looks at me, deadly serious, bottom lip aquiver, eyes wide, wet, wipes his nose on his sleeve, and his black eyes stare deep into my own honey ones, and he says:

"is a pwivwidge, daddy."

i smile. the fog lifts. energy rushes to my limbs. the cowering bits of my brain peek out from their hiding places and venture forth, emboldened. i shake off the doldrums like a layer of dust.

shortly thereafter, no. 1 returns to his tantrum, having decided that calmly listening to what i have to say is counterproductive, but the change has already been effectuated within my tired self.

it is extended by a well-timed im from a new acquaintance (that i honestly thought would never talk to me again after some of the things i said last time), and a wonderful conversation.

no. 2 walks up, out of the blue, looks at me, smiles his smirky mischeivious smile, and says, "my wuv you, daddy."

i am still exhausted. as far as i can tell i am, barring two rambunctious and sleep-deprived headstrong punk kids, still alone. the skies are still gray. the only thing that has physically changed is the house is clean.

but the funk is gone, o my beloved non-existant readers, my droogs and only friends, driven straight out by such simple things as these frozen moments of meaning and happiness.

darth sardonic

and the day is saved by the ring of a telephone

yesterday morning broke too early.

i had my will appointment, and some running around to do, and was looking forward to getting out of the house and doing whatever i felt like for a few hours while the kids were in school.

until i heard no. 1's cough from the other room.

dammit. this wasn't your average, run-of-the-mill cough, that i might be able to disguise with lozenges and toddle him off to school as if nothing were out of the ordinary. this was a hefty cough. a bordering-on-gagging cough. the kind of cough that would land him in the nurse's office mere seconds after arriving at school, and interrupt the morning run i had planned with a call to come pick him up.

so i put him on the couch with his blanket and binkie, and a quilt to cover him, put in a new hope, and tell him he needs to rest. no. 2 quickly wisens to the situation and insists that he, too, must stay home from school. i should fight this, probably. dress him a patatas (sorta like saying kicking and screaming, or fighting), force him onto the bus.

but since my wife has left, both the kids are extra clingy, and i am just too exhausted to fight this battle.

i sigh, give in, and set him up on the other couch.

with slumped shoulders, i call the school. then i sigh heavily as i wait for the bus to arrive so i can tell the driver they won't be going. the biggest blow is calling the legal office to reschedule, and finding out that due to the volume of deployments, there aren't any open appointments for military dependants for some time. they will call me when one is available.

about an hour later, the kids are wrestling around on the floor, and no. 1's cough is down to a level where i could have disguised it and sent him off to school and gotten away with it.

fuck.

they then have sufficient energy to run me ragged for the rest of the day, and i long for their bedtime.

but the solace of bedtime is short-lived, as i hear the sounds of wrestling and shrieking and general mayhem emanating from within. i enter, and tell them in no uncertain terms that they need to be in their own beds and quiet. i leave.

i have barely shut the door and turned my back when i hear shrieking and bedframes creaking again.

this continues for two-and-a-half hours, shrieking and banging, me pausing my movie yet again, me raging with increasing volume at each visit to replies of "ok, daddy" "yes, daddy" while the usual hour of my wife's crackly, voice-delayed call falls further and further behind, with the funk welling up in me tenfold, until it all boils over and i shout at my kids that i will take an axe to their video games and burn their toys and give their movies to needy children if they don't fucking lay down in their own fucking beds and be quiet!

no. 1 stares at me, wide- and wet-eyed, and no. 2 just straight-up bursts into tears. i slam the door, still cursing under my breath. i take three steps down the hall, stop, rub my face, sigh, turn, and walk back to the door.

"daddy still loves you guys, ok? you need to listen to daddy, and do what he asks, but i will always love you, and i just wanted you to know that. now, can you please stay in your beds, quietly, and, preferably, asleep?"

they nod, say "yes, daddy." this time with more sincerity, and i give them hugs and kisses anew, and tell them again that i love them, and that mommy loves them.

i all but drag myself out to the couch to finish my movie, while thinking, "come on, it's not like she can call every day. i mean, she's at work. you should just figure she's not calling today. you should quit being such a big fucking pansy, c'mon."

but the funk has settled in tight, and the backs of my eyes burn, and i feel whatever energy i had draining into the floor like spilled juice.

the movie is over, and i decide to go to bed at a decent hour, maybe read some before calling it a night.

the phone rings. the only person who would call me at this hour... it is! yeeeaaaaaah!!! it is, it is.

we have the longest conversation we've had since she left, and the funk weakens, breaks up, dissipates like fog in the presence of the sun.

i sleep like a baby.

darth sardonic