the poetry of madness
Name: Lord Malinov
driven by curiousity and an intense need for understanding, I strive to learn and express in every step of the marvelous journey that life is providing
anita
bluematrix
Brainwave Generator
catdancer
duckpower
Euclid's Elements
geekgirl
indigo4963
jackal
Journal of Desire
Malinov's Romances
moonglow
no one tell my dad
Potentials Unlimited
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My grandmother is 94 and still very active. Her husband died about ten years ago, primarily from lung cancer, I think. He had lots of skin cancer, being a pale Irishman working the lines. He used to get up and go out whenever a storm came, not a particularly safe thing to do in Kansas storms. He wasn't ever hit by lightning, but my father was last summer.
My mother's mother died when I was very young, in a hotel fire. She was accompanied by my mother's step-father, who had survived Guadalcanal. When my mother was two and my aunt just born, my grandmother and grandfather fought. He left them and disappeared forever, or mostly so until about ten years ago. My mother had put a query onto an Internet site and was soon contacted by my grandfather's widow. My grandfather had only died a few years before. After the fight with my grandmother, he had gone to fight in Germany. It was 1943. When he returned, my grandmother's family refused to tell him where his daughters were. He spent years looking for them, but never discovered their whereabouts.
My brother, in California, went to visit our step-grandmother, also in Cali. So strange to live our lives with one story and suddenly turn over a rock to find everything different. My aunt refused to discuss her newly discovered and lately deceased father. She felt it would be an insult to her long deceased step-father. Lynne is a very bitter woman.
Malinov
I'd already moved most of the stuff out of my apartment. Today I picked up a truck and moved the few bigger items I had - four beds, a dresser, a kitchen tables, washer & dryer - nothing too heavy and not very far. My body aches immeasurably, anyway. I guess I'm not in great shape - despite the weight-loss and definite tone I have accomplished with my recent healthy habits - and realize that I moved much more than I am admitting. Most of the furniture was donated to me by my family when I left the eX - was driven out by the eX. My family seems to have a penchant for heavy furniture, very solid pieces of wood abounding. Or they have a penchant for getting rid of heavy furniture, probably replacing them with light-weight, easy to handle pieces. Ahem.
I said goodbye to Chace and Jennifer, my lovely landlords. They have been wonderful too me, although Chace soured a bit after she kinda let me know that she wanted me to ask her out and I didn't. She's lovely and I could have had a great time fondling her curvaceous nubile flesh, but I also knew that I wasn't really going to be able to talk to her and I just don't have it in me to taste the body without communicating with the spirit. Is that wrong? I asked myself that question about six hundred times after I walked away from her.
Jennifer is pregnant and simply drives me wild, even though she has a young child and a husband close at hand. They bake cookies for the potential renters, so I dropped in whenever I could to get a cookie, ostensibly anyway. Truthfully, I just wanted to reconsider my rejection of Chace and fantasize the joys of Jennifer's swelling flesh. No one ever said I wasn't a bit out there, now did they?
My high school choir named me "most likely to form a cult." I've always been proud of that strange, totally unexpected commentary. I was very quiet in school, reading every chance I could, although in the latter years I shared my humor with some of the people I had come to know by years of being in the same classes, like my choir.
Chace has been in a divorce lately. I went to get my mail one day when her husband had found out about an infidelity and hit the road. She was in tears, talking to a boyfriend, presumably, broken-hearted that the husband had found out. Later, she asked me to recommend a divorce attorney. She knew I am one and had initiated several conversations on the pretext that she wanted to be one two. The husband wanted nothing to do with her or the kids or the property, he just wanted out. It's probably a good thing I never got involved with her. Cats certainly thinks so. Chace made her very nervous. No comparison.
Every muscle I own aches. Almost every muscle. I think tonight, I will take it easy, see what wonderful new documentaries I've captured.
Enjoy,
Malinov
The morning rushes along. I took Cookie for a long run, taking us both beyond our limits, or almost beyond. Thai bowed out today with a sore ankle, so I let the energetic youngster take up the slack. I love the friendliness that frequently greets me as my dog and I slide past. The affection generated by an attractive pet becomes a point of exchange between people. Brits are a little crazy, but they are beautiful dogs, especially if they can avoid getting fat. The monster is all crazy and slender. I just wonder if I'm asking for trouble, making her strong.
Malinov
Another new beginning, another chapter ends. My mornings begin early, remarkably early considering that I don't use an alarm to rise. I don't wake with rushes of anxiety, but rather with an eagerness to get started with my day. There are so many choices I want to be able to make in the course of the next clump of hours, so many little things I want to do.
This morning I will go rent a truck and finish emptying out the apartment. I've held it for fourteen months. The sour guy with the little girl across the walk has moved out as well. One day, last summer, a woman screamed at him and he closed the door. She screamed for her baby. I sat stock still, working on my computer next to the window separating us. After screaming for several more minutes, she picked up a rock and smashed the same large window in his place. Cookie, my britanny, stared as well. He opened the door and she took an infant in her arms, went to a nearby car and quickly drove away. The police came. The little girl seemed shaken but at the same time undisturbed. I decided the woman must not be her mother. Her grandparents arrived on the scene. The glass was quickly replaced. They stretched a blanket over the window as the blinds had been destroyed. The blanket was there until a few days ago when the blind was finally replaced. I helped him load a beaten old grill onto a truck. He told me he was giving it to a friend, that he would be buying himself a new one. We wished each other well. That was our only conversation in the long year we spent as neighbors. He had always seemed angry.
Two heavy women with small dogs lived directly across from me. They wouldn't even look at me, only speaking when spoken to, usually in response to kind words about the dogs. There was a fight and then one moved out. Another woman moved in briefly and then they both moved out.
The woman next door had suffered several heart attacks and was always home and talkative, on permanent disability. Her teenage son and daughter were both very friendly. She had a tiny Chihuahua and smoked constantly, sitting outside, talking on the phone. Cell phones didn't work very well in the apartments, so there were always people outside, talking on the phone. The window of my daughter's room opened onto the roof. She and her friends would sit on the roof, eating ice cream.
I once had a secretary who had suffered five heart attacks before I met her. She was a sweet woman and had once been a powerful legal secretary, but serious damage had been done to her mind and she struggled to function on many levels. She excelled at throwing my weight around, far better than I was at it. "Mr. Cain needs this right away." She insisted that I always had the best, especially in travel arrangements. I had to rein her in sometimes. I didn't always need the best to do what I had to do. It has been four years since she worked for me. She moved to Minnesota and I still get reference calls from other firms. Sometimes being honest and being nice are a difficult thing to balance. I want to help her get jobs, but I don't think it helps her to give new employers unrealistic expectations of her abilities. All too often, I avoid the calls. Avoidance is one of my most developed skills.
She had worked for one of the leading attorneys in Dallas at one time and had mountains of juicy stories to tell of the scandals that inevitably scoured such powerful players. No matter where we go, no matter what level we play on, there are always tales of lust, greed and incredible foolishness to share. People can't escape their weaknesses, it seems.
I had a close friend who became involved with a new girl in our office, a chemist. She was engaged to a very ugly young man who had been slack in finishing his dissertation. With the wedding date set, she left town to take a job with us, trying to push her fiance into action. She soon began dating my friend. As the wedding approached, my friend questioned her resolution to marry this unfortunate chap, but she was not strong enough to disappoint her family and friends by calling the wedding off. He followed her to Jersey, convinced she would not go through with it. She had continued sleeping with him until three days before the nuptials. She married her bloke nonetheless.
Four weeks after the wedding, she set a rendezvous. Her husband was leaving town. The date was set for Veterans day, a Federal holiday that fell in the middle of the week. November 11th included a sudden twelve inch snowstorm, a snow day on our day off. My friend was from Detroit, so he didn't see any reason to skip his meeting with his mistress. The snow posed no problem for him, but DC is a place where snow quickly comes and goes, so many people there have little experience driving in snow. When they encounter troubles, they abandon their cars in the middle of the road, a minor inconvenience for them since chances are good the snow will be entirely gone the next day. My friend could navigate in snowy roads but he couldn't get passed the abandoned cars. After trying several routes across town, he was forced to abandon his quest.
Back to his apartment, he called his mistress to express his regrets. Her husband answered the phone. The snow had prevented his leaving town on schedule. My friend was outraged. She hadn't called to warn him off, taking the chance that he would arrive as scheduled, letting him walk into a hornet's nest. As far as I know, they never spoke again.
Malinov
My head aches, perhaps reaching saturation levels of knowledge. Two hours of late war Auschwitz, an hour illuminating the dark side of dolphins and another on their cousins the killers, an exploration by Jacques grandson Fabian on a bull shark attack in 1916, a brief foray into the Vietnam airwar and now an expose of Geronimo. Last night had Civil War stories, hobbits and Cromwell. Other tales, lost in the murky waters of my overstuffed mind. I can barely think. I read half a lecture on Mormon history and several chapters of Woolf's Waves, just a touch of Yoga. I ran the dogs and myself into the ground and brought a full load of apartment back.
I can barely think, but the Apache awaits. Ciao.
Malinov
Every time I look at you, I don't understand
There was a time in my life when I wanted to become an Anglican priest. The power of ritual intoxicated me, drawing me toward the feeling of power that emenated.
I drempt I moved into an apartment shared with a strange slob. Three beautiful cheerleaders asked me to tutor them in statistics. They were self-centered, nasty and unnecessarily cruel, but they were lovely and at any given moment, one of them would be nice enough to make up for the meanness of the other two. An unpleasant landlord guarded the secure gates of my living space, screaming instructions and dishing out penalties. I had rented the apartment in an earlier dream, but I remembered the instructions of the realtor. I was surrounded by friends, none of whom I recognize from the non-fictional world. I worried about having enough time to give the cheerleaders their tutoring and finishing my own work. My eX started working across the street. I was told there was a house nearby that I might consider buying. I received gifts from my friends.
I have a strong attraction to pregnant women, both affectionately and sexually. I don't pursue them, but the feeling washes over me when I encounter them. Pregnancy is like a prom dress - it makes every woman lovely and it makes lovely women irresistable.
The cheerleaders fought my instruction, which made tutoring a difficult chore. I did some tutoring when I was in college and enjoyed it immensely. If the hands of time slipped backwards, I would do more tutoring instead of slinging pizza and packing cards. My patience and gift for analogy makes me a better-than-average teacher. I don't think the cheerleaders paid me. They simply asked and I obeyed.
I once worked briefly with a college cheerleader. She had the same advanced aged look of a stripper, worn by trying to hide in a life dedicated to exposure. At a distance, a flower, but up close a disaster. I worked with another girl at the time, exceptionally pretty, modest and innocent who was transformed into an indiscriminate slut whenever alcohol passed her lips. She asked me out when she was sober, but I declined. I was afraid of everyone and everything at that point in time.
Once upon a time, the last time I was single, I lived in a large apartment complex with three buildings and three pools. A good proportion of the Alexandria residents were young, twenty-somethings. Memorial day weekend the pools would open and a flock of young beauty would gather around two of the pools. I tan deeply at the first brush of sun, a trait that is not easily explained from my known ancestry of German and British. I have always loved the pool because of the barely-clad scenery and the opportunity to spend entire days basking and reading. I didn't swim much because glasses were not conducive to watersports. I had my eyes lasered last winter, so my vision is almost perfect now. I don't even suffer much from presbyopia, which I am told is inevitable at my age. I have a Dorian Grey thing going, looking as much as fifteen years younger than I am. I'm okay with that.
Relax. Breathe. Let the day unfold.
Malinov
I owned a house in Centreville, Virginia, on the battlefield of both battles of Bull Run. We shopped at a mall on the Antietam battlefield. I had to search land titles at the Fairfax County Courthouse, where Mosby made his midnight hit & run kidnapping. The Civil War surrounded us, with cannons on every hill and historical markers all around. We were told the confederates buried two cannons of gold in our neighborhood before they retreated, trying to keep it out of Federal hands.
One skill I developed while living in DC was the ability to distinguish many eastern and southern accents. My favorite is probably North Carolina's, although this pretty girl from Mississippi had the sweetest way of talking I ever did hear. Pennsylvania is my least enjoyed, which was a bit funny because our next door neighbors were from Pittsburgh and so my daughter picked up their accent when she was very young. Fortunately she grew out of it, trading it for a much more pleasant northern Virginian.
I met an electrician from Jersey during one of my travels with the most incredible stereotyped Jersey accent, which didn't seem odd until I met his brother who had only the slightest accent. The electrician had adopted the accent while working on construction sites with workers who naturally sported the style. I had gone to New Jersey with my friend Rob to spend the weekend at his parent's house. We arrived in Newark station just before midnight and made it back to the house at 1am. As we talked to his parents, people started showing up. No one knew we were in town, they just drove by on Friday night, saw the light and stopped in. By 3am there were forty people hanging around the place. I've never seen anything like it.
Rob was a bartender who loved politics. He read the Washington Post every day. He played basketball with Clinton at a fund-raiser, having snuck outside to grab a smoke. I definitely miss the Post. Once you've been turned onto a good newspaper, it is incredibly hard to read local papers. Anyway, I don't read papers anymore. All my news is computered to me. I despise television news - worse than reading the Reader's Digest.
I've been told I'm a snob, in a good-humored way, and I suppose I am. I don't push my snobbery on other people, but I have standards about some things that I won't give up. I don't watch movies where cars blow up, or anything blows up, generally, unless its a funny blow up. I don't watch movies that exist solely to manipulate my emotions with cheap effects. If it isn't a comedy, I demand substance in my drama. Unfortunately, that means I don't watch a great many movies. Sturgeon's law (most of everything is crap) is definitely true of movies, but I have a low tolerance for multi-media crap. Of all the arts, musical crap is probably most easily tolerated by me.
but being too happy in thy happiness
Malinov
Cats is making some fudge in the interlude between the Civil War's attempt to burn NYC and the recent discovery of hobbits. We revisited the flying great white sharks of South Africa and cultural difference during the Vietnam conflict. Tomorrow must be spent primarily removing the rest of my belongings from my swinging bachelor pad. We did our grocery shopping and bought crickets for Elvis.
I spent a bit of time creating a confusion mix for Cats - two hours of hypnotic suggestions in three layers. Confusion causes a hypnotic state, so the overlay of suggestions generates hypnosis without spending time on induction. Mine, which recently fell into enemy hands and produced to the court for no good reason, is only one hour long because I was eager to create a four layer confusion, but had to surrender as four layers of sound tends to cover all frequencies at all times, a buzz lacking any informational content at all. I increased the sample rate from 128 to 144 but that didn't give me enough distinction to add another layer. I might try pushing the sample rate higher, but would probably be better off accepting the limit and focussing on creating further suggestion material instead.
The conscious mind can only hold one thing at a time. The unconscious has no known limits, although it seems obvious that a limit exists. As the voices move, the conscious may try to follow the voices but must choose a voice to give attention to. The other voices disrupt the attended voice and soon the conscious stops trying to do the difficult and loses the ability to pay attention. Hypnosis is achieved and suggestibility is heightened.
Although there is no doubt that the time has come to give up my apartment and pursue my connection to Cats in full, I have great love for that small collection of rooms. It saw me through some difficult times and gave me the chance to form some solid connections with my children as my eX raged against me. I won their confidence back slowly, patiently, trusting that our love would easily withstand the stupidity being levelled against it, if only I remained calm and strong. First I had to discover calm and strong, and it would be foolish to underestimate that struggle. None of this has been easy, although the elements have proved rather simple. Fortunately, the stronger and calmer I became, the easier it is to struggle on.
I just caught my daughter on AIM and traded a few pleasantries with her - it is so delightful to have so many different ways to communicate. Our relationship has been very complicated since the divorce, as a young teen she is full of drama and prone to getting involved in my conflicts with her mother. I keep myself completely steady, never bringing her into the struggle and refusing to let my affection waver when she is drawn into the middle. I know I am handling it well, as I am frequently applauded by those who understand this kind of thing, but it tries my patience more than anything else that is going on. I am a father who believes that communication is the only path to providing her the kind of guidance and support she will need to grow into a functional, reasonably happy adult. In this way, children are the path to enlightenment, for they require a complete sacrifice of ego. I am important as everyone and everything is important, but I am nothing in my quest to help her grow. All I can take from her is my joy at seeing her become. I must give without taking, be strong and prepared to stay strong. It is a challenge worthy of life.
A child is a strange relationship because ideally it is a relationship that, on some very important levels, must end if I do it properly. In fact, it is more important that it end than survive. We must always assume that we will predecease our children. If we mold them to be dependent, we mold them to suffer when we're gone. We are readying them for the day when they have to handle life on their own. Because, if all goes well, they'll be carrying on long after our journey is finished.
There are all kinds of ways to fail as a parent, but deliberately creating dependency in children is one of the worst, a strange conclusion for it is often mixed with intense amounts of love.
He said Son, this world is rough,
if a man's gonna make it, he's got to be tough
and I knew I wouldn't be there to help you along
So I gave you that name and I said good bye
I knew you'd have to get tough or die
And its that name that helped to make you strong
Now you just fought one hell of a fight
And I know you hate me and you've got the right
to kill me now and I wouldn't blame you if you do
But you ought to thank me before I die
For the gravel in your gut and the spit in your eye
Cause I'm the son of a bitch that named you Sue
- so saith the Shel, so singeth the Johnny
A bit extreme and certainly ugly, but a wise word for a parent. Life ain't easy for a boy, no matter what his name. A girl, too.
Malinov
My eX, in her quest to throw off all blame, has committed undeniable perjury - making two statements under oath that are contradictory, including a statement that she knew she was lying. She stands to lose everything. Even still, she refuses to negotiate with me.
We all make mistakes and there is little doubt that we all indulge in the ocassional fib. We have all been told that our lies are a worse crime than our crimes alone might be. We may pretend it isn't true, but we know it is. Lying is a path to self-destruction.
Society typically condemns adultery and other infidelities. Many of us commit these sins, but even still, we know the wrong is terrible. It is not the lack of faithful obedience to our marital vows that feels the wrath of discredit. Only the most puritanical think that relationships should hold together as time takes its toll. We don't condemn anyone for losing interest in one partner and moving on to another. What we condemn is the lying, the cowardice that makes us pretend to hold one relationship while pursuing another. Everyone grows weary of a companion. The ugliness occurs when we don't tell her so.
I sent my son to shower one morning. He came downstairs a few minutes later, insisting he had done as he was told. Unfortunately for his credibility, his hair was completely dry. He tried to invent the circumstances that permitted his rapid dehydrated state, and I could only laugh.
Usually when someone lies in ridiculous ways, it is because they have been forced to learn passive aggressive techniques for dealing with an unreasonable person. In the case of my son, I knew exactly where the lessons in unreasonable came from, as well as the lessons in passive aggression. It would have been folly to waste energy in condemning his silly deception. Fear of punishment cannot sway someone from lying when it is fear that drives them to lie in the first place. At most, we would drive the aggression even deeper beneath the surface, teach him to become a better liar rather than someone who trusts in the truth. First the trust has to be established. He had to realize that I wasn't interested in playing prosecutor and judge. He had to understand that I placed value on his word.
I know these things because I have only recently learned them myself. I have often hidden behind a mask of falsehood, so much so that it taught me the methods of fiction writing. I was - if it can be believed - encouraged to lie from my very first day. It was as though my parents set me down every evening, asked me what happened and said "tell us everything, but remember that we just want to hear that everything is fine." I loved my parents. I told them exactly what they wanted to hear.
My eX, strangely enough, has no use for the truth. She wants what she wants, damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead! I gave her the stories she sought, the excuses she needed, the rationale that helped her take and take and take. When my lies were no longer fashioned only for her, when unpopular truth wormed its way into my tapestries of words, she grew angry. Eventually, the truth became obvious, although I could never bring myself to speak it. I would no longer lie for her, so I began to lie to her. This was an outrage, an abomination, a travesty of all that is good.
When the sparks reached the powder, I surrendered my lies and sought refuge in the truth. I believed it would be my salvation and, in a way, it has been. But she would no more hear my confessions than my unflattering lies. She demanded strict obedience to her particular flavor of lies. Now, I am no follower, especially in the matter of lies. I will draft luscious and lovely fantasies of ambrosia and Olympia, but I will not bow to false gods. She erupted in fury. She cast lies in every direction, without caring who was hurt. I expected to be hurt, but I never dreamed she would hurt the children with falsehoods. I underestimated her anger. No one can escape the madness of her wrath.
My cocoon of truth has proved safe. I am drawing my children into my protection as my eX continues to writhe and wail. She attacks everyone who comes near her, especially those who she should befriend most eagerly. I have never known or imagined anything like it.
Hell truly hath no fury like a woman scorned.
Malinov
An old friend in Australia called - a true technical genius, Peter doesn't sleep, so it was deep into f the night there when he called - to tell me he is buying his company back with a valuation of US$250 million and some serious investors. I'm being named to the board of the US company to manage the IP with a budget of 2 million US$. The former head of the Commonwealth Bank is managing the company, while my friend provides the magic. I hooked up with him six years ago, recognizing his quiet brilliance and hoping to at least land a trip to Oz for my efforts. Looks as though I may get a bit more. I'll believe that after the check has been cashed. Talk is entertaining but very, very cheap.
Peter went to school with Mel Gibson, says he was very short and obnoxious. The girls didn't like him at all. Brother Jack, the movie poster mogul, says the movie dudes are all very short, by and large, so to speak.
My other chosen shooting star has become a brilliant fiasco as the incredible value has spawned a war that doesn't seem likely to end. I'm into them for one hundred grand or so, but that is scratch compared to the forces at work. They went to court last Tuesday, to get a trustee appointed and call each other names before the judge. The greedy rich are never satisfied with any outcome, so while it seems certain that I may be paid someday, that day may be in my retirement. A very bleak house indeed.
Cats and I watched an incredible string of documentaries last night - perhaps it sounds lame, but education is incredibly exciting. We watched the battle of Miday unfold. We learned of Mormon complicity in the Meadow Mountain Massacre. We observed the wonders of life below three thousand feet of ocean, stranger than anything I'd ever dreamed. We condemned a husband for slaying his eX and daughters, only to discover that he was innocent and an ugly construction dude had perpetrated the horror with no discernable reason, We explored the tunnels of Vietnam. We experimented with cruxificion to understand what agony Jesus might have endured. We tried a bit of Catholic propaganda but quickly became bored. We studied probability and struggled with the counter-intuitive lessons of the Reverened Bayes. We witnessed the savage power of the '04 hurricane season.
All in all, a feast of wonder and amazement. I learned and learned and learned, until we stumbled into bed at one-thirty AM. There was a bit of delicious loving in the Harvey Birdman post-lude, erasing the slayings from our almost dreaming minds with strange comedy and fleshy delights.
TiVo has turned documentaries into an obsession. I love the learning I am gaining.
The music of the Phantom haunts me appropriately.
Off to see my beautiful daughter sing God's praises,
Malinov
Wandering around the virtual paths, I find a strange, strange world. People complain of curious problems. Little bits of nothing send them into fits. Aches and agonies float by, weightless and transitory. Youth cares about loves they barely know if they even know them at all. Hatred and fury is vented at bits of flotsam, words caught on the breeze. Bizarrities abound.
My own madness is no better, I can only assume. It is, however, mine. Sometimes I want to reach out, touch a spirit, exchange the breath of life. Yet as soon as the thought forms, they have vanished into time, lost on trails of their odd choices.
I have been tormented for my social phobia for so long that it only seems right to be poked and prodded constantly. How do we accept the source of so much pain? How can I pretend it doesn't bother me, even though I am not the one it bothers, even though the one who felt bothered has long ago walked past. Is there a delete key I can press?
Adopt a new point-of-view, saith the Yogi.
The table of three women stole glances as I ate beside them, silly smiles as they lingered gentle looks. The pretty one facing me directly seems to be almost speaking invitiations as her lips self-consciously take the chicken curry within. I don't even know how I should react to this flirtatiousness, occupied with my Lamb Mirch Marsala and my conversation with Cats. I down my gin slowly, considering the stare of a tall woman a short distance away, looking over the shoulder of her man who speaks to her unaware that she has become distracted. The marsala is delicious. I am self-conscious, but ignore the attention with the skill of a seasoned pro. I may not be good at much, but I am plenty skilled at being oblivious to the humanity around me.
I don't mean to sound immodest. I didn't ask for the attention I have lately garnered. I am uncomfortable with it. I have not addressed it at all. I don't know if it just began or has always been this way. They are becoming more bold, making me crave my quiet lair. I like them, like them all, as women are most lovely. But I don't know them and I don't see any reason for that to change. I'll pretend it isn't happening and simply carry on.
Malinov
Don't bother trying to change your thought. Change your point-of-view, instead. - Bhikshu
I have been concerned about my social phobia, for I have indulged it more than resisted lately, keeping to myself without much regard for the passage of time around me. Donnie (my therapist) says that I might consider simply accepting myself rather than trying to push myself to change. A great relief spreads through me, with the idea of accepting my social disinterest. I wonder how I will know where my nature ends and my fears begin, but it is foolish to desire an easy answer in this world. There are none, no black and white, nothing pre-ordained or guaranteed. There is struggle, there is risk, there is certain uncertainty.
Embrace the power of the grey side. There can be no light without dark.
The whole conflict of Phantom was summed up when Christine sang "I wish there was no night." Wish all she wants, this kind of duality is unworkable. Only in acceptance of the contradictory whole can we deal with ourselves. Day requires night and night requires day.
I am slowly shaping my thoughts in new directions. I still need to create the impetus of motivation, permit my conscious thoughts to direct my actions. New words must be discovered, to achieve this identified goal. I have returned to my laboratory, creating the concoctions that will drive me to new heights. Live! Live! <fx: maniacal laughter></fx> I command you to Live!
What secrets lie behind these doors, closed to inquiry? Each person hides the truth behind thin paper walls.
When my divorce began, over a year ago, I felt the shame and self-conscious stings of having my life exposed. More than just anger, my eX twisted everything we'd shared into a condemnation, painting my deepest secrets in shades of evil, stripping the context so that I could not help feeling my darkest side drawn darker. Her pain screamed, drowing out mine. I was crushed by her first unexpected blow.
After a few weeks of self-flagellation, I spent a sleepless night delving into my psyche and past. As morning rose, I came to the conclusion that my only weakness was in being exposed. I called my attorney and confessed every moment of my wrongs. I wrote my family, friends and partners, telling everything. I expected to be chastised, but I knew the torture would be finite and eventually come to an end.
To my surprise, I was greeted with understanding and an outpouring of love. My wrongs were no mystery and certainly not unique. I had gone down my own path, but everyone around me confessed that they had only differed in the choice of wrongs. No one was without sin.
My eX to this very day denies and lies to everyone. She screams with bloody ferocity when her lies find the light of day. Not from me, for I have left her wrongs behind. But the truth has a way of coming out, no matter what anyone does or tries to do. I confessed to defend myself but have learned my defense formed a perfect offensive strategy. She throws herself against my walls, accusing me of crimes I have already confessed, unable to bring anyone to her side in naming faults I have already named.
I suffered for a long time, pierced by slings and arrows, but I took my suffering as my due, knowing the Universe doesn't care for my complaints, excuses or wails. I grow strong, day by day, striving to be strong.
My favorite novel has long been Nabokov's Pale Fire. It consists of a 999 line poem and the novel is written in the footnotes. It is as wonderful as it is strange. I love artistry within artistry, layers upon layer of beauty exposed. It is the softness of her smile.
There is so much left to learn. Come and play with me.
Malinov
To cope with my unmedicated ADD, I have always been a creature of habit. The litany of habits would grow and grow until every moment of each day and more would be consumed with a program I felt obliged to follow. Soon, some change of circumstance would arise and force me from the pedals. My habits came crashing down and I was lost, unable to decide what thing to do next. I could never reassert my habits, for their cost became prohibitive, far to high to pay again.
I have since learned that habits cannot be my answer. Every day is filled with choices and what is right today may be nonsense tomorrow. I keep my goals in sight as I make my choices, and often choose the same path for days on end. But not as a habit, only as choices.
I watched the Phantom again, this time with the subtitles turned on. The lyrics are incredible, by far the most compelling aspect for me. The musical proves to be a simple psychodrama - a parable of the need for integration, the pains of duality and attempts at repression. The symbols are stark and almost too cute at times. It is as good a musical as I have ever known, though it is no Moulin Rouge.
I hope the green fairy is feeling better. She is a darling girl.
Embrace the power of the grey side.
Malinov
integrating the differentials in a quest for unity
Time is a slide down a mountainside. The morning presses me awake. Inspiration calls my spirit home.
Dreams contain salvation, hope. Lash me to the mast. Ask for all the suffering. Let me call you friend.
Burdens born in Palestine. Masks we never wore. Simple causes on the shore. Sincerity is blind.
Temptations leading past our doors. Springtime soon descends. After hours, we came home. Afterwards, offend.
The dawn is child of the night. Our sisters dance and sing. Casually, we tore their sign. Offering out tokens.
Passive powers rock the stage. Fury drove me deep. Hold on tight and grip the sides. Lick her squirming feet.
Aspects reflected in the moon. Silver shades delight. Mourning starshine as it falls. A lifetime passes by.
Recoil from the work we've done. Pass through her threshold. Mark the hour, never late. Watch the night unfold.
I'm asking you to hear me out. I'm begging you to mend. I'm drowning in this vail of tears. I'm hoping never ends.
The day we dreamed of never came. Your words became my death. I felt the surge of wanton lust. I lost my shallow breath.
Passions drove me to this edge. I gaze eternally. I formed a plan, we might escape. I lost my heart to thee.
Wicked warriors cleave with swords. The crocodile bends. Our steps are trapped within the mud. Our trail finds an end.
As I inspect the damage wrought, the clouds spread open wide. I felt your heartbeat quicken, slow. I felt the pain inside.
Mark my words, we've lost our way. I press my lips to thine. Within this kiss, betrayal bought, I crossed the final line.
Your love has been a beacon, drawn by intensity. I am caught, my spirit sought, I am more than I seem.
How dare you tell me anything. How much does this joy cost? Within the caverns, waters fall. I am forever lost.
Worked my fingers to the bone. Sang a thousand tunes. Offered penance, made my prayers. The morning came too soon.
I drempt I held you in my arms. I felt your sweet caress. I told you everything I know. I bargained more for less.
Shallow waters drag me down. The agony reflects. Our drama moved from scene to scene. The final curtain fell.
I loved thee with my virgin heart. I love thee more and more. I loved thee to my dying breath. I loved thee to my core.
Words are but a brush of air, a pixellated art. A touch is nothing but the press of forces at the start.
Connection travels, who knows how. Uniting soul to soul. Intention and Affection mark the only truth we know.
I have loved thee. I am lost. I have loved thee. I am lost.
Waters fall in helpless drops.
There are individuals who feel anxiety in response to relaxation, typically because their feeling of anxiety has become an avoidance technique for deeper anxieties. What a sad affliction this is, like a driver who is afraid to use the brakes because the fears chasing them are more frightening than the fear brought on by uncontrolled speed. Without the simple pleasure of meditative calm, life would be a perpetual torment. How do we help them move beyond their self-inflicted injunction of "I can't"?
Symbols, words in particular, are the programming language of our minds. Saying "I can't" makes the statement true. Recognizing that a reason we are unable is our declaration is a key lesson. One of the easiest demonstrations is the statement "I can't remember." We can remember anything and everything we have ever known, until we make the statement. It may take time to remember, but the moment we allow a negative statement to issue forth, our mind blocks the memory and we will not remember unless we de-energize the injunction. "I am remembering" is the path to memory. Similarly, "there is no trying, only doing," saith the Yoda.
Some of our best advice comes from Muppets. We have a strange culture.
A common flaw in films comes with trying to tell too much story in too little time, packing the plot into a cramped space. Writers have reduced this to the simple principle "show, don't tell." Anytime we resort to exposition rather than demonstration, we are trying to fit too much story into our format.
I picked up a novel last year - big and fat, just the way I like my books - let's see, I am remembering - sauntering over to the bookcase - "From the Empire" by John O'Hara, no that was bad, but not the example I am seeking, "The Book of Kings" by Thackara, that's the one. A few hundred pages into the piece, the hero and the heroine meet and go to dinner. They have the most incredible conversation ever spoken, forming in the space of a few hours a love that would last through all eternity, their words illuminating every recess of their hearts, each syllable perfectly understood as though spoken by the listener as well as the speaker. Wow, what a conversation this was. The likes of it had never been heard before or since.
Obviously an important moment in the lives of our primary characters. But this conversation lasted for a paragraph and we weren't even allowed to hear a single word of what they said. I'm sorry, folks, we can't afford special effects.
I shelved the book at once, leaving the next six hundred pages to rot in silence. I am still deeply offended that the author would reduce such an important scene - one he, himself, declared so important - to exposition. Characters might tell me things, although nothing of importance. Narrators, except insomuch as they are characters, should never tell me anything. Tell meaning exposition as opposed to show meaning demonstration. The only opinions I trust are the ones I form for myself, using my sensual and cognitive prowress. Don't tell me she was beautiful, show me her beauty so that I can decide for myself that she was beautiful. I'm not taking your word for it. Mine eye must behold.
Onward and Upward,
Malinov
Oliver Wendell Douglas has died. Sadness descends on Hooterville, one of my many hometowns.
Viagra may cause blindness. Insert obvious joke here.
We indulged the afternoon in Athens, closing our poetic eyes to enjoy another Midsummer's dream. The course of true love never did run smooth.
Pain surrounds me, but for the moment parts to let me live in a measure of joy, treasuring the delights of good company and mirth. Mine enemies have taken severe blows to the head and nurse themselves in their caves. My friends have rallied around me, raising a toast to continued good fortune, prepared to take arms when the inevitable struggle ascends. My love is pure and true, devoted and dedicated. The sun sets warmly, gently leaving the evening to our sister moon. My breath is slowed, my hunger sated, my thirst slaked, my ambition eased.
My dame, she stands so pretty by the window, waiting for my words to spend themselves so that we may spend a few more hours nestled together.
Calm, gentle spirit, surrender to the currents of an energized life. Tomorrow will bring another dose of challenge. Tonight, we enjoy.
Malinov
smiling for the while
I deeply adore the works of the Immortal Bard. Last night, we watched Merchant of Venice with Pacino as Shylock and Irons as Antonio. I have witnessed some amazing portrayals, but Pacino proved most magnificent as the vengeful Jew, absolutely inspiring. Portia was her usual brilliant self, but she couldn't compare to the thrill of Kelly McGillis standing inches from me at the Folger, preparing to approach the Duke. The incredible poetry playing lines to amuse, shock and humanize within the tyrannies of living injustice. Shylock's fury did not appear as a Jewish complaint, but a personal tragedy, a man caught in his creed, pained beyond redemption, striking out because it was the only power left to him. Dirty jokes mixed with cutting psychology, mirth intertwined with agony.
Jessica seemed the Iago of this play - unprovoked cruelty springing from her selfish taking. Perhaps she had no reason to love her father, but she had no reason to flay him. His unmerciful anger was stoked by her meanness. I did not like her, Sam I am.
Yesterday continued to unveil my personal farce. Under the heat of my attorney's spotlight, the eX ranted and raged, foaming at the mouth, driving my lovely daughter to lash out in self-defense from charges of blame to strike my friend, her therapist, again. The consensus against my eX grows vocal, people from all sides insisting that I should take the children from her. But though the cancer grows too close to the heart, great care must be taken in the extraction, for to cut too deep or too little deep would be to jeapordize everyone and everything. Yet I must still proceed with confidence and fierce intent, for the sake of the children, what must be done, must be done. I can only hope my drowning eX gives up her struggle and allows herself to be saved. I wish her no harm, far from it. Even more, I wish my children's mother can be restored to life for them.
I am fairly absolved by her insanity, so much so that I am given more credit than I am rightfully due by the contrast of my steady resolve to make myself whole against her growing storms of madness. I would leave it all alone, but for my concern for her effect on the children. My daughter grows dangerously close to acting out in rebellion against the winds she rouses. I can only keep an eye on her from a distance, but remain ready to take action if need be. I must be aware that my wounded eX may grow especially destructive in her desperation.
God, what fools these mortals be.
I am a lover who loves with love, yet closeness drawn too close can be as stifling as far-flung distance. There must be approach, the temptations dancing to stir the blood by their elusive tantalizing, hands reaching to touch yet finding the affection just out of reach. The sting of viscious humor cannot be attractive, although the blood may be heated, anger can wound and stresses war with desire. There must be a hunt and the pursuit must be playful, if cupid is to strike his arrow into thy warm embrace.
Jeremy Irons read Lolita to me in constant repetition. A sorry Antonio, he proved a remarkable Humbert, more so than James Mason, even having Peter Sellers as his Q. I did not see the film with Irons, for it annoys me beyond repair that they cast a young woman in the role of Lolita, seeming to feel it inappropriate for a girl to play the role that absolutely requires a girl. I understand their moral censure, but I will not participate in that farce.
One of Nabokov's games was to write a novel that was perfectly obscene without a single dirty word or salacious image. He offended in concept rather than detail. In truth, I believe he did not write of men and girls at all, but rather told the story of telling stories, a story only another writer could appreciate in full. So many people are distracted by the wrappings that they never even notice the gift within. All that glitters is not gold.
Martin Amis, son of Kingsley, also writes only of the art of writing. It is amusing to hear people disclaim the surface of tales, as though stories of people can only be stories of people. Jesus, the great teacher, taught in parables, a point that seems often missed. Is metaphor such a difficult concept?
The Scarlet Letter has nothing to do with the strength of a cardboard Hester and the condemnation of adultery by puritanical society. It is only about taking responsibility. Hawthorne had three children and lost his job. The novel speaks of a man's duty to his children in the simplest terms, almost a fable in form and style. He stripped every character of personality, moving them like puppets who speak their peace or strike Judy with a stick. Do not be lost in admiring the fine cloth used to clothe the manequins. Listen to the story being told. Once upon a time there was a rabbit . . .
We witnessed the forgery of King Solomon's tablet, a tale we are growing accustomed to seeing. The world devours anything they want badly, no matter how badly the thing is made. Thousands of forged relics fill the museums and private collections.
You can change a line without touching it - Gaddis. The Recognitions dealt with forged paintings, a work of incredible beauty, pure untagged dialogue over a thousand pages.
I am the lizard king. I can do anything.
Malinov
beautiful friend
On the subject of the Invisible Man, many years ago I read Ellison's book of the same name. His use of the title reflects his observation that people of African descent in our country weren't subject to explicit racism as much as they were simply ignored by the white majority. No eye contact, no greeting, no indication of any sort that the person even existed. That struck me deeply. I am socially phobic, so I have long ignored people, only barely responding to even the most vocal greetings. However, the idea that my silent non-acknowledgement was affecting people's self esteem cut my sensitive soul.
As my phobias have lifted, I have made a point of trying to acknowledge - at least with a nod - every person I encounter, regardless of the circumstances, regardless of social differences. Some people ignore me and that's just fine. I like it best when someone who expects to be ignored is surprised by my greeting. I don't want anyone to feel invisible.
I have also come into the habit of treating standardized salutations as though they were honest inquiries. When a store clerk asks me how I am, I let them know (magnificent) and immediately ask how their day is going. The response I get is simply charming, almost without exception.
My final recent observation is that when people know I am waiting for them, like a clerk at a store, they become very nervous, expecting me to start yelling. A few words of support and kindness, a wilingness to be understanding and patient, in that kind of situation has brought me the most incredible service. People are so grateful when they expect you to be angry and you aren't.
The shows on the Spanish Armada and the Welsh part of the War of the Roses have been a BBC series shown on PBS called Battlefield Britain. The Welsh had a beautiful strategy when they fought the Englishman Mortimor's army. The Welsh longbowman were atop a hill with a 4:1 grade, so their arrows were deadly while the English arrows could hardly reach. A tiny force of Welsh foot soldiers stood behind them. The English soldiers, feeling confident about their numerical advantage, grew tired of being slaughtered by arrows and ran uphill to engage. Suddenly, a large force of Welsh soldiers ran in from the left to give the English more than they bargained for. Then, one fourth of Mortimor's longbowmen were hired welshmen and they suddenly defected and began shooting the English soldiers from the rear. All hell broke loose. Just as the battle started winding down, another large group of Welsh soldiers appeared from the right and obliterated the English. Dead people everywhere, most of them English.
So the Welsh captured Mortimor and held him for ransom as was the custom of the day. However, Mortimor actually had a better claim on the English throne than reigning Henry IV, so Hank refused to pay the ransom. Mortimor knew where his bread was buttered and swore allegiance to the Welsh cause. He called his friend Hotspur proposed that the three armies take a swipe at the crown. Unfortunately for the Welsh, Hotspur was a bit of a hot head and didn't wait for the other armies to join his. Henry took them down, one by one. It pays to think and keep thinking. The rest is history.
I'm feeling good today, in tune with the Universe. The sun is shining - as I knew it would - and my breath is steady. Peace.
Malinov
The Universe loves to twist. I don't have to go to court this afternoon. It seems my eX had the nerve, audacity or insanity to admit in her deposition that some of the things in her motion for contempt were lies and she knew they were lies. This would bode badly for her if she were just an ordinary person, as perjury is a serious offense, but she's also an attorney and she has been trying cases in this very same courthouse. Odds are good that they'll pull her license or worse. Very strange, to say the least. It is one thing to lie, but another thing altogether to admit to opposing counsel under oath that you have lied under oath. What is she thinking?
This is all good, except the part where it costs me a ton of money. Oh, well. A good divorce attorney is the best investment I ever made. I love Paulette. She's so cool.
So, back to work.
Malinov
I watched half of ALW's phantom last night and found myself rather bored. It was probably just a bad night, but a good deal of my trouble was my long-standing infatuation with the '43 version with Claude Rains and Nelson Eddy. There was a romantic beauty to that campy film that enchanted me - the difficult surrender of age to the inevitable disintegration brought by passing time, rage, rage against the dying of the light. The loss of muscular control, the frustration of love, the threats posed by a cruel, thieving world, exploding in rebellion, taking control by terror and discovering that control is not a substitute for life. This, to me, is the essence of the Phantom.
It occurred to me last night that I have still refused to see the musical Les Miserables. I am an immense fan of musicals, having spent decades singing their songs, but I could not bear having the visions given to me by Hugo overwritten by oversimplified sing-song foolishness. I have often been told that the musical is wonderful and I'm sure it is, but the novel was a masterpiece of humanity. I remember a reviewer of the musical stating that the book wasn't supposed to be very good. I hate it most of all when illiterate people trash things they haven't even read. Grrr.
When Wallace's Infinite Jest was released, I remember reading "reviews" by journalists whose review consisted of ranting that the book was "too long" and refusing to read anything so wordy. I was amazed that they didn't seem to realize just how ignorant they sounded, a bit like the Emperor Joseph's criticism of "too many notes," in Amadeus, although he'd at least had the courtesy to listen to the piece. Now, I can understand someone not wanting to read a long book, but writing a review based on that refusal? Madness.
Journalists, on the whole, annoy me when they start digging to find something bad to say about anything and everything. Now I appreciate that nobody pays good money to read good news, or even lukewarm news, but sometimes there is nothing beneath the surface to uncover.
Once upon a time, I watched Geraldo Rivera dig up Al Capone's vault. Two hours of live television to find a couple of Al Capone's empty beer bottles. Geraldo was enraged at his humiliation, having been promised by some technical genius that there was something down there only to find nothing, absolutely nothing. I laughed and laughed. Perhaps this was the beginning of reality television. I don't watch reality television. It is exactly the opposite of what I want when I watch television. I don't even like the commercials.
The Libyan mummy showed us that the Sahara was once a lush tropical forest, until the earth wobbled on her axis. The civilization of North Africa predated the Egyptian by at least one thousand years and exceeded it in many ways. Then they vanished without a trace, except the remains now being discovered beneath the great desert's sands. My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings. Look upon my works, ye Mighty and despair.
Nothing else remains.
Hitler killed nine million people in the Holocaust. Stalin killed twenty million people in his purges and deliberately starved another one hundred million people. They both had loving mothers and violent fathers. Both had mustaches.
Today will involve emotional torture. I wish I could forget the madness, but my children depend upon me. I spent most of yesterday in preparation, calming the centre of my being so that I might have the strength to endure the powerful waves that will be generated. Nothing comes easily.
I take issue with the concept of an anthropomorphized God, but at the same time I cannot accept a mechanical Universe. There are forces at work that I know cannot be understood within the limitations of our human minds. Just as we cannot visualize a six dimensional object that is easily described in mathematical terms, things can exist which we cannot ever fully comprehend. Perhaps it is a limitation of our brain structure or simply a matter of limited education. Perhaps we can visualize the six dimensional object, if only we could learn how.
I read yesterday that we have hundreds of billions of neurons. I wonder if that is true. The possible synaptic patterns would be almost inconceivable in number. There would be no excuse for not remembering everything, sensory and imagined. When they say we only use ten percent of our brains, they don't mean that ninety percent lies fallow. We simply have far more capacity than we could ever utilize.
I have recently lost touch with my sexuality - a separation that comes and goes but still bothers me immensely. Stress is a great inhibitor. I need to relax, let go, enjoy. Bring on the dancing girls.
The days is hot, moist, grey. Since I am in Texas, it will probably sunny by afternoon. The best part about our climate is the perpetual sunshine.
We are stardust. I find it amazing that we ever ceased worshipping the sun. Perhaps the years of darkness preceding the last ice age did sun worship in. Perhaps we never did cease worshiping the sun. Perhaps the three years of smoky darkness followed by the eventual rebirth of the sun is symbolized in modern beliefs. I'd better shut up before the Spanish Inquisition arrives and charges me with heresy.
I didn't expect the Spanish Inquisition.
Malinov
let's face it - you can't talk him out of anything
Tomorrow afternoon, I get to return to court. We'll get to go forward on the contempt, if not the request to modify. I'll have the opportunity to testify, something I've never actually done in a courtroom before. Yipee, he said with a touch of sarcasm.
I have been deposed before, having rendered an opinion on patent infringement in preparation for a major international battle between two major companies. I quickly came to the conclusion that I don't like being under oath to tell the truth, because the truth is a very tricky concept to define in battle. Telling the truth about what I did is one thing - telling the truth about what I think about subtle differences between vaguely defined cryptographic processes with people hanging on every word I utter is an entirely different affair. Naturally, the attorneys for the other side implemented a disruption strategy, trying to upset me before we reach the heart of the matter, creating intense emotions with implications of uncertain outcomes and implied accusations of possible wrong-doing. I managed to survive, but this all happened before I had even dreamed that I suffered from serious GAD, long before my treatment had even begun.
GAD - generalized anxiety disorder - a constant, unprovoked feeling of dread and helplessness.
As far as I know, the dispute never went to trial. The entire matter hinged on a licensing agreement that was being fought in another court. At one stage, a hearing defined the scope of the claims in dispute. The side I was testifying for had clearly won the legal question, for the claim definitions excluded their implementation. Asked to concede, the other side refused. "We don't think you have the guts to risk taking a question of this complexity before a jury." They were probably right. Any reasonable cryptographic patent attorney could legitimately tell who had won the infringement question, but twelve ordinary people could pretty much come to any conclusion.
Juries are stellar when it comes to deciding who is lying. People have a natural instinct for discovering lies. When the questions come down to the analysis of expert witnesses - people selected and paid for their ability to testify convincingly - juries are fairly incompetent. The jury's determination is more a question of the expert's skill as a witness than the substance of the expert's testimony.
But I digress.
Yesterday I wore one of my favorite shirts - "When I get a little money, I buy books. If there is any left, I buy food and clothing." - Erasmus. For me, this sentiment is not exaggerated. I am at least five bookcases behind in my shelving efforts. Despite the eleven bookcases overstuffed with books, there are piles of books everywhere.
The kids are out of school for the summer - Plano trades the brutal Texas August for more temperate vacation times, including half of May. Unfortunately, this means I rarely see the kids until July, when we get to spend the entire month together. The arrangement is both painful and pleasant, concentrated parenthood with periods of complete childlessness. I can put the lack of children to good use, but nothing compares to the month I get to spend with them. Chances are good that we won't do a damn thing. They are kept far too busy during the rest of the year. I like to kick back and relax together, doing whatever passes our way.
I have returned to a strict regimine of relaxation - yoga, hypnosis, entrainment, bio-feedback, exercise, slow in breath, slow in motion. So much strength derives from taking control of myself. Writing, drawing, singing. Expression and elimination. Out with the bad air, in with the good.
Last night we studied the defeat of the Spanish Armada at the hands of the British and Sir Francis Drake. While the Spanish ships sat waiting off the coast of Flanders, the English packed eight ships with tar and powder, set them aflame and let the wind carry the burning ships into the slumbering Armada. Chaos ensued, scattering the Spanish fleet. Drake led his ships into their midst and pounded the bejeezus out of them. Storms off the Irish coast finished them off.
The King then let the victorious sailors starve, so he wouldn't have to pay them. Aren't people wonderful? Kings, anyway, seem to have excelled at being stuuuupid. I guess that is one of the reasons we have abandoned the whole monarch concept. I do wish we hadn't abolished the nobility in this country. I would have made a formidible Duke.
The Welsh might have won their independence if they hadn't gotten carried away and attacked England rather than remained satisfied in their defense of Wales. Greed has brought many good men down. I have - or should say had - a client with a brilliant invention, so brilliant that the value is almost measureless. The rich people who have invested in the development of the idea have begun to war among themselves over the pieces of pie that haven't finished baking and are systematically destroying the brilliance in their battles. It has reached a point where they would rather destroy everything than let someone else take the gold, or even credit. I've never seen unharnassed greed at work before. It is an ugly, ugly thing. Washington at least pretends to be noble in the course of its greed.
My own brilliant scheme for world domination is not greedy. I am simply taking advantage of inefficiencies in the system to provide a better product to a needy public. I have been trained to turn paper into gold and have done so for many clients for many years. Now I am simply going to do it for myself instead. It is a beautiful plan.
My difficulty is the emotional siege I am operating under. Every few days, another bomb explodes in my business district. It is hard enough for me to focus on anything, but in the midst of destructive chaos, it becomes almost impossible to keep on track. Nevertheless, I will carry on.
There will be peace when I'm done.
Onward and Upward,
Malinov
One day, a senior in high school, I wondered if I could will myself invisible - exude some kind of mental field by believing myself invisible that would make it impossible to see me. At that age, my feet rarely touched the ground. I enjoyed being oblivious to reality. Still do, to some extent.
As I entered the back door of the school, I focussed on exuding my invisible field. The first person I passed was one of the school's many coaches. I did my two semesters of gym years before and if there was anyone in the school who didn't know me, it would have been a coach. "Good morning, David," he sang out. My hypothesis took a blow.
As I entered the main part of the school, everyone I encountered said hello. This was perfectly unprecedented. I had entered the school a thousand times and only rarely had anyone spoke to me.
I soon found my picture posted in the main entry - I had been nominated for Yearbook Royalty that day. The Universe has such a wicked sense of humor.
Today, I went to get my monthly supply of Lexapro and Adderall. I went to a pharmacy by my office, one I used to frequent but hadn't been to in months. All three of the women working there still knew my name and even remembered their last conversations with me. An ultra-shy, anxiety ridden boy, I hardly speak to anyone. But all my life, I have been memorable against my will. I can walk into stores after a year and have people recognize me. Go figure.
Malinov
It is difficult to imagine exactly how many stars there are. The black spaces in this photograph are not portions of the sky that are less dense with stars - they are dust clouds that obscure the stars behind them. Nothing in this photo is visible to the naked eye.
Malinov
Exhaustion hit me hard yesterday. Sometimes I'm hardly aware that I've grown tired, simply collapsing all at once. The excessive physical exercise probably had something to do with it. I'm still groggy. No fear - a tall cup of coffee and 40mg of Adderall will fix me up in a jiffy. Choosy moms choose Jiff. Who chooses choosy moms? What choice do we have?
Ah, that's better. I stopped by the eX's house to pick up my daughter's busted computer. Tess came outside, as expected, followed by five of her friends, a pack of lovely fourteen-year-olds. I am very popular with this particular pride, a phenomenon that warms my aging heart. When I was fourteen, any one of these girls would have frozen me in my tracks. With an affectionate hug, Tess asked me to take one of the girls home, as there was no one else to give her a needed ride. Despite my gnawing hunger to begin my very-late lunch, I consented joyfully. It pleases me to do things for my girl. I quizzed the young lady about the upcoming summer and the late night before. My treatment has been amazingly effective - a year before and I would have been as silent as my paralyzed fourteen-year-old ancestor. The child is father of the man.
The pain of being separated from my kids is balanced by the freedom from the anxiety brought on by my eX. I am one thousand times the father I was before, despite the distance, because I now have strength I could not muster living with her. This has been the most difficult part of my divorce - I never stopped loving my eX, but the fact that I was being rapidly destroyed by her proved inescapable. When I hit rock-bottom, I went for help. She pretended to get help, but only found support for her desire to blame everything on me. I wonder, at times, if things could have gone differently, if she had been ready and willing to get help for herself. Idle speculation, for I fear she will do nothing of the sort, even if she hits rock bottom. Some people would rather die than face their problems.
I had dreams with parties and strange dangerous beasts. Yesterday, weary of struggles, we watched documentaries on Charles the first, Sherman's March, the War of the Roses and the Salem witch trials. I fell asleep during the Libyan mummy, so I will have to rewatch that bit of history. TiVo has provided a new opportunity for intensive learning, gathering documentaries of every ilk to watch at my leisure. I suspect a show on Ice Age America wildlife provided the monsters for my dream - the Columbian mammoth, a gigantic vulturish bird, the American lion, a monstrous bear and the saber-tooth puddy-tat. You forgot the gravy? This time we didn't forget the gravy.
I don't quite understand the saber-tooth tiger, because I don't think it can open its jaws wide enough to bite with the huge canines. They look fierce, but without a bite, they're just daggers. Plenty frightening, but not the weapons they could be.
I am struggling to sort out my life. I don't know what I'm trying to accomplish, what I need to do next. Just keep swimming. I have pulled myself together, but I still don't have a plan. Every time I make up a plan, emotional waves rush in to throw me off balance. Actually, this isn't true. I have a plan, a plan that will easily make me the richest man alive. But the details have swallowed me like a tsunami crashing against my shores. The chaos has shaken my faith in my brilliant idea, although the idea is just as sound as ever. I need to focus my strength. I need to press on.
The Minoans were a highly advanced civilization, the legendary people of Atlantis, but they built their capital on the lip of an enormous underwater volcano. Sometimes one big mistake is all it takes to eradicate brilliance.
Onward and Upward,
Malinov
I took the young dogs for a run - spending the weekend with the boys, I chose to let the dogs slide - a good heart pumping for us all in the rising heat of another Texas morning. Sometimes I forget what heat means, how good I feel in the glow of intense sunshine. You can have winter - I'm not content until the mercury rises above eighty.
However, I hated Phoenix heat. Too hot, too dry. Give me sultry wet heat everytime. Hold the mosquitoes.
Then, for good measure, I cut the yards and trimmed them. I even managed to escape heat exhaustion. I nearly did myself in last summer as I finished up the back yard, dehydration giving way to a heat stroke that knocked me out for twelve hours. Whoa.
Malinov
One of the principal steps of emotional maturity comes with accepting uncertainty, abandoning the compulsion to exert control. Our sphere of influence is small. The things we can actually control are so limited that the entire concept is almost an illusion. We can try to control our bodies, our actions, our thoughts and our feelings. We fail as often as not. We can control physical objects a bit, for a while. We can lock up another creature, limit their motion, inhibit their expression. We can kill and we can die.
Melanie Klein taught us that an uncontrollable rage strikes us in our first days of life when we discover that we don't control the breast. A serious love-hate relationship begins as our need for the breast conflicts with our fury that we don't control it. This is the seed that grows into our deepest insecurity, a fear that our anger will drive the nurturing love away. Unable to accept our lack of control, our anger cannot dissipate. Anger leads to further loss of control,leading to further fear and further anger. The beautiful Annakin becomes the horride Vader. A desperate need for love develops into an uncontrollable hate.
The past few weeks have held several instances where things didn't go the way I wanted, particularly things that left me extremely vulnerable to my enemies. My immediate reaction was anger and despair. How could this happen, what will become of me? Calming myself, I decided that my only course of action was to accept the way of the Universe, keep myself strong and prepare myself for whatever disaster might follow. As things have played out, in these instances, the terrible things have ultimately led me to better places, to a stronger position, to a greater truth. My enemies, made bold by the sudden weak spots, have rushed forward blindly, ruined their best chances to exploit my mistakes and left themselves open to even greater peril. I have won by losing. Maturity allowed me to be patient and strong, to open myself up to these greater endings.
The prophecy says that Annakin will restore balance to the force. The Jedi assume that he would conquer evil through goodness. We discover, however, that the only way the Sith Emperor could be destroyed is by the triumph of good within the heart of the most evil Vader. Lucas may be a terrible writer in some respects, but he knows how to craft a good story. The shortest distance between two points is not always a straight line, nor is it necessarily obvious to anyone.
The counter-intuitive rules are the hardest to accept. Only Nixon could go to China.
Maturity in relationships is the hardest of all. Relationships are ultimately about giving. We must absolutely take care of ourselves, first and foremost. We must love ourselves before we can even dream of loving anyone else. We must be strong or we cannot give our strength. Remove the beam in your eye before attempting to remove the mote from anothers.
Once self-sufficient, self-reliant, self-loving and strong, we can only give love. Demanding love is the child screaming for the breast. Anytime we begin a sentence with "He should have," or "why didn't she," or "you must," we have become a wailing infant. It is not for us to demand anything from anyone. Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country. The only mature response to any situation is to ask "what can I do?" The only reasonable way to answer that question is to figure out "what do I want."
There have been times, too many times, when I have been with someone who is down when I want them to be up. Lacking any sense, I usually begin to harangue them - how dare you be down when I need you to be up. Of course, this accomplishes bringing both of us down, no where close to my goal. Somewhat more sensibly, I sometimes try to lift their spirits with gentle kindness and encouragement. Sometimes this has the marvelous effect of accomplishing my goal. Sometimes their troubles are beyond quick repair. If I can offer support, I may abandon my vision of happiness and devote myself to helping them. Othertimes, I am compelled to walk away, leaving them to deal with their problems as they must. Being adaptable is one of life's most important skills.
I am amazed when anyone says aloud, "I am stubborn," or "I am selfish," as though they were traits to be proud of. "You need help," is my only thought as I slowly back away. No sudden movements, lest they begin screaming for the breast some poor mother dared to take away.
On and on,
Malinov
They say that everything happens for a reason. We receive the things we need, regardless of what we think we need. The Universe unfolds. Pay attention to the lessons being taught, lest you are required repeat the course. Repeating your mistakes is a senseless waste of life. Try some new mistakes instead.
It is an article of faith, the natural functioning of a healthy mind, this discovery of patterns in the chaos. The patterns and lessons are there, if you only dare to look. The only truly bad answer to an ink blot test is "I see an ink blot," for the inability to project images into the clouds is a symptom of schizophrenia, a disassociation between our creativity and reason.
A crocodile can bring down a zebra, a sudden lunge and almost infinite grip. A male croc can generate a bite of over two thousand pounds. The next strongest bite on earth is a hyena's, a mere one thousand pounds. I grind my teeth when I sleep but have never ever been aware of doing so. I store my tension primarily in my jaw muscles. Everyone stores tension in the neck and shoulders, but most of us develop auxiliary holding spots.
As a wordman, I can read subtle truths in casual conversation. It is interesting to find out that a muscleman can read subtle truths in our muscles. I suppose we all develop special skills that allow us to understand expressions that most of us are unaware of expressing.
I began an intense program of self-hypnosis over a year ago. A scientist by nature, I throw myself eagerly into experiment, especially when I can be the subject. I have purchased perhaps forty hypnosis files and manufactured one hundred more. I have long been aware of the effectiveness of some of the suggestive collections, feeling the desired effects almost immediately. Self-confidence was an obvious weak spot for me at the time and each time I performed the self-hypnosis, I could feel the strength growing within me.
After a year of using suggestions, I have discovered that the effects have been profound. The words are carved into my bones. For the most part, I am unaware of them, but they are deeply embedded. Not simply the concepts but the language as well. Knowing of this power, what shall I do next. What ideas, philosophies, language, suggestions shall I use to program my schema?
What powers can I invoke? What resources can I tap? If I can do anything, be anything, have anything, what shall I be? Should I be pretty? Should I be rich?
Che sera.
Reading about moonglow's struggles with autism last night filled me with an incredible sense of pride. Her courage, her intense love and pain, her willingness to expose her weakness as she carries on, make me proud to be a human being. As a person with emotional troubles, as a parent dealing with emotional troubles, as a person in constant contact with both parents and children with emotional troubles, I have seen the best and the worst of responses from all directions. Love, caring, patience despite endless frustration - we try without promise of victory, we try because there is nothing else we can do. I have seen and despise the selfishness that seems embodied in some and rises unbidden in us all.
Sometimes the children who seem to handle life best are the ones harboring the deepest problems. Vigilance in recognizing and rooting out these hidden emotional troubles is an endless task. Love is our only