Journals of Lord Malinov

the poetry of madness

personal history

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

posted by: Malinov at 17:46 | link | comments |

moved

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

posted by: Malinov at 15:59 | link | comments |

feeling

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

posted by: Malinov at 08:46 | link | comments |
tales of passing time

grew some

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

posted by: Malinov at 04:23 | link | comments |
tales of passing time

a drowsy numbness

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

posted by: Malinov at 18:29 | link | comments |
tales of passing time

fascinated

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

posted by: Malinov at 05:49 | link | comments (4) |
petting the cat, tales of passing time

Bull Run

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

posted by: Malinov at 20:11 | link | comments |
tales of passing time

fantasy

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

posted by: Malinov at 19:19 | link | comments |

statistics

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

posted by: Malinov at 12:54 | link | comments |

down under

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

posted by: Malinov at 05:31 | link | comments (2) |

wandering

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

posted by: Malinov at 15:08 | link | comments |

styles

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

posted by: Malinov at 12:51 | link | comments |

the flying nun

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

posted by: Malinov at 10:00 | link | comments |

I would do anything

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

posted by: Malinov at 06:02 | link | comments (2) |

the chores

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

posted by: Malinov at 16:21 | link | comments |

giving all, hazarding everything

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

posted by: Malinov at 05:58 | link | comments |

Wells

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

posted by: Malinov at 13:27 | link | comments (2) |

c'mon baby

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

posted by: Malinov at 10:08 | link | comments (1) |

Claude Rains

    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

posted by: Malinov at 05:40 | link | comments (2) |

big wheel keep on turning

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

posted by: Malinov at 05:02 | link | comments (2) |
petting the cat, tales of passing time

invisible

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

posted by: Malinov at 16:57 | link | comments |

billions

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

posted by: Malinov at 06:08 | link | comments (2) |
she blinded me with science

slowly

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

posted by: Malinov at 05:47 | link | comments (1) |
tales of passing time

exertion

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

posted by: Malinov at 10:46 | link | comments |
tales of passing time

maturity

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

posted by: Malinov at 08:14 | link | comments |
psychobabble

reasons

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 source of strength.  Be excellent to each other.  Party on, dudes.

We are the beautiful.  It's going to be a beautiful night.

Onward and Upward,

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 05:53 | link | comments (2) |
petting the cat, psychobabble, she blinded me with science

realism

"Reality is for people who lack imagination"

My eX chose our children's therapist.  Lorayne is a highly qualified child psychologist and spent her early career with child protective services.  Our final decree even mandates that I must pay for the children to receive therapy for at least a year.  Now my eX has adopted a strategy that includes frequent verbal assaults on that same therapist.  If Lorayne stands up in court and tells the judge that, in her expert opinion, the children would be better off with me, it is very likely that the change of custody will be granted.  For the life of me, I cannot fathom what my eX is thinking.

Lorayne believes that my eX has started running down a path of self-destruction.  The eX is lying to everyone about almost everything - most disturbingly, she's begun lying to the court and cannot escape falling into her own web.  As an attorney, her perjury is worse than a crime, for her license can be revoked.  The judge warned her once, but apparently the warning fell on deaf ears. 

The boys and I played a Heroscape game transmuted into a role-playing scenario.  The result was delightful.  They attempted and succeeded in stealing a young dragon's treasure.  The pleasure of attempting to accomplish a goal that went beyond a mere hack & slash battle rippled through their young imaginative souls.  My youngest, perhaps the child most like me, has developed a strong affection for reading.  Life is good.

Sith totally rocked.  Totally.

Today will be too short.  Last night the boys had already started complaining about having to return to Mom's house.  July will be here soon, but not soon enough.  Until then, we only get two weekends in June together.  July, however, belongs to us.

We - the boys, Cats, Lorayne and I - discussed marriage and babies.  The lights are clearly green from the boys' perspective.  I'm so glad.  The prospect of tying our lives together thrills me beyond words.  I am a profoundly lucky man.  The Universe has smiled upon me, in more ways than I could ever deserve.

On and on,

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 05:33 | link | comments |

us instead of him

all the children sing . . .

Sometimes it all seems so absurd.  We were watching Soapdish the other night.  Celeste (Sally Field) confesses on camera that her twenty-year-old niece Laurie is really her daughter by Jeffery (Kevin Kline).  Her daughter is unsurprisingly outraged at having been lied to for so long.  During a subsequent confrontation, Celeste says to her distraught daughter,  "imagine how I feel."  This portrayal of inconceivable self-centered selfishness is a beautiful portrait of my eX's world view.  She will get mad at someone she hurts because they make her feel guilty by expressing their pain.  No joke.

Attributing our emotions to external sources is a serious misconception we all have a tendency to nurture.  She makes me happy.  She makes me sad.  He hurts my feelings.  He makes me angry.  The difference is subtle but important.  I feel happy in response to her actions.  I feel angry in response to his words.  She acts.  He speaks.  I feel.  Nobody can make anyone feel anything.  We choose - consciously or unconsciously - our responses.  If we abdicate our choice - I cannot resist feeling sad in response to these stimuli - we have simply surrendered and that is nobody's responsibility for our own.  To demand that the stimuli stop, to attempt to control others rather than attempting to control our own response, is a fool's game. 

This does not mean that we should grin and bear it when others do or say things we don't like.  Au contraire.  We should respond in whatever way we deem appropriate.  The only difference is one of responsibility.  No one made you angry.  You chose anger.  Sometimes anger is a good response, even an unavoidable response.  They - the external stimulator - did what they did.  You do what you do.  Hold them responsible for what they do.  Be responsible for how you respond, including how you feel.

Controlling your emotional responses is largely a matter of practice, a skill very few people bother to learn.  Controlling your responses is not a matter of being a cool cucumber, not letting the waves of adrenalin affect your physiology.  Repression and denial are not control, they are delusion.  Control often means waiting until the fire leaves your blood, patiently doing nothing until the adrenalin levels drop.  The insanity of emotion is basically unavoidable.  You can learn to reduce the surges, but you can't stop them.  You can learn to shorten the recovery time.  The best thing you can learn is to be patient when the storm arises, avoid feeding the rushes, slow and wait.

Even when highly emotional situations must be dealt with, our best course is riding the waves - taking the problem one bite at a time.  Interject peridodic moments to breathe and slow yourself, brief breaks to interrupt the acceleration, prevent snowballing into madness.  Hasten slowly. 

Today I am going to take the boys to therapy and then to the far reaches of the galaxy for Revenge of the Sith.  What we're really waiting for is the twelve-hour Star Wars marathon we can have once the DVD is released. 

I have a baritone voice, well suited to Darth Vader.   I find your lack of faith disturbing.

Malinov
now I am the master

posted by: Malinov at 05:03 | link | comments (6) |
psychobabble

Actium

When I arrived at the courthouse, I proceeded to the second floor.  I never imagined I would grow so familiar with the local courts.  As a prosecuting patent attorney, I don't have anything to do with justice, just Federal bureaucracy.  This time, however, I was surprised to discover that I would be searched.  The cop pulled a powerball out of my briefcase.  "You've got to show me," he said, after I explained what it was.  "I'm just too curious to let this go."  I fished the ripcord out of the pocket and gave the gyroscope a whirl.  "Incredible," he said.

Our judge was presiding over a capital murder case.  My attorney explained that they always search when they're trying capital murder cases.  I am alwas learning.  I sat in a back corner, meditating the rate of my heart back down to double digits.  No matter how cool I seem, stuff like this can totally freak me out.  Paulette came around the corner.  "There won't be a hearing," she said.  We'd reschedule for a time when our judge wasn't busy with more important things.

Of course, I still had to sit in the courtroom for over an hour so they could request a continuance until the judge had time for our quibbles.  I learned something else - sleeping in the court is disrespectful and not allowed, and meditating looks too much like sleeping.  So I calmed myself with my eyes open as a string of uncontested divorces, silly motions and name changes drifted past.  Afterwords, I received further information about the bizarre strategy of my eX and instructions for the next few weeks. 

I stopped at a nearby used bookstore, since I was in the neighborhood.  It stank, in terms of pscyhology books.

This afternoon, my eX called to ask me if I would take the boys early today.  She and my daughter are apparently going out of town.  No one ever tells me anything.  We're having a blast already, watching documentaries, playing games and talking.  I adore my kids.  They are just too cool.

Another day, another senseless battle that went no where.  I'm sure the inconclusiveness is driving the eX insane, so I have that to be thankful for.  And I didn't go to jail.  Sometimes it's the small things that matter most.

Malinov
still hot, hot, hot

posted by: Malinov at 17:50 | link | comments |

looking behind

I have always loved post-game analysis, looking back over every detail of an episode to discover the patterns that transformed the beginning into the ending, recognizing the intentions and motivations of the players as they moved toward their self-selected goals, a ballet of desires and forces lifting, turning and sliding into climax. 

When writing fiction, the rewrites ensue - shifting the players and plays to enhance the interactions, emphasize and diminish, alter the flow of passions to reach an even more exciting climax.  And then, armed with further insight, rewriting again.

One thing seems fairly certain - life does not allow rewrites.  No matter what I should have done, I didn't.  Even if a better universe would result from a slightly earlier sunrise, it couldn't. 

What is a fantastic skill for a writer - an uncontrolled urge to rewrite - is a horrible affliction for a person.  History is bunk, saith the Ford.  Not in the sense of learning, for the past is our library of knowledge.  Once the lessons are learned, however, the past is just a nightmare.  Forget it.  It never happened.  For all you know, you were born this moment and a malevolent demon has formed those memories to tempt you from the task at hand.

The only thing that matters are the thing I am doing now, the choices I am making, the way I handle this moment.  Yesterday can teach, tomorrow can inspire.   Life exists perpetually in the present. 

It isn't all good and it isn't all bad because it is always in motion.  There is no steady-state, only a balance that depends on constant intervention. 

I was taught patent law by practitioners rather than theorists, a serious advantage to anyone with a foot on the ground.  I remember we asked one of the partners about the doctrine of equivalents, a particularly shady bit of patent law.  "What is the rule?" we asked.  "The rule is whatever the judges seem to say it is," he replied.  The judges have said many things, mostly contradicting each other.  "What should the rule be?" we asked.  "What difference does it make?" he replied.  "When you go to court, the rule will be exactly what your judge says it is."

Realpolitik.  How things should be is an empty mental exercise, a game with no consequences, no import but self-indulgent entertainment.  How things are is lay of the land.  Your move.

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 05:14 | link | comments (5) |

catapult

Today justice gets a chance to take a swipe at me.  No matter how certain I am of the rational outcome, the moment I enter the courtroom, I become subject to the power of the judge.  I like our judge.  He is stern but his disdain for stupidity is admirable.  I have been a little stupid, but in the vast stream of raging passions, I have been remarkably good at keeping my cool.  My eX has been outlandishly stupid - not simply to me, but in the ways of civil litigation, the game we are playing.  My attorney - the magnificent Paulette - has been brilliant and not at all stupid.  Her attorney - the clueless Bruce - is swimming way out of his depth and marvelously stupid in this matter.  Despite the apparent balance of power, I am the one accused of contempt, so I have the greatest risk of being thown in the clink. 

The Universe unfolds.  I will face the coming hours with faith and dedicate myself to preparation, find the strength to cope with whatever fate has in store.

Holding onto the high road is a taxing approach to a battle.  My eX has all the advantages of being free to do anything, say anything, regardless of how crazy, no matter who it hurts.  My daughter is being dragged into the fray, bless her heart, but I refuse to contribute to her pain.  Her therapist has already threatened the eX with CPS, furious with the emotional abuse being heaped on the poor child.  The eX is oblivious, only hearing what she wants to hear.  I remain devoted to the high road, regardless of what it costs, believing in the long-term benefits of this noble strategy.  Even if it means going to jail for a bit.

The chances are slim, but as the storm approaches, it is difficult not to be reminded of the unlikely but cataclysmic outcome.  Not so very cataclysmic, really.  Nothing at all compared with volcanoes, earthquakes, tsunami, meteors, comets or black holes.  I about three billion years, the Milky Way may collide with our nearet galactic neighbor Andromeda.  What a light show that would be as the two supermassive black holes consume the stars in their orbit into conjunction. 

The dogs wake and call for breakfast.  I could use some myself. 

Onward and Upward,

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 04:40 | link | comments |

surviving

In many corners of modern life, survival isn't much of an accomplishment.  At any given moment, however, survival may become the most important of all accomplishments.  Strangely, nothing guarantees us warning - a sudden blow to the back of the head may arrive and end our conscious existence before we even hear the neurons scream in pain.  You may hope for more and should probably aim for more, but there may come a time when everything you are depends on escaping the icy fingers of death.

I must confess that my concerns about global warming, the rainforests and other environmental issues have been struck a severe blow.  I don't suggest that we abandon our efforts to manage our existence in the wisest way possible, with an eye always cast toward the distant future.  I am convinced, however, that the damage we can do to nature, to the planet, to the universe is nothing compared to what she'll undoubtably do to us.  Life on our planet has approached near complete extinction 37 times.  For all our wonderful achievements and accomplishments, it wouldn't cost the Universe much effort to make us vanish into the still of oblivion.  Perhaps we can anticipate and counter-act many of the destructive forces that have decimated life, humanity, and civilizations.  We can predict volcanoes, earthquakes, tsunami, perhaps even the approach of massive asteroids or speeding comets.  We may be able to survive another ice-age or someday may be able to escape to another planet, if things got really rough. 

Even so, a wandering black hole could enter our solar system at any moment, without warning.  We wouldn't know until one of the outer planets was suddenly ripped apart or even until the gravitational forces began ripping our planet apart.  There is nothing we could do - not even light can escape a black hole.  Squeezed into Plancks' length - 1.6X10^-33 cm - we may discover new forms of existence, but you can kiss your ass goodbye.

I hate to be morbid - despair and worry are obviously not the answer to this fact of existence.  I find myself energized by the perspective offered in this predestined precariousness.  We don't know why we exist.  We don't know for how long we will exist.  All we really know is right here, right now.  No matter what choices you make, unless you make a fatal mistake, the struggle for survival remains unfinished.  Life demands your attention.  Denial kills.  Wake up and get living.  Do what must be done.

Win one for the Gipper.  Is the Gipper a person?  Where did he come up with a name like that?

The Yogi says we should not simply endure pain and struggle, we should learn to enjoy the experience.  Pain, pleasure, excitement, boredom, this is your life.  Milk it for every drop.  He further says that we should not allow even a drop of revenge to enter our being - we shouldn't even think "Vengeance is mine saith the Lord."  My younger son has always been a literalist and I was concerned that he was becoming a bit obsessive about following rules.  I don't believe in rules except as guidelines, but I'm not one to inflict my philosophy on anyone else.  We discussed the ten commandments and I pointed out that there were obviously exceptions to those rules.  Then I reminded him what Jesus said, asked which of the commandments were most important.  "Only two really matter.  Love God and love your neighbor."  You are a child of the Universe.  Hate and anger will destroy you.

Happiness comes entirely from within, as do all emotions.  The world around us are stimuli.  How we respond to the stimuli is - or can be - a matter of choice.  First we must recognize that we have a choice in our response.  Second, we must learn to control our response so that our choice can be conscious.  Third, we must give effort to enabling our chosen response.  Anything less is choosing to be trampled, choosing to be miserable, choosing to die.  Choose life and wake me before you gogo.

Malinov
guilty feet ain't got no rhythm

posted by: Malinov at 09:56 | link | comments (1) |

decisions and revisions that a minute will reverse

I never decided to get divorced.  I simply allowed it to happen.  I provoked it, in many ways, but I could never push my conscious thoughts in that decisive direction.  I wasn't just content to be a passenger on my life's-ride - I insisted on sitting in the passenger seat even thought I knew no one was driving.

It's not my fault if we crash.  I'm not in control.

What a fool.  I don't know where I learned such madness.  On the contrary, I am something of an expert on human relationships.  My empathies give me profound understanding of the human spirit and soul.  Looking outward, life is easy.  Looking inward . . . I am just a fool.

My daughter comes to me with complaints.  "Why did she do that?  She knows it's not true." 

"If she's being unreasonable," I reply, "what does that tell us?"

"She's in an emotional state."

"Since she's in an emotional state . . . "

"Nothing she does or says will make sense until we understand her emotional state."

"What emotion is she displaying?"

"She's afraid."

"What do you think she's afraid of?"

"I don't know.  Being left out."

"How do you help someone who is afraid?"

"Reassurance and support."

My daughter has become a wonderful counselor.  I don't know where she gets it.

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 05:25 | link | comments (3) |

coolest of calms

Cleopatra was not an Egyptian.  She was a Macedonean, descended from Alexander the Great.  When Napoleon conquered Egypt, he visited the tomb of his hero.  At his request, Napoleon was left alone in the burial chamber.  He soon emerged, visibly shaken.  Although he alluded to something unbelievable, Napoleon never told anyone what he experienced there.

At the turn of the last century, a volcano on Martinique killed 30,000 people in four minutes.  A wave of gaseous spew descended on the city of Saint Pierre at over 1000 degrees.  In the days before the eruption, the citizens of the fashionable city were told everything was fine.  Some had left when the rumblings grew fierce, but they were encouraged to return after a mudslide killed twenty-five.  The town's scientific committee, a few civil engineers and biologists, proclaimed that the volcanic activity had ended.  It was a festival day.  Not only did many return, another 5,000 people came to St. Pierre to celebrate.

All oceanic islands have active volcanoes.  If the volcanoes cease to replenish the landmass, the islands soon erode into the sea.  The principal city of Atlantis was built on the lip of a massive underwater volcano.  We don't know how many people perished but it happened very, very quickly.  The resulting tsunami hit Crete with a 90 foot wave.

Archeologists always become very sad when they realize the tomb they are digging has been robbed.  Winters often reach twenty below in Mongolia.  The Chinese built 2,500 miles of linear fortifications to keep the Mongols at bay.

Every moment we live is a blessing.  Simply surviving is a great accomplishment.

Enjoy.

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 04:34 | link | comments (1) |

hasten slowly

"Hasten slowly," saith the Octavian.

Marc Antony, they say, died with Cleopatra, wholly in love with this most remarkable woman.  Octavian was the only witness to her death, but moderns testify that no poison or venom available to the Queen could have acted quickly enough to make the story plausible.  From this, they conjecture, Octavian slew Cleo and made up the suicide story to prevent her matyrdom.  Cleopatra was very popular in Rome, her reputation sullied only by Octavian's slanders. 

The day has moved quickly, but I have moved slowly.  I feel strong, as strong as can be expected.  My hair has been trimmed but remains long in curls.  I have learned many things.

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 19:07 | link | comments (1) |

run on a bike

I took the two younger dogs for a run.  I rode my bike while they did the running.  Not at the same time, first Cookie, my brittany, and then Thai, Cat's weim.  I've never been much of a dog person, although I have had dogs all my life, but since my anxiety has been taken down a few notches, I find that I like them much, much more.  My brother was attacked by a dog when he was young.  I rescued him from the jaws of the beast and earned a bit of a phobia as a result.  I've always been fond of cats.

I recall once during my first marriage, my eXX picked up a fat cat from a doorstoop.  I don't know why, but the strange cat immediately brought me a bit of panic.  I refused an invitation to pet the animal and was left wondering what was wrong with me, why I couldn't pet a cat.  I can easily look back at the past twenty years and identify moments when I knew exactly what was wrong with me.  Fear consumed me around the clock.  It never occurred to me that it was a problem that could be managed.  I always assumed it was a matter of strength and will.  More fool, me.

To be fair, my eX asked me to go on anxiety meds about a year before we split.  Unfortunately, anxiety has a tendency to be afraid of anything that might reduce anxiety.  We cling to our coping techniques like a drowning man clings to a piece of driftwood.  To admit there is a problem may require letting go of our supports.  It's the counter-intuitive stuff that kills us.  You have to get in to get out.

Both up before five this morning, we did a half-slumber while a strange Aussie couple chased a snake through the Kimberly (well, that's what it sounded like, anyway).  He called her a tough old goat at one point and I watched the pain ripple through her.  He works with venomous snakes and she is a lover of venomous spiders.  What a couple.  She found some green tree ants, reached out and popped one in her mouth.   The two-week adventure was a tedious hike through nowhere.  Finally, he held up a bag and announced the nasty thing had been caught.  They filmed every moment of this vacation, including swimming and sleeping and eating ants.  But we didn't get to see him catch the snake. 

The funny part was that they had to split up for a while, as she dropped a log on her toe, and both talked about and complained about being alone.  However, they were talking to a camera that was being held by someone else.  So strange.  How did the camera person feel with them pretending they weren't there?

We then finished off the final blows to Atlantis.  An incredible civilization one moment and then boom, a giant volcano collapses into the sea.  Hiss, pow and glass slivers rain upon the survivors.  I'm guessing the Minoan king had just proclaimed that their civilization would last forever!  The Universe hates it when we do that.  Forever, eh?  I'll show you forever.  Don't muck with the Universe on matters of pride.  Caesar, thou art mortal.

Onward and Upward,

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 08:47 | link | comments |
petting the cat, tales of passing time, she blinded me with science

anguish

Yesterday melted in my hands, ever-increasing vibrations of tension destroying the low-energy bonds I had been developing to hold my soul together.  I have many anxiety-fighting tools at my disposal and I put them all to the test.  Nothing stopped my decline, but the constant application of brakes served to prevent a complete collapse into despair or (even worse) stupidity. 

My eX is fixates on blame, exactly as the forensic psychologist warned.  She cannot deny that her behavior during our relationship was reprehensible, but is determined to prove that everything she did wrong was completely my fault.  Not just to prove my fault, but to punish me.  Now, I am no saint, but neither am I a demon.  I cast no stones.  I accept my responsibility and am devoted to making myself whole.  I give without asking.  I am thankful for everything I have. 

Unfortunately, she only has one way to punish me - through the children.  At first, they were given a biased perspective of my role in the demise of our family unit.  I took the blows with patience, believing my unconditional love would vindicate me in their eyes.  In this, I have succeeded.  I have the love of my children.  So now she attacks my access.  The children complain, but putting an offense into motion against a deranged and hyperactive foe, without causing my kids more harm than good, is a very difficult, emotionally trying task.  Her accusations are insane, but I am forced by a strange system to spend time and energy to prove she her mad claims wrong.   I won't lower myself to her game, but am left  with daily struggles that I am hardly strong enough to bear, much less win while attending to all the rest of life's details.  Even so, I am clinging to the high road. 

How do we fight depression in the trenches of war?  Struggle on.

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 07:04 | link | comments |

rivers of methane

I am taught that we must consider our lives in terms of the choices we make.  I fully accept that analysis and do my best to ponder my choices before making them.  The kicker comes when looking back to discover that some of the worst choices I've made were chosen without even realizing that I was choosing anything at all.  I randomly selected a direction at a fork in the road and was totally ambushed and I'm paying still.

Accept my fate, carry on, deal with the choices before me. All so simple in theory. 

I am tired.  I am weary.  I could sleep for a thousand years.

Despite all illusions to the contrary, I have no idea what I'm doing.  Pushing obsessive thoughts out of my head proves difficult when the sources of my troubles keep knocking at the door.  I began telling my daughter at a tender age, "you will make plenty of mistakes in your life, but be especially careful in choices that may result in a child, for that choice will bind you with your mate as parents for the rest of your life."  I had no idea at the time that those words would eventually haunt me.  Now I wish I had been awake when I made those decisions.

I was anxiety-ridden and bullied, an all too common story.  I saw a book - presumably angry - why do men love the bitches, or something like that.  We don't, I responded silently, boldly speaking for my gender.  They run over us and we aren't together enough to stand up against it.  I'm sure some men do prefer bitchy women.  There simply are all kinds, saith the Winston.

I have felt like Indigo at work - train keeps a rolling all night long, train keeps a rolling all night long - decades of being passably ineffectual, knowing that I was bound to jump the track.  Now, by the grace of Cats and the Universe, I have leapt from that train.  Now I watch it roll past, wondering if I'll ever have the strength to drive that locomotive again.  Do I want to?  Do I need to?  Would everyone please stop for a while, until I get my bearings?  train keeps a rolling all night long.

Dysfunctional insanity is all around us, but we're so caught up in the slight wobble of our orbits that looking around only reveals the incredible celestial harmonies, too beautiful to possibly include our feeble existence, or the stellar explosions ripping all reason apart.  Surviving from dawn to dusk in this fragile and hostile Universe is an incredible achievement.  Every tiny creation is a piece of the spectacular.

I've made some terrible choices in my time.  So it goes.  I watched a show on Beethoven.  He made terrible choices and managed to write some of the most beautiful music ever composed.  We find his bad choices interesting and educational, but as quickly forget.  His music lives on.

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 03:27 | link | comments (1) |

tequila in a pinch

If you're all out of denial, tequila has the same buzz.

I used to call them emotion bombs.  Not that I call them something else, I just don't talk about 'em much anymore.  A word or two, a sight, a thought even that comes out of the blue, hits you square in the heart and mucks up a perfectly ordinary day with avalanches of emotional garbage.  We get them often enough from people we know that we tend to be wary of their approach, but sometimes the blow comes from a total stranger.  Sometimes it wasn't even aimed at you, an innocent bystander knocked down in someone else's war. 

People grow addicted to them, the drama queens, using the emotion bombs as an exciting form of denial.  I'm too busy in my crisis to deal with my problems.  The moment things are dull, the problems start begging for attention.  Damn, I'd better go start something or I might have to quit denying.

Quitter!  I can't quit now, man.  Not with finals coming.  I'll quit next week, maybe the week after that.

When a band ends their set, I usually scream "STELLA!" until the encore begins.  Every now and then, someone else catches the allusion and adds to the Brandonian chorus.  I figure someday a band will do a song called Stella and take advantage of the grass roots phenomenon.  If it's a band of yutes, I yell "Freebird."  No use wasting my A material on amateurs.  Hell, kids don't even get the Freebird gag.

I'm a singer.  It is the rare Sunday when I go to church - an extremely rare Sunday when I go to church and the woman in the pew in front of me doesn't turn around after the service to compliment my voice.  Get my kicks where ever I can, doncha know.  I'm actually in the choir, but I have trouble giving up Wednesday evenings for rehearsal.  I mean, Sunday morning is tricky enough to make.  Mostly, I just sing whenever I feel like it.

I love sappy love songs.  I was a yute in the seventies, so I had plenty to work with.  Ambrosia, Firefall, Hall & Oates, 10cc, Chicago.  My life, my love and my lady is the sea.  I was born on Columbus Day, the old school one of October twelve, so I have an unnatural attraction to the sea and adventures.  Not the kind of attraction you act on, mind you.  Just the kind you dream about.  I need you more than want you and I want you for all time.

I was such a romantic that I only loved from afar.  My eyes adored you.  While this imaginative universe proved usefull when it came to penning fiction, it left me at a serious disadvantage in the halls.  I was completely oblivious during my school years, lost in a fog of words and heartfelt emotions that had no relationship with reality.  Women have trounced me since, up one side and down the other.  I believe in romance, but not with an appetite.  I'd rather get to know a woman than fondle her breasts.  Is that wrong?

I love exchanging words.  Here, have one.  Sultry.  Isn't that a cool word?  I just love it.  Santana and Sade doing a ballad together at two AM on a hot, moonlit night near a calm ocean.  Sultry.

Malinov
king of the road

posted by: Malinov at 18:32 | link | comments |

rising to the ocassion

I'm tired of the struggle.  I'm going to take a hit of denial and watch the world melt into patterns of bright colored harmony.

Ah, that's better.  Denial is better than any pill, drink or smoke.  No problem.  Everything's cool.

The muscles let go as I forget all my troubles.  Ah, pass that back over, I need another sip of sweet ignorant bliss.

I'm not to blame.  I never made any mistakes.  My future's so bright, no choice but wear shades.

Whoa, this is cool, the way I can't ever get hurt.  Everything I ever wanted is right here and right now.

Feeling groovy, the traces erasing the stings, ready for anything, the world is spinning my way.

I am the eggman, the walrus, the fool.  I am, I declare, the mojo lizard king.  Undeniably cool.

Come on, friends, let's party.  Don't worry about anything, nothing at all.  Take a hit of denial.

Maybe tomorrow won't come.

Malinov
smiling again, for a while anyway.

posted by: Malinov at 16:28 | link | comments |

rushes

At least my emotional surges were well derived.  My eX has declared her intention to take the boys to their appointments this afternoon, a task that has been my joyful duty for several months.  Her declaration included threats against any objections.  So it goes.  Friday should be interesting.

We watched Soapdish last night, a wonderful romp of insane drama.  As Sally Field crumbled in selfish despair, I revisited the truth that there are few things worse than having enemies.  Of course, having insane enemies is worst of all. 

Enjoy what I can; Endure what I must.  Thanks for the dose of wisdom, Jackal.

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 07:15 | link | comments |

meditations

Bhikshu says that we should keep a journal close by while we meditate, to capture the clarity in words.  Not for further study, but so that we may someday compare our experiences with those of others. 

I recognized yesterday that sometimes I will think of an activity that will accomplish some goal.  Then I will decide that some other activity will better accomplish the goal, or more efficiently accomplish several goals at once.  Then I will find a reason I cannot engage in that other activity at this time.  Then I will wander off to find something to do.

The Universe provides constant challenges and obstacles, but none is more taxing that the ones we unwittingly create for ourselves.

Despair began to resonate around noon as I decided my bustling morning had failed to accomplish many of the things I needed to do.  In despair, I felt incapable of pressing forward.  I shared my despair with Cats, discussing ways to deal with this constantly recurring lack of direction.

Then I realized that my despair was simply an avoidance technique.  Feeling the things I needed to do as a failure to do them sent me spiralling deftly away from the actions that would accomplish them.  Self-awareness can facilitate the erection of walls.   I have this problem - I have always had this problem - I will never overcome this problem - I would rather worry about this problem than tackle the problem.

I sat down and wrote a long list of things I needed or wanted to do.  A long, long list yet still a finite one.  I chose one action and performed it, striking the accomplishment from my list.  Hmm.  Perhaps I should add it to a list of accomplishments, instead of marking it off.  Since I am religiously ADD, I have a natural revulsion to all forms of structure and organization, although years of struggle have taught me to ignore the revolt as best I can.  One of CHADDs tip sheets suggests externalizing our diminished executive functions - writing down lists and schedules - and follows with the sage advice - consult the externalizations frequently.  I have easily written everything down, but looking over what I have written?  Perposterous, shouts my soul.  ;)  Consulting my list is by far the hardest part for me.  I simply forget it exists, distracted by the next shiny thing.  I need a list to remind me to check all my lists.

I used to amuse myself by promising to make a list of the lists I needed to make.  I am easily amused.

A letter arrives and my heart begins to race wildly.  Even before I confront the possible emotional content, I am overrun with emotion.  "Dive!" screams the captain, "Dive! Dive!"  I will allow myself the respect to finish what I am doing before stepping into the minefield.  Chances are good that there is nothing emotional there, but the slightest prospect of having to deal with madness makes me shake.  Confronting the situation immediately is a proper course to ending this rush, but sometimes that isn't possible and I must learn to control the flood of adrenalin despite my eagerness to dispell it with confrontation.  Lexapro has taken the physiological response down from eleven to two, but the incredible fierceness of this "two" makes me wonder how I ever survived before. 

The struggle continues.

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 07:05 | link | comments (1) |

drifting

Sometimes I give people the impression that I know what I'm talking about.  Perhaps I do, at times, but my knowledge is just happenstance.  I work in hypothesis and data, both subject to revision.  My confidence is taking a position, to study to implications and analyze the foundations.  Even if I'm exploring my deepest feelings, my words are just an attempt, a possibility, a self-inflicted test.  Let me try this one on and see how it fits.

Tell someone you love them and you may quickly discover it isn't true.  The suit looks good on the rack but doesn't fit at all. 

Words have no meaning, they just sing my song.

I often use the second person.  I think I learned the art of suggestion early in my development. 

A little bit older and a little bit wiser, I am taking my time in the emotional realm.  I would rather suffer the slings and arrows of losing something beautiful than mindlessly walk into another trap of unhappiness.  I don't hold myself back - quite the contrary - but I test and check my feelings with as much self-honesty as I can muster.  It is always so much easier to just keep moving down the road but I'm too old to waste my years on another dead end that could have been avoided by reading the signs.

I'm going to marry Cats soon.  We're thinking about having a baby.  For once in my life, I'm doing something profoundly emotional with my eyes wide open.  Even now, I'm ready to entertain feelings that I might be making another mistake.  I search my heart and mind, and most dangerously, my imagination for hints of displeasure.  She is not a goddess - that's a very good sign - but delightfully all-too-human.  We struggle and fight - another realistic sign - but we work together for resolutions.  Maturity marks our spirits, even in our childishness.  She makes a good companion.  I enjoy her company.  She makes me want to grow, to be more than I have been.  She walks in beauty, like the night.

My only concern is the possibility that I cling to her from fear.  Other than let her go, which I've played in virtual scenarios but have never been willing to do, I don't know how to test that possibility.  I'm not afraid to be alone.  I'm not afraid to find another.  I would be sad to lose her, but not broken.  I would be sad for the things we would miss, not worried about what I would do without her.  I'd do what I've always done - just keep swimming.

She loves my kids and they love her - in a very healthy stepmother-stepchildren way.  Even my very protective and opently-critical sister approves.  Lisa, who also lives in the Dallas area, told my Mom that Cats takes good care of me and is incredibly unselfish, or something like that. 

I love being a father and she will make a wonderful mother, should the Universe so bless us.

I don't know if I can be any more certain than I am, at least absent a heavenly visitation.

Our mother has always been an artist, at least as long as I have known her, a pregnant sophmore at nineteen.  She paints and shows beautiful watercolors of rustic scenes.  She once painted a design remniscent of a Modrian and told me that was the kind of painting she really enjoyed doing.  Our house was always a clutter of paintings and supplies.  She sketched exercises constantly, covering each page with thirty-odd bits and pieces of whatever was around to see.  I was surrounded with art history, grew up between Michaelangelo and Warhol. 

Although my brother, sister and I always had access and encouragement in every possible craft, Mom never taught any of us to draw or paint.  I don't know why.  I have certainly helped my children learn to write.  I am wondering if she neglected that bit of education because the shock of starting a family at twenty made my father a severely practical man.  When I took an interest in physics, Dad warned me to keep to the engineering side rather than the theoretical, so I could someday find a job.  I realized in later years that he didn't pressure me to be practical as much as I felt his fear of the impractical.  Children feel their parents far more than they hear them.

My father did buy me my electric guitar, after constant assurances that I would not get one.  (I might put an eye out?)  He went out on Christmas Eve and bought it without telling my mother.    He wasn't always practical, or perhaps his ADD impulsiveness sometimes got the better of him.  I love him dearly but cannot spend much time with him.  His anxiety has grown fierce over the years and his anticipatory fear is terribly contagious.  It is a sad, sad thing.

Interestingly, I have limited skills in practical thinking.  I crashed and burned in partial differentials because it was a course designed for engineers - basing the analysis on the heat distribution of an iron bar.  I could play in abstract math with prodigious ease, but the introduction of a physical object turned the poetical beauty of thought-patterns into chaotic dissonance for me.  I am visually aroused but do not think in visual terms.  I am driven to ecstasies in a dance of wordful thoughts.

My life only began recently as I finally took a stand against my anxiety demons.  The struggle continues for they will never surrender.  Nor shall I.

Onward and Upward, saith the Goethe.

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 05:29 | link | comments (3) |

snap

I snapped awake this morning, suddenly wholly conscious with no inclination to remain in bed.  Fully rested and ready to move.  I turned the corner into the bathroom to reveal the time.  If it was before five, I would have pushed myself back to bed.  I love an early start but not at the expense of the rest of the day.  I went to bed exhausted but willing to surrender to the night, knowing the morning would offer a new opportunity to push the keys.  When I worked at the firm, I struggled to get up before nine.  Depression is a terrible force.

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 04:13 | link | comments (2) |
tales of passing time

adding on

I saw the Smashing Pumpkins perform the night the drummer helped the keyboard player overdose.  The keyboard player was Wendy's brother.  I saw Prince twice, but it's all about the Time.  I never saw Morris.  I didn't see Bob Marley but all my friends did.  I'd never heard of Bob when he visited KU my freshman year of college and they didn't bother to tell me.  Some friends, eh?  I saw Peter Gabriel several times.  No Doubt.  Nickelback. 

If you watch scads of documentaries, you soon discover that people disagree about almost everything.  One man's miracle is another man's mundane.  Heroes become villians, madmen become geniuses.  Truth is beauty and beauty is truth.  That is all we know on earth and all we need to know.  So saith the Johnny.

I am developing skills in recognizing leaps of reason, seeing the places where people draw conclusions based on assumptions but neglect to change the conclusions after uncovering facts that contradict the initial assumptions.  For instance, the past few days have had Tut shows.  Investigating the possibility that Tut was murdered, first they concluded that he did not die a natural death because he was a young man in good health.  Then they decided that he suffered from some terrible crippling genetic problems and based their theories of murder on his poor health, never looking back to reconsider the fact that he WASN'T a young man in good health.  Sheesh. 

My heart aches.  The romantic poets are my bag, baby, as though of hemlock I had drunk, or opened some dull opiate to the drains and Lethe-wards had sunk.

I used to write romance novels - you knew that rant would come back to haunt you, moonglow, didn't you?  I learned many things about women in the process, but not nearly as much as I learned from Nancy Friday.  Nancy rocks.

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 17:47 | link | comments |
tales of passing time, she blinded me with science

shaving close

Encounters with the eX always leave me shaken.  The hearing on Friday is going to be an expensive one, but any attempts to reason with the deranged lunatic proves to be wasted breath.  Wasted pixels, anyway.  Pushing is the only strategy she knows, even when she's pushing herself directly toward a cliff.  It's like extreme terrorism - there is no sensible way to deal with someone who is so determined that they don't mind self-destruction to reach their goals.  Sigh.  At least I'll have plenty of reflections to sketch in words.

A simple exchange of words used to mangle my spirit for days.  At least now I can typically regain my peace within a few hours.  I used my Playstation 2 to provide a non-cerebral workout, first a bit of drumming, then some Simpson bad driving and finally a little Jedi saber play.  My heart continues to race, the steady pounding more rhythmic than my amateur drumming efforts.  I am perpetually bummed that they didn't get a license for "I want to bang on my drums all day."  I saw Todd from the first row on that tour, the best concert seats I ever had.  I saw Heart from the second row, the Bebe le Strange tour.  Robert Palmer opened, before addicted to love, when his only hit was Bad Case of Loving You.  The worst opening act I ever saw was Howard Jones, opening for the Eurythmics.  Dave Stewart's guitar nearly tore my eardrums at the KC ampitheater, a complete surprise as their recordings were still techno in their second album.  Howard just sucked.  He was a one-man-show with a mime.  A mime, for God's sake!  I'm pretty liberal about music, but there is just no place for mimes in my Rock & Roll.  Jeez Louise.

Remembering the shows - The Dead, Genesis, the Kinks, Heart, Rundgren, Police, Stevie Ray, Joe Jackson, Steve Winwood, Bowie, Journey, Doobies, Kenny Loggins, Eurythmics, Lenny Kravitz, Blues Travellers, Garbage, Elvis Costello, Los Lobos (trying to remember my t-shirt collection now) Cure, NIN, a few others lost for the moment in the transom of time.

I was dragged to every single one of those shows by friends.  I like concerts but I'm not one to go seek out an event.  I did make my friends go see Tapping the Vein when they came to Dallas.  We also saw Tesla and Vince Neil at that set of shows.  I like sitting on the lawn at outdoor shows best - a picnic with good music.  I've seen Carmen performed a few times, Das Rheingold, Figaro.  La Sylphidae danced at the Paris Opera House.  Pirandello's Henry V and Ibsen's Wild Duck in London.  M. Butterfly at the National Theater, Beauty & the Beast at the Kennedy, Lear, Othello, Merchant of Venice at the Folger.  Kelly McGillis played Portia and stood inches from my left arm.  Several Midsummers over the years. 

When I started writing, I wanted to be a playwright, but novels are my bag, baby.  Short stories are the elemental training field and poetry is the brushstrokes of anything we write.  I have little patience for writers - no matter what genre - who have neglected their poetic skills.  Stories come cheap - the telling is the thing.

A great performance of Death of a Salesman lured me into my first marriage.   Damn Willy Lohman and the horse he rode in on.

Speaking of great flicks - Buckaroo Banzai. 

Malinov

 

posted by: Malinov at 17:20 | link | comments (1) |
tales of passing time

too tight, toulouse?

Watching a documentary on Henri Marie Raymond de Toulouse-Lautrec, I saw a painting that I found delightful.  However, my searching refused to discover the picture.  Then I found a book of Lautrec postcards I had purchased a few years ago (a gift I never gave).  Here she is...

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 12:51 | link | comments (2) |

wordfully

For all the self-discovery I have achieved, I cannot begin to explain why the prospect of stringing letters like beads lifts me out of my bed joyfully.  The simple act of writing has the ability to fill me with happiness.  Not for rewards or fame, nor glory, not even love, but keypress by keypress, I feel myself shine.  I grow in expressions.  Life takes on meaning.

There have been times when I wrote for purposes of love - scads of letters, poems and stories to express my devotions.  I learned to play the soul like a musician, drawing her heart each word closer to mine.  In truth, however, writing has cost me more love than my words have won, as the truth I've exposed eventually runs counter to the illusions I've drawn.  Few loves can bear the heavy weight of literal expression.

Sometimes I'd envy the visual artists, exposing their meandering minds in splashes of color and form.  They don't endure, I imagine, the "what did you mean?" or "who is this supposed to be?" unless they represent their thoughts in too obvious ways.  I suppose I could pursue expression in greater abstraction, but incoherent language doesn't have the same impact as non-representative art.  So it seems to me, anyway.

It hasn't been that I've complained and criticized my lovers in stories or babbles.  Nor have I spent my words admiring some other new love.   Obvious infidelities would be only a symptom of an already breaking relationship, and I would be foolish to blame the demises on words.  Trust me, I have plenty of faults and am sufficiently wise to know that there are reasons enough for devotion to fall.

The craving to express and explore the feelings of a developing life becomes a harsh mistress.  The need to express wars with the forces of inhibition, the fierce light of self-consciousness.  Putting words together reflecting the currents of life in progress doesn't happen outside the flow.  As physics eventually discovered, the observer always affects the observed.  If my words are going to necessarily be part of what happens, I will limit my words, limit their exposure or damn the torpedoes.

I can watch what I say - take into account what my friends, family and lovers will think when they are exposed to my flights of madness.  Suitable for some kinds of writing, thinking about what everyone will think when writing from the heart has the unfortunate consequence of holding my literal tongue.  I am terribly empathetic and hate the idea of hurting anyone, so too often I will shy away from saying anything that might nip, bite or sting.  Sometimes my writing has become horribly obtuse for exactly this reason.  If I merely allude to my feelings and thoughts, without context or reference, without structure or form, words given new meaning, nonsense is written solely to push the madness out, looking like madness.  A workable solution in ways, the exercise becomes empty and hopeless.  Expression accomplished by remaining perfectly uncommunicative.

This neglects the interesting truth, that every expression is meaningful to someone who cares.  Everything we do, including everything we write, expresses the whole of our being, whether we know it or not.  We might imagine that no one else can speak the language of our soul, but that is a foolish delusion, more true of those unaware of the truth than those who can read volumes between every line.  Any word that you utter will tell me more about you than you realize you've shown. 

One of the key pieces of information in a word association test is not the word that you choose to respond with, but the time it takes you to respond.  Thought processes are revealed no matter how carefully we try to conceal.

Write about something mundane while angry with someone.  Anyone who cares enough to pay attention will know that you are feeling angry.  The more your reader knows about words and about you, the more easily they will be able to discover the source of your anger.  You aren't fooling anyone, you know. 

Hence, controlling your expression to protect yourself and others is complicated, unsatisfying and generally impossible.  Worst of all, it is inhibiting.  Given the choice between writing something with a potential for unwanted consequences and not writing at all, we may choose to not write.  This, to me, is the worst consequence of all.

If we aren't going to exercise self control, the other option for reducing the impact of expression is secrecy.  Years of struggle have taught me the pitfalls of this course of action.  For some aspects, for some expressions, there is no other approach.  We all deserve some measure of privacy, the ability to divide our lives into compartments.  It is no disprespect to my clients for me to keep them out of my personal life - quite the opposite.  What I do beyond my work for them is none of their business.  I can't worry about them when I'm making love and they deserve to be free of seeing me in that position.  The wall we erect between us is consensually maintained, a right and a good and a joyfull thing.

As a matter of respect, the walls take different forms and heights.  I have no desire to hide any aspect of myself from my friends and family, but there are things my parents don't want to know about me, things my children shouldn't yet know about me and certainly don't want to know, details even my best friends may find a bit too naked.  For most and in most cases, I don't really hide my expressions but I also don't parade them.  To my brother and sister, for example, there is nothing in particular that I feel it necessary to hide so I have let them know where to find me, but I don't push them to look.  I may not be hiding but I can certainly understand them not wanting to see. 

Closer to home, however, lies the biggest source of conflict.  As an emotional slut, I have always been a very personal writer.  I don't give a damn for discussing politics, social order, justice, religion or whatnot.   I like to explore feelings and we can't talk feelings for very long without getting into personal relationships, especially voluntary ones. 

There is no winning, speaking personally about our mates.  What did you mean?  Why did you say that?  Who do you love?  Why are you writing about me?  Why aren't you writing about me?  How dare you say such a thing?  Why didn't you say this?  Our relationship is an on-going organic connection and every word, every action, every thought, every moment affects that connection.  Even the reactions of complete strangers to our expressions can have cataclysmic affects - who is she?  why are you responding to her? 

For a young - by which I mean easily inhibited - writer, the slightest consequence of expression with regard to our mates can be silencing.  A young writer needs uncritical applause and little else, because the very act of expression is incredibly hard, creating vulnerabilities that are nearly impossible to bear.  Non-communicative expressions stand on different grounds than communications with regard to inquiry.  If I write you a letter, it is fair to point to a passage and ask "what did you mean by this?"  If I write a poem, when you ask "what did you mean by this?" the first message I receive is that my poem has failed.  A work of art must stand alone without explanations from the artist.  To inquire for more information from an artist is a terrible criticism.  Yet our lovers can hardly keep from digging deeper.

So we hide our works from those closest to us, to give ourselves enough breathing space to learn how to express ourselves freely.  A workable plan from one point of view, but secrecy forms a tiger trap for any but the best of relationships.  Someone who cares will always know, if not in details, they can feel the emotion.  I may never know what you're hiding but it is child's play to discern that you are hiding something.  Secrecy begets suspicion.  Unfortunately, suspicion is fed by fear.  If you are hiding something, it can only be because you are doing the very thing I fear most.  Houston, we have a problem.

Once trust begins to disintegrate, all the king's horses and all the king's men must work night and day to put it together again.  Inhibition is bound to follow.  How can we write honestly when every breath we take is weighed against us?

Twenty years ago, I adopted an open journal policy.  Read what thou wilt but enter at your own risk.  Noble in courage, I never escaped any of the problems that come from expression.  Without wanting to, I learned to control.  Without wanting to, I learned to hide.  The one advantage I retained was that when my mates would refrain from enduring the pangs that accompanied my expressions, I could complain that they didn't read my writings.  In truth, this proved to give little solace in the grand scheme of things, but at least my writings stayed firmly on my side.

My eX took boxes of my writing to a forensic psychologist when she sued me for divorce and demanded an evaluation, hoping to prove my moral depravity.  One of my favorite remarks in the resulting report was his noting her irritation when she learned he hadn't read all of the twenty-thousand pages she provided.  Now, I have written about diverse, sometimes questionable things but there are lines I won't cross and true moral depravity is far across the border, so I was cleared of all charges of child-endangering perversion.  Few reviews have pleased me more than the occassional comment by the attorneys and psychologists involved that I have word skills, for they were an involuntary audience with no reason to appreciate any of it.  Little gems of appreciation sparkling in the desert sands.

Relationships have come and gone, but my writing has endured.  In retrospect, I have learned that the problems caused by my writing were simply reflections of problems that were inherent or developing between us.  My present relationship is more secure in my writing, but I suspect that is more because of my writing-maturity than anything else.  I have lost most of my inhibitions in the course of stringing so many letters - no one can stop me from speaking my piece and only a fool would try.  At the same time, there are probably subjects I won't discuss, knowing the trouble they might cause me.  I still resort to secrecy from time to time, heading off to explore some line of wonder without subjecting myself to consequences simply because I feel a need to adventure.  Trust doesn't come from control, knowing everything about our mates all of the time.  Trust simply is trusting.

One of the best courses, I think, to deal with the inherent conflict between expression and our lovers is to encourage them to develop their own expressions.  Give them the respect that you need to fight your inhibitions plus a bit more for good measure.  Applaud without criticism.  Let them wander freely in thoughts and feelings without demanding explanations and reassurances.  Turn a blind eye, perhaps peeking without ever letting on that you're peeking, so they can feel their own need to express and discover the difficulties that come in the task.  Grow together, not by merging in space but with enough separation to maintain distinct being, sharing the adventure of life.

If none of that works, try painting abstractly.  The expression is more important than the medium.

Enjoy,

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 06:25 | link | comments |
words, petting the cat, tales of passing time

translation

TiVo captured The Graduate for me, one of the best movies ever made from a terrible book.  Let's be fair - not a terrible book in the sense of badly crafted prose and an undeveloped plot, but only terrible in relation to the quality of the movie and other books of the genre.  Less than Zero was an excellent book of the genre.  I don't know what you call that college-aged-writer genre.  Anyway, Webb was no Rimbaud.

Buck Henry co-wrote the screenplay and plays the desk clerk.  Dustin Hoffman's anxiety is agonizing, with strong foreshadowing of the Rainman to come.  Buck also wrote "What's Up, Doc," one of my favorite movies.  "Don't you know the meaning of the word propriety?"

we'll be back  after these commercial messages.

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 18:02 | link | comments |

crickets

By virtue of my son's veiled chameleon, I head to the pet store about every other day to procure crickets for the inconstantly colored reptile.  A chameleon is a very manly pet and few people are freaked out by them, so I have grown to enjoy the frequent visits.  I am convinced that if a man wants to meet women, a good pet store is the most fertile field around.  Sharing a caring for animals is an easy opening for getting to know someone.  "I had a (fill in the blank to match whatever pet she has) when I was a boy!"

I always discover wonderful secrets like this when I have no use for them. 

I discovered the phantom professor's blog today after reading the news story of her outing.  A local adjunct at SMU, no less.  Beyond her biting wit and hysterical commentary on modern university life, I was blown away by her word skills.  I've encountered few people who can work the medium so well.  The question becomes what will she do with her skills?  I am interested to find out how she unfolds.

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 16:58 | link | comments |

pages

Lunch led to a visit to the used bookstore.  One hundred and eleven dollars later, we emerged with three bags of words.  A few basic treatises on watercolor and pastel techniques, the basic pile of psychology texts and a few stories joined the malinovian library.  My influence on Cats is beginning to show as she now grabs a pile of books that exceeds or rivals mine, dyslexic but determined to learn and learn some more.  Ah, the joys of living are endlessly increasing.

Mainov

posted by: Malinov at 16:15 | link | comments (1) |

a prayer

Help me understand that my time today will be brief,
Help me endure my insatiable hunger to do, experience, accomplish and enjoy a thousand things,
Help me appreciate the things I manage to do
Help me know I am not measured entirely by the things I don't do
Help me choose the things I will do wisely
Help me do them well

Malinov
attempting not to drive himself insane

posted by: Malinov at 10:38 | link | comments (6) |

slowed

Cats and I broke tradition and went out last night, venturing into Deep Ellum to listen to music and see what we could see.  We strolled down to Cafe Brazil where I started the evening with a big breakfast of French toast and coffee.  Youth abounded, the glorious visual pleasure of blossoming young ladies and rebellious young men.   Tempos, brash tones and the pound of hungry drums swirled through the warm night air as we wandered past clubs, paraphenalia and tatoo parlors where excited patrons scanned the walls for rich patterns that would best emblaze their pale young flesh.

"This is creeply," said Cats as we turned another corner.  "Let's get out of here."  I didn't really know what she meant, but I had tasted my fill of the bustle of extroverted life.  We went looking for a bottle of Agua de Mexico but we were ten minutes too late.   Rum would have to suffice.

After looking over a cache of dogs offered for adoption (I have slipped back in time to mid-afternoon) we stopped in a book-store.  I waited for Cats outside the ladies room.  A woman in black preceded Cats out the door.  My male instincts quickly admired first one then the other. 

"Do you notice anything wrong with her body?" Cats queried.

"Not particularly," I declared after a second glance at the retreating curves of the woman's backside.

"She does.  She thinks she's fat."

"What madness," I responded.  On the scale of disproportionate weight, this particular woman leaned toward the too thin, far far away from too fat.  The issue of women's self image has become a recurrent theme in my life.  "What can I do to combat this demonic plague?"

"Unfortunately nothing," Cats replied, all too realistically.

"No, I can continue my Quixotic quest, a one man batallion in the battle against deflated self-esteem.  I may not ever win, but I will never surrender."  I get this way sometimes.

It bothers me that women blame us, their male companions, for their obsession with weight. 

"You must admit, there are men who insist women should be as slender as boys," saith the Cats.

"And there are men who are mass murderers.  As one of the non-idiotic men, I object to them being cast as our representatives."

The night before I had posed the fantasy question (what are your fantasies?) and received the all-too-typical response of introspective silence.  It can be extremely difficult to express our fantasies to each other because we struggle to enunciate such emotional thoughts even to ourselves, much less saying them out loud.  Having dropped my foolish knighthood for the non, I re-approached the fantastic.  I once had a notion to create a list to assist us all in identifying our fantasies - a list of all the things in the world that might turn a person on.  Cats and I quickly generated a list of three hundred or more settings, scenes, characters, costumes, props, attitudes and other erotic tickle points.  Simply trying to map the fantasy landscape, populating the space with energy peaks, has proved interesting.  I'll post the list somewhere appropriate when I decide where that is. 

The rest of the evening proved delightful, as one might imagine.

After a rather silly exploration of the murder of King Tut (funky Tut) we watched another entry in the Sex in the 20th Century - the '50s and '60s.  The sense of repression that gripped the '50 in America is simply astounding, unbelievable even.  I learned that Reich was imprisoned for transporting his (rather silly) orgone boxes across state line.  The psychologist Reich believed that sex, approached properly, could be the salvation of humanity.  His orgone boxes were designed to capture orgasmic energy - a metal lined box that you sat in and masturbated.  He died in prison, his boxes destroyed and his books burned. 

Kinsey was demonized for daring to suggest that women wanted to have sex, had sex and enjoyed sex.  The strangest concept, to me, was that the adults of the 50's and 60's were not reaching back to a conservative era they had known - the world of their youth was as bawdy as the times to come.  Like the attitude against long hair on men, people had become completely irrational.  Short haired men didn't exist until WWII - George Washington has a ponytail on the quarter, every portrait of Jesus shows him with long flowing hair. 

I have often speculated that WWII created a romantic feeling unparalleled in almost any time period, because the war was unique in being a major conflict against enemies who were unabashedly evil.  The joy of having a clear distinction between right and wrong, the opportunity to kill knowing that evil is being destroyed.  This romantic struggle led, I think, to the twisted perspective that led us to Vietnam, a generation eager to let their boys enjoy the feeling of fighting for truth, justice and the American way.  The jungle war, however, proved far less than romantic. 

This notion is reflected in the Deer Hunter as the boys revel in preparation for disembarking for 'Nam and they encounter the solemn Green Beret who has returned from the fighting.  "What's it like?" Michael asks him.  The soldier raises his glass in salute.  "Fuck it." he says.  "Fuck it?"  "Fuck it."  The boys want to fight, filled with the bullshit of romance.  Soon they experience the unromantic truth of spilled rivers of blood and repeat the emotion endlessly.  "Fuck it."

Interestingly, our ally in the righteous world war, Stalin, proved far more evil than Hitler, at least in terms of murder, genocide and brutality.   In truth, evil lurks everywhere.  The only honest place to battle evil is within your own heart.

 Tess Derbyfield gets to choose between a cruel, decent prick and a decent, cruel prick.  They arrest her for murder at Stonehenge.  My oh my, wasn't Hardy bitter?  He fell in love with his first cousin and cursed the Universe that denied his happiness with every word that he wrote.  A tapestry of beauty woven from threads of despair.  Tapestries, I should say, for Hardy wrote many laments.

Lady Chatterly was not published uncensored in the US until the late 50's, the sensual poetry of love making being far too crude for American sensibilities.  I recall Judge Woolsey's remark about Ulysses - anyone who reads this piece for the dirty parts has certainly paid his dues.

I emptied my fountain pen of peacock blue and filled it again with tanzanite purple.  The times, they are a changing.

Malinov

 

posted by: Malinov at 06:49 | link | comments (1) |
petting the cat, tales of passing time

two steps back

 The morning weighs heavy in the wake of nocturnal thunderstorms, the rains evidenced by a small puddle set in the canvas of the Brittany's bed.  Cookie Monster, my sweet and overly energized Brittany, is almost lethargic, knowing that we shan't be running the fields.  But a dark morning in Texas almost assures a glorious afternoon.  Let's wait and see, my good pup.  Let's see what the day may bring.

I watched the first act of Baz Luhrman's Romeo and Juliet with the subtitles on.  I learned this delightful trick of DVDs with Trainspotting, where the brogue proved so thick that only subtitles could unravel the bizarrities of Scottish English.  Now I watch almost all movies with subtitles, as the subtle play of language is too often lost in pace and accents.  Some films - usually cheap release DVDs - have abhorrent subtitling, paraphrasing almost every line and losing humor in the process. 

I don't know how many times I've read, witnessed and studied R&J, but I am led to a new understanding in this round.  Bill wasn't telling us a tale of a great love story - far from it.  He told the story of unintended consequences.  Romeo and Juliet were never in love.  Romeo was pining for the fjords of Rosaline moments before he met Juliet's eyes.  A few days later and the star-crossed lovers were both dead.  The children spoke the language of love - there is no doubt that they were well versed in dreams and longings.  Romeo's inconstancy is frequently alluded and symbolized.  Juliet's innocence is likewise paraded.  The initial stages of a romantic relationship are beautifully illustrated, but Bill knows the traps of infatuation all too well to make us believe that this gross caricature of love is the point of the story. 

Rather, R&J points to the speed of life - as the masters argue, they assume they control.  The speed of youthful passions, however, moves with an inhuman pace - a glance becomes a vow in a moment's time.  The power of a master may be infinite but the period of response is all-too-finite.  The arrow speeds to its mark and may not be caught by human hands.

The poetry Bill wields remains unsurpassed by any mortal - in a single line he can express beauty, drama, anguish and bawdy humors but never confined to a single line, one after another moves in magical lyric. 

"They stumble who run too fast."

One of my better professor proclaimed, "the best thing about knowing English is being able to read untranslated Shakespeare."  Someone else once said, "reading in translation is like holding hands with thy beloved wearing mittens."  The rhythms of Bill's language are infectious.  It can be most difficult to excise them from my thoughts, speech and writings.  I will go and find a copy of Midsummer with Klein and Pfeiffer, to reinforce this delightful inner beat.  Along with a copy of Phantom, so lately recommended by my Tess.  I taught her the love of musicals, so it seems only fair that I pay heed to her lyrical pleasures.  She declares she loves the Phantom more than any other, surpassing I suppose the delights of the Moulin Rouge.  I need only an excuse to sing.

The Universe tilted me toward Baz as A&E presented a biography of Toulouse, the icon of the Parisien dancehall.  The documentary showed strong influence of the wild Aussie director, portraying the decadence of Montmarte and the Moulin Rouge with the frenetic flashes of color used in his musical love story.  Sadly, or joyfully, there showed a sketch or watercolor of a magnificent young woman which now I cannot find in a prolonged search of netsources.  Ah, another quest to try my skills and patience. 

If I were again a youth, on the verge of deciding my path, I would perhaps choose to become a visual artist so that I might perpetually trace the beauty lines of female forms.  Lautrec destroyed his life in living this debauchery, yet by thirty-seven created works so profound that I could only dream to match the expressions.  What price is worth the best creations?  What cost the artistic life?

I read this morning that a set of thirty-two painting of Jackson Pollack have been lately discovered in a warehouse belonging to an old family friend, unknown works from the period of his break into genius.  A recent painting of JP sold for eleven point seven million USdollars.  The friends intend to show the works briefly, offer them for study and keep them privately.  We can only envy such fortune.

An uncle of Lautrec, the very uncle who helped start the boy in his artistic direction, was sent a collection of pieces after a show of the works, late in the painter's life.  Outraged by the bawdy content, the uncle had the art burned.  Boo and Hiss, grand fool of history.  What shame to be known for destruction of greatness.

The father Lautrec often wore dresses and other bizarre costumes to parties, once photographed in a kilt and tutu.  Yet when he learned of his son's immoral subjects, he disinheirited the boy.  Oscar Wilde's father had three children with his wife and three more children by three other women.  Has the world always been so bold in strange and irresponsible behavior?  How do we task ourselves to such stringent standards while the lessons of the past teach us that lies are the hallmark of greatness and weirdness as common as fleas. 

Napoleon misrepresented his achievements constantly.  Octavian rewrote history in his writings.  Every figure of greatness seemed to earn their reputation with false words more than true deeds.  History seems to teach us that the boldest liars have ruled from time immemorial.  Even the great teachers of truth are surrounded by mythology. 

"Truth is beauty and beauty is truth," saith the Keats.  I have quoted this truth often and wonder now if this is the only truth.  The art of Toulouse stands as truth beyond any words exchanged to explain them.  The words of Shakespeare hold perfect truth in the poetics of fictional tales, as completely untrue as their expressions, emotions and lessons ring true.

Expression carries struggle.  Yesterday was rife with conflict as the self-conscious walls erupted to surround our spirits, cutting off communication in a burning desire to express.  The act of expression can become a barrier to expression, once we become aware that our expressions will define us, that others will judge us as we create.

Morning has broken.  What will the day contain?

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 07:18 | link | comments (1) |
petting the cat, tales of passing time

fog

 When I don't take my ADD meds, I live in a thick fog.  My mind is still intensely active, but I feel shrouded from the rest of the world, disconnected, cut off.  I can only reach out with heightened emotions, anger, pain, lust.  Being highly emotional becomes a way of life, a path that leads into the dark forest of self-destruction.  "I have no mouth and I must scream" saith the Harlan.

Girls tend to be of this distracted form of ADD rather than the hyperactive ADHD sort.  Distracted ADD tends to be undiagnosed because we don't cause very much trouble, lost in our daydreams, and the squeaky wheels hog all the grease.  They are discovering that girls don't seem to become ADD until puberty, forcing us to rethink the definitions which have asserted that ADD must appear before the age of six.

In truth, the only real diagnosis of ADD is responsiveness to the meds.  There is so much we still don't know.

I seem to have recovered my grip on my anxiety, which had begun to spin out of control. Barrie - the voice of potentials unlimited's self-hypnosis programs - came to my rescue.  "Relief from Anxiety and Fear" is one of the best cures for the white noise that infects my whole being at such times.  After a year of concentrated effort, I am no less prone to these bouts of overbearing tension, but I find myself capable of recognizing the onset and moving against it.  Of course, being in a state of anxiety tends to make me struggle against taking the time to fight back, a noxious catch-22.  The drowning analogy struck home for me.  Salvation sometimes requires giving up the struggle and accepting help. 

The counter-intuitive things are always a kicker.  It can be hard to accept that the best way out is deeper in.

I am an INFP, in the language of the Briggs-Meyer.  Introverted, intuitive, feeling, perceptive.  This is a corner of the personality universe almost exclusively occupied by women.  I am left wondering what forces crafted my perspectives and attitudes.  Wondering why I wonder.

Friday brings a strong feeling of hope, the end of a cycle, even when the days have become virtually indistinguishable.  Sunday night brings a cool feeling of surrender.  Once upon a time, I listened to the blues every Sunday night. 

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 05:47 | link | comments (1) |
psychobabble

salience

Certainly, I could build another blue bannana, but does that ever really solve anything?

There have been times in my life when I actively pursued my interest in chess - the magnificent simplicity that generates worlds of strategic complexity.  Inevitably, I would reach a stage when the obsession had grown strong and take a step back.  Can I feel content in focussing my existence on sixty-four squares?  Invariably I would decide I could not.  Prose and poetry fascinate me in ways no game ever could.

Paradoxes abound.  Factual descriptions can include unbelievable misrepresentations while bold-faced lies can easily express emotional truth.   What is truth?  Does the word have any meaning at all in relation to human interactions?

We, the ADD, experience diminished executive functions.  We frequently forget things we know.  We are unaware of time.  We are unable organize.  The basic suggested coping technique is to externalize these functions - marry ourselves to a day planner, notebook and organizer.  My mind rebels at the notion.  This is a typical ADD response - I like the way I am - don't try to make me change - I love my disorganized style, my chaotic scehdule, my carefree improvisation.

But make my problems go away.

The struggle continues,

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 08:32 | link | comments (2) |
psychobabble

sensations

 Momma always told me not to look into the eyes of the sun
But Momma, that's where the fun is - Springsteen

There is a cathedral built out of a meteorite.  The crater formed by this behemoth is so large that no one recognized it as such.  Some believe that a meteorite caused the general decline of western civilization at around 600 AD.  Dragons appeared for the first time in western mythology at this time, giant fire-breathing monsters of the skies. 

Nixon declared the war on drugs and formed the DEA to provide a method of restraining the youth movement.  We spent in excess of $18 billion last year funding the 35th year of the war.  Illegal drug use has increased steadily in the US over that time.  Over half the population of our federal prisons are there on non-violent drug charges.

I slept restlessly, my dreams in constant motion over bumpy terrain.  I am desperate to restore peace to my spirit, to return to the gentle calm of a simplified life.  The desire to simplify is an expression of anxiety.  So is a need to control.  Anxiety is a fire-breathing monster of the soul.  The harder I try to escape, the slower I move. 

Stop struggling.  Only then can we be saved.

Deep Space One was successfully propelled by an ion drive.  Gas is ionized and accelerated to provide thrust.  The Ionic Breeze air purifier operates on the same principle.   I can't believe how much crap the device removes from the air. 

Nine bookcases fill the walls of this room.  I need probably four more to get the rest of my library off the floor.  My therapist encourages me to find less cerebral things to do.  But momma, that's were the fun is.

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 04:49 | link | comments (2) |

the death zone

We watched a documentary called The Dark Side of Everest.  Apparently, the last 1000 feet of Mount Everest is so dangerous that once anyone enters the death zone, they must assume the responsibility for failure.  To assist another person at that point is to foolishly risk death.  If a climber falls and can't get up, the others will leave the fallen comrade to die.

The show centered on a South African man who foolishly chose to continue to the summit at a time that assured his death.  His team didn't stop him.  Honestly, they probably couldn't have stopped him - 27,000 feet above sea level isn't a smart place for a physical confrontation and words proved ineffective.  The same team, represented on the show by a woman member, had several encounters with climbers who were dying and didn't provide any assistance.  They had good reasons for their inaction and may very well have died if they did act.

They were roundly criticized by some - they should have done this or they could have done that.  I understood the  climber's actions but certainly didn't respect them for their all-too-reasonable excuses.

One experienced climber had risked himself (successfully) to help others who were in trouble.  He understood fully that there were limits to what he could do and ultimately who he could save, but he did what could be done.  I respected his bravery and his refusal to abandon his morals even when he was in serious danger himself.  I could only hope I would act with such resolve in a similar situation.

One woman, the widow of the man who clearly let himself die to reach the summit, understood all aspects of the situation, but still held his team responsible for their failure in talking him down.  Another woman during another season, wanting to be the first woman to reach the peak without supplemental oxygen, made the attempt with her husband.  They both failed to return.  The same South African woman found her dying and without the stomach to go on, lacking the ability to render any aid, returned to camp leaving the other woman to die alone.  Before the dying woman started, she told her seven-year-old son that the decision was his - she wouldn't make the climb if he didn't want her to.  The boy told her to go, telling us that if she had grown old and regretted not making the climb, he would feel responsible.  I was sickened by the responsibility she had foisted on her child.

I reached the conclusion that the moral dilemma was not whether climbers should abandon dying climbers to their fate.  The very act of placing oneself in mortal peril, risking the pain of their loved ones, was the ultimate act of immorality.  Once committed to doing something immoral, there aren't any questions of morality left to consider.  The entire enterprise is simply wrong so everything that follows is inherently wrong.

We watched the story of Sugihara, a japanese diplomat in Lithuania who risked his life and the life of his wife and children to save thousands of jews.  His courage and resolve to accept responsibility made me proud to be a human being. 

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 10:56 | link | comments |

striving

Despite an intense internal resistence, I finally persuaded myself to surrender to a relaxation self-hypnosis followed by a yoga session.  The jitters of my anxious spirit have been slowed to a gentle calm.  The problems of my life still loom menancingly, but I feel better equipped to cope with their demands. 

One of the litigators at my old firm used to put it this way;  "You can't complain the wood-chopping is going slow if you won't take the time to sharpen your axe." 

I used to say, "slow and steady wins the race unless fast and steady enters."  I neglected to see that fast and steady learned to run by moving slowly.  "learn slow, practice fast."  So many things begin to make sense.

My favorite joke (if you can call it that):  "Similie is like metaphor but metaphor IS similie."  Most everyone I know learns to groan in response.  You might want to start practicing.  Grooooaaan.

I have decided that one of the most important keys to emotional stability is refusing to fear the truth.  Whatever will be, will be.  Whatever I have done, whatever mistakes I have made, I cannot afford the luxury of denial, the clear result of fearing the truth.  Perhaps I will be punished for the truth - so it goes.  No punishment could be worse than the struggles that arise from fighting realities. 

The problem with this self-evident dogma is that so many of my denials are honestly felt - the justifications and rewrites plant themselves in the first instant of perception.  One of the best tools for digging out these lies is assuming responsibility - funny how language hides some incredible philosophical truth.  I need to assume that I am partly responsible for whatever happens, working from that assumption to recognition.  Sometimes my responsibility is obvious, for my actions brought the result.  Othertimes, inaction was my role.  Sometimes innocent acts precipitated results.  I'm not suggesting that I find some way to blame myself, but only that I assume I bear some of the blame for everything that happens.

The smelly saint of Karamazov taught us that "we are all responsible for each other."  The only purpose of blame is to further our learning and, when absolutely necessary, assigning liability.  If I played a role - however big or small - in the development of circumstances, I share responsibility for the consequences.  Moving forward to a better place must ultimately be my goal, regardless of the situation.  Lying to myself about my responsibilities will never foster growth. 

Of course, lying to myself may be essential to my attitude, but that is a different sort of lie.  Believing in the possibility of victory as all the facts point toward inevitable defeat is the kind of lie that may find the unlikely path.  Perhaps it isn't a lie, but an understanding of the scope of truth. 

Analysis is so complicated.  Language is such an imprecise medium.

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 10:31 | link | comments |

struggles

The struggles ever continue.  The enemies are relentless, tireless, cruel. 

A touch of depression had darkened my spirit these past few days.  Recognizing the patterns of my psyche allows me to struggle with my demons without wholly succumbing to their dark illusions.  The struggle is no less exhausting, the dangers are no less menacing.  But I am spared the anguish of torturing myself while I strive to restore the balance.  This pain is not my fault - it is my quest.

When my mind rages at full strength, the pressure of pace becomes intolerable.  My appetite for understanding becomes a constant torment, furiously demanding more, more, more.  My patience wears away quickly, more, more, more.  Frustration tears at me, more, more, more.

There was a time when I mocked the idea of "giving your problems to God."  So often, understanding is perspective.  Those words can mean a hundred things that are not true when taken from the wrong perspective.  Stonehenge makes no sense until the summer solstice dawns.  By accepting our total inadequacy in the face of a hostile universe, by finding the peace that can only come with apathetic surrender, only then can we muster the strength to face one problem well.  Here - the strength to handle a single problem - is the path to surviving the endless struggle that is our life.  Trust the strategy - develop faith in the game plan - believe in inevitable victory despite all evidence to the contrary - and discover the power to do the next thing.  Success comes from consciously adopting a what clearly seems to be a false belief.

Leave your logic at the door.  Reason is a tool of limited applicability.

When it comes to the human spirit, resolve trumps strategic analysis. 

No wonder paradoxes have become the foundation of our universe. 

I dreamed I was going to Europe with my son Matthew and his class.  We had no passports, so they allowed him to go with his friends but I could not board.  I was worried for him but he seemed happy.  I found myself lost in an interminable terminal.  I was supposed to sing, but I didn't want to.  I called Cats on the phone but she was too busy to talk.  My feet began to bleed as I walked over gravel and sand.  No matter where I went, I needed to be somewhere else.  I trudged up and down the endless length of wide hallways carrying my heavy pack.  A tiny man asked to be held  up by his brother while proclaiming himself boss.  Girls laughed and flirted and teased.  I had a long way to go.

There is so much to do.  No matter what I do, there is still so much to do.  Anything I do takes time and time is always in short supply.  Taking time to release my tension seems like a terrible waste of time, for the tension will always return and I can't spend all my time battling tension.

Accepting my limitations seems to be the hardest part.  If only I had no limitation, then I could get things done.

Accepting the inherent paradoxes seems to be the first step.  Victory requires surrender.  A long journey begins with a single step.  To consider the journey as a whole invites failure.  We cannot reach infinity except through finite steps.

Constructive mathematicians do not accept the concept of infinity.  There are schisms in mathematics as serious as any religious division.

I am tired.  I am weary.  I could sleep for a thousand years.

Malinov
 

posted by: Malinov at 06:48 | link | comments (2) |

Desire

Each morning, I seem to be rising earlier and earlier, consciousness sparked into motion by my desires.   An eagerness to let my fingers drift over the keyboard like an improvisational pianist lifts me, teasing the chops of my personal melodies into the slow stillness of the blossoming day.  I've begun calmly wringing every moment from my days, without the intensity of rushed fears driving, but calmly setting forth to explore, discover and somehow accomplish a little bit more, a little bit more.

There is a gentle rhythm to the early hours of the day.  Thoughts seem larger, looming within the shadows, drawn gently as my focus waxes and wanes.  The struggle with myself has taken new proporitions in self-recognition, eased at once by the understanding that my battle is not one of will but of understanding.  Suppose our existence was based entirely on large-scale motion and I had been born with flippers instead of legs.  In the water, I could move like lightning but on land I was a beached merman.  Suppose most everyone had legs and the basic routes were hill and dale. 

It would be madness to imagine that I could run with the rest of humanity, ignoring the inherent disability of running without legs.  I might lament my physiology but would never dream that will-power would be able to lift me up and propel my footless form over miles of dry landscape.   Suppose that waterways were abundant and often inescapable and that as much as I struggled with the dry parts of our journey, the rest of humanity struggled to swim.  My value in water could more than compensate my inabilities on land.  Working wisely in cooperation with my life-companions, our journey would be joyfully simplified, life could reach new worlds.

Loving the water, I have cursed the land.  Yet my existence depends on navigating  both routes.  Energy spent berating my fate would be meaningless a sacrifice to a false and terrible god.  Denying my situation would leave me caught inching my way across a short mile.  Wisdom would insist that I use my advantages wherever I could and learn ways to cope with my disabilities. 

For over forty years, I have fought the impulsivity of my mind, cursing my seeming inability to cope with simple tasks, all the while joyfully exploiting the creativity that is part and parcel of my problem.  With understanding has come freedom.  The realization that my advantages are a bounty and my disadvantages are the reasonable price I pay provided a perspective that opens up new worlds to me.  ADD is not a disability but an adaptation, born of humanity's desperate struggle for survival.  We, the lucky few, are the blessed children of the super-volcano, the ice-age, starvation and the tiger.  We are the living incarnations of our greatest power - imagination.

 I spent a few hours yesterday morning studying the biochemistry and phsyiology of the neurotransmitters.   Cats' daily dosage of atomoxetine (Strattera) has been increased, leading us to wonder how this new medicine works.  ADD seems to be strongly related to dopamine and neoepinephrine - stimulants increase their production while atomoxetine inhibits the transporter responsible for their reuptake.  Aside from escaping general stimulation and the resulting amphetimine dependence, atomoxetine is not a dose-based med so it lasts all day, all night, in stereo (I want my MTV - you remember - it was this channel that just played music all the time - where have you gone Joe Dimaggio?)  

The sun has finally risen, offering the warm grey glow of a thickly clouded sky.  I'll stop a moment to yoga and partake of nourishment.  A Dios.

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 04:21 | link | comments (2) |
psychobabble, she blinded me with science

super volcano

Sixty thousand years ago, there was a transformation.  A super volcano erupted in Indonesia.  For 1000 years, the world felt the devestating effects of the eruption as the skies were blackened with dust.  Our species was reduced to (perhaps) less than two thousand.  An ice age followed the dark times.  Only the best of our people survived.  Natural selection mowed us down mercilessly - nay - divine grace saved a precious few bloodlines.   The archeological records show that this is when our imagination was truly born.

The collective consciousness of our races is forever concerned with all sorts of important things.  Thousands have died in single strokes over philosophical differences that at any other time boggle our minds.  Yet our existence hangs by a fragile thread.  At regular intervals through all of the living history of this planet, there have been periodic cataclysms, often reducing life on this planet to a few hardy species of bacteria and microbes.  It is a miracle that anything has survived at all, a hardiness that refuses to surrender, the tenacity of naturally selected self-replication.

Listening to musicians talk about music is a curious thing - rhythms slip into their voices as the inadequacy of their vocabulary is compensated by the lyrical quality of their speech.  Technical jargon mixes with words reflecting color, power and vague metaphorical attributions.  One musician proclaims his artistic bias in a heartfelt assurance that it is language that fails the translation, for he knows that music can express everything and more.  

Last year at the art festival, Cats and I purchased two paintings by Karen Scharer.  Revisiting her yesterday I was pleased to discover that, in my humble opinion, her paintings were soaring to entirely new levels.  No one compared.

                                                     

Do you have a sacred book - words that work in contemplation to act as a mirror upon your soul?  I am not someone who can limit his spiritual needs to a single volume, but there are certainly works that provide a path.  Four thousand years of writing have produced a litany of human wisdom.  Which ones speak to your soul?

I work in suggestion.  As I relax, time slows down. 

Passions burn like a widlfire across the plains, a wall of perpetual destruction and rebirth that ocassionally rises up to engulf everything we know.

I question the very essences of our understanding - even causality is a theory, an assumption we have learned to make and trust.  Descartes' Demon could very well be manufacturing the illusion of cause and effect out of pure malevolence.  Reduced to the atom of understanding, all I know is "I am."  Everything beyond our individual truth is merely enlightened guesswork.

People have lived and died in pursuit of and as a result of the myriad of conclusions can follow a bevy of individual assumptions we make.  Most of history happened when assumptions failed.  How ridiculous they were or are, to care so deeply about false ideas.  How ridiculous we are to think so.  Truth is the holy grail, pursued and never obtained.  Great things have been formed in the wake, as well as terrible things. 

I am a fool, for I know nothing
Yet I am wise among humanity, for I know that I know nothing

Confidence doesn't come from believing or faith.  Confidence comes from will.  "I do not know" is the limit of our knowledge.  "No matter what comes to pass, I will persevere."   In our attitude we find our strength.

The rest is scribbles and bibbles, bibbles and scribbles.  So saith the Mozart.

Pinker speaks truly - the alien secrets of our universe are incomprehensible.  We, strangely or not so strangely, tend to anthropomorphize.  Our ability to discover a human face in almost any visual image is profound.   Metaphors aside, I find reading human qualities in non-human aspects of reality rather childish.  Animals are not people.  Planets are not people.  Gods are not people.  To understand the inhuman we must realize the weakness of our humanized modelling.  Insight often comes from a generalized model of an unknown contrasted with a known.   Clinging to the model as the comparison diverges is a grave source of mistake and misunderstanding. 

Live, love, learn.

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 06:09 | link | comments (3) |
petting the cat, psychobabble, tales of passing time, she blinded me with science

feeling groovy

"People who hurry never arrive."  - Zen saying

"The only time a man should be in a hurry is when the cops are coming up the stairs" - Sky Masterson

"Slow down, you move too fast.  Got to make the morning last" - Simon & Garfunkel

"One of the great disadvantages of hurry is that it takes such a long time" - Chesterton

"Disorder is always in a hurry" - Napoleon

"Hurry never" - Channing

Malinov
kicking down the cobblestones
hanging around
feeling groovy

posted by: Malinov at 18:32 | link | comments |
petting the cat

faux hands

The cloudy skies cleared just long enough to let us visit the Cottonwood festival.  Few things can inspire like a few thousand diverse art pieces.  While we listened to some big woman bellow billiesh blues, a guy came over and asked me if I used to be in Ten Hands.  I had no idea of what he spoke.  "You look just like him," he explained.

Ten Hands, apparently, was a popular Dallas band that was around for ten years and broke up ten years ago.  I can't find any pictures, so I don't know who I look like.  Fascinating.

I've been thinking about Frazetta women - the wallpaper on my computer encourages that - the strong, voluptuous, curvacious fantasy ancients who are either enslaved or enslaving, but never surrendering.  The girl on my wallpaper has a whip and two giant tigers.  Beautiful plumage. 

Discussing the backsides of the basic Frazetta Queen, one commentator pointed out - the butt is undeniably big but there is muscle in that ass. 

I have a problem with women thinking that we, the males among us, generally prefer waifs.  I have nothing against undernourished girls, but I am strongly in favor of a well-fed litany of curves.  Beyond the specific lines of a woman, her attitude - her self-love - commands my attention.  Flesh is wonderful.  Even white boys have to shout ...

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 18:05 | link | comments |
tales of passing time

I am Hugh

~~~
"Oversimplify?  You accuse me of oversimplifying?  I NEVER oversimplify"
~~~
"I am Hugh."

"You are me?"

"I am Hugh."

"Stop saying that!  Make him stop saying that!"
~~~

After a windy comment on Jackal's blog, I sent a letter to my arch-rival, Hugh, offering sincere thanks and an apology.  No one deserves to bear the brunt of projected internal-conflicts.  Recognizing how much Hugh has helped me along my path to self-discovery leaves me substantially in his debt.  Gratis Hugh.  You played my shadow well.

Cats is feeling much better today.  Her illness, it appears, was not tequila induced but rather a reaction to some bad shrimp.  I don't imagine the tequila helped any, but it has been cleared of all charges.  The shrimp is being held for questioning.

I am nurturing guitarlust for a big hollow-body electric guitar - craving a chance to play with the big dirty sound of the Lennon-Setzer-Thurogood guitar.  My first electric guitar was of that type but I sold it when I was still a teen.  I have a cheap Stratocaster (with a whammy bar) and a beautiful Ibanez acoustic.  I don't play much, certainly not enough to warrant buying a new guitar, but if I had this particular new guitar, things would be different.  I'd play all day, all night, in stereo. 

Thank goodness I'm old enough to not believe my own bullshit.  I love the guitar, I love music and I love singing.  Somewhere back down the road, however, I accepted the sad fact that I could do everything poorly or I could do a few things well.  Time spent with my guitars is, unfortunately, time spent not writing.  I will pick up an instrument when I have the urge, but choices are required and I would usually rather write than eat.

Leonardo, they say, dabbled in everything and had trouble finishing anything.  Can you say ADD?  I knew you could.

Hopefully, we'll make it to the Cottonwood today, although the weather doesn't look inviting.  Texas weather, however, is continually unpredictable so looking outside at 9:30 is no indication of what's to come.  I hear the national weather service uses a magic 8-ball for their predictions.   Nothing but barbed wire stands between us, the north pole and the equator. 

I love Texas because the state has an attitude of independence.  Between the Baptists and the Mavericks, we certainly don't all like each other but there is a mutual respect that stands together like family.  I was born in Kansas, a place I truly love, but there is more whining than unity in the land of bread.  Farmers, in my experience, tend to compete with a "you think that's bad, I've had it worse," approach.  I spent fifteen years in DC, a sedimentary society with a great international quality and a lack of continuity that mars local cohesion.  In some ways, Dallas and DC are opposite ends of a spectrum, even though in other ways, they are almost indistinguishable.  Strange world.

I suggested to Hugh that I pay him a visit when I am in DC later this month.  He suggested that we play guitar together, a pastime we never shared in the past, with no knowledge of what I had written above.  Synchronicity happens. 

We watched a documentary on meteor impacts - a possibility that is very real, still largely unmonitored and with no plan in the works should we find the threat approaching.  A large rock could easily wipe out the human race, a fate the dinosaurs knew too well.  There are at least 200,000 asteroids with at least a half-mile diameter that cross our orbit.  We have identified only 60% of those stones.  Of the other 40%, we know absolutely nothing.  The genocidal impact that could arise from one of those rocks could come at any moment.  Unless we have at least three years warning, there isn't a damn thing we could do to save ourselves.  There are trillions of asteroids in our solar system.  There are also trillions of untracked comets, each moving at about 150,000 mph.   You are four times more likely to be struck by a meteorite than a bolt of lightning.

My father was struck by lightning last summer.   I think we need to start thinking seriously about the threat of an impact. 

Hollywood has led most of us to think the problem can be dealt with by using nuclear explosions.  That is completely untrue and any attempt to use nukes would make the situation worse.  Exploding a mountain doesn't vaporize the mountain - it makes a whole bunch of radioactive boulders.  The largest warhead ever exploded was 60 megatons.  It would take an explosion in excess of 1000 megatons to simply alter the course of a large asteroid.

So much for personal, local, national and international conflicts.  We have something real to worry about.

The we watched a show on alien abductions.  Having watched a few paranormal documentaries, I have identified the major problem I have with their experts.  "There is no other explanation, but the paranormal one,"  they invariably state.  Having a deliciously creative mind, I can say for certain that there is ALWAYS another possible explanation.  Once we recognize the full spectrum of possibilities, Occam's razor comes into play.

A scientist showed us an experiment where a magnetic field was applied to a subjects brain.  With the right frequencies and solenoid placement, they induced hallucinations in a young man that perfectly coincide with the standard alien abduction stories.  Fascinating, n'cest pas?

Being reasonably skeptical, I know the experiment can hide just as many flaws as any other explanation.  Scientists are as prone to mistakes and misrepresentations as any other class of people.  Occam's razor suggests that a phenomenon caused by an electrical field is much more probable than creating an alien race with advanced technology who mysteriously appear to perform bizarre medical experiments.  I don't pretend to know more than I do.  I tend to trust the simpler explanation, but complexity happens too.

My problem is the scientist - pseudo-scientist, perhaps - who says that the simple explanation is too far-fetched to consider and there is no possible explanation but the complex one.  We know very little about our minds - an organ so complex that we have only scratched the surface of understanding.  Furthermore, our minds control everything we think, feel, know, believe, see and do.  It isn't hard to imagine that our minds could do things we can't imagine.  It's certainly easier to believe that weirdness than to fabricate an entire super-intelligent species who manages to interact with a few individuals without leaving a trace of evidence that would prove their existence.  Occam's razor is a merciless and honest principle and more than most practical beliefs, I have great faith in its general truth.



Onward and Upward,

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 08:45 | link | comments (2) |
tales of passing time

homogenius

I was named for Michaelangelo's David.  Cats says it is because I look like the sculptured young man, although it would have taken a bit of prescience for my mother to know that.  My father wanted to name me Byron.  I imagine I could have used that to great advantage in college, heightening the effect of my byronic pose.  Of course, my anxiety kept me completely isolated as David, so I doubt it would have been any better as Byron.

Conversation leads to investigation and I soon discovered that both Leonardo da Vinci and Michaelangelo were gay.  Not just classically attracted to male companionship, but notorious great lovers of young men.  Michaelangelo's true love was 16 when he was 57 and he wrote over 300 poems to the youth, one of the largest cycles of man-to-man poetry before modern times.  Interesting stuff for the painters of the Last Supper and the Sistene Chapel.

I think the most interesting aspect of this revelation - I must admit I haven't thought much about the sexuality of renaissance painters - was that I had to go through six on-line biographies of Leonardo before anyone even mentioned his personal life.  I knew something was up when none of them said "was never married," or "had no kids."  They ignored the whole issue, as though the "greatest genius ever" had absolutely no sexuality.

Oscar Wilde was gay and they imprisoned him for it.  Weird world, n'cest pas?

Malinov
not gay, but very impressed by the geniuses that were
 

posted by: Malinov at 14:39 | link | comments |
petting the cat

empowered madness

Frazetta suffered from a thyroid problem when he was in his late 50s.  For eight years, they told him the devestating illness was psychosomatic.  On the brink of death, he received an injection that cured his problem.  As we might imagine, he says that he struggled hard with his anger at everyone around him for refusing to believe it was a physical condition.  He has had numerous strokes since and fought back from each disabling system failure.  His right hand became weak, so now he draws with his left hand.  The strength of his will is amazing.

Arrogance insists it knows when it doesn't know.  The Universe punishes hubris.  Just because you reach a conclusion doesn't mean you have the answer.

Cats has been sick since we finished a bottle of tequila last night.  We don't usually drink and consequences like this tend to make it even less inviting.  Someday, I suppose, someone will give me a good explanation of why alcohol is legal and maryjane is illegal.  Alcohol is so debilitating, even in modest doses.  The worst thing about weed is the effect on our lungs.

Of course, I must keep in mind that the effect of maryjane on someone with ADD is totally different than the effect it has on the rest of you.  For us, it makes linear thinking easier.  We are blessed with impulsive thinking and marijuana slows our thoughts to reduce the frequency of impulsive jumps.  Being without dope, for us, is something like being stoned is for the impulsively challenged.  The linears should all get stoned and experience the endless chaos of an uncontrollable mind.  Maybe we should make it illegal for them to be straight.  Grrrrr.

A straight ADD driver at least as dangerous as any tipsy or high driver.  We tend to always forget what we're doing.  Am I driving?  Where were we going, again?  What does this button do?

I always assumed that pot was used to self-medicate anxiety, but the anxiety it medicates is the anxiety created by ADD.  Reduce our impulsive thinking and reduce the anxiety of trying to manage in an overly-linear world.

Let me add that Maryjane, although effective, is a poor medicant for ADD.  If we liken our ADDled minds to a high-performance engine in a vehicle with inadequate steering or brakes, the dope could be said to thicken our oil, slowing down the engine to give us some measure of control.  A better answer is to improve our controls so that we can take advantage of the raw power of our engine.    The stimulants (adderol, ritalin, etc.)  increase the effectiveness of our controls by reducing the tendency to impulsiveness.  We get our best results by ingraining our minds with coping techniques - improving the response to our inadequate controls by learning to lean into turns.  If only schools would abandon their linear prejudices and began teaching the brilliantly ADD children how to cope with their creative, impulsive powers.   The world will never be the same once we can effectively and consistently tap our incrediblely creative resources.

Linearity is for squares!  ADD rules!

Malinov
spokesman for the creatively gifted

posted by: Malinov at 12:15 | link | comments |
psychobabble

Wildely

"If I can't be famous, I'll be notorious"

One of the turning points in Frazetta's career was a period when he did artwork for movie posters, in a style that looks strikingly like the drawings of Mad magazine, where two of his boyhood friends (from an art school) spent much of their careers.  Life is full of synchronicity. 

Last Monday evening, Cats and I watched the "SNL Best of Chris Farley" DVD.  "You'll have plenty of time to roll doobies, living in a van, down by the river."  Tuesday morning in the court, the Judge includes as punctuation to some remark for a whining litigant "when I was living in a van, down by the river."  The foolishness of nearly everyone in court was shocking.  I turned to my attorney, the wonderful Paulette, and asked "is everyone who goes to court this ridiculous?"  "Absolutely," she replied, "and in a moment, we're going to participate in a discussion just as silly."  She was not wrong as our erstwhile opponents said things that could only irritate the Judge.  We said nothing at all.  We didn't need to.  After four minutes of foolishness, the Judge told them sternly to go away.

Neither I nor my siblings ever pursued graphic art in any way, despite the constant presence of our mother's pursuit.  Our informal training in aesthetics and art history, however, impacted our lives substantially.  Frazetta noted with some sadness that none of his children were interested in pursuing graphic art, not even Frank, Jr. who seemed to have inheirited his prodigy  abilities.  His grandchildren, however, are both able and interested.  The future will be filled with new creations.

This weekend is the Cottonwood Art Festival in Richardson, Texas.  I always enjoy the opportunity to hang about with artists.  See you there.

Malinov
while watching a documentary on Oscar Wilde





 

posted by: Malinov at 09:59 | link | comments |
petting the cat

admiring frank

Cats and I caught "Frazetta - Painting with Fire" on IFC last night. 

Frazetta Web Site

In the late seventies, I spent inordinate amounts of time in the science fiction section of my local bookstores. The magnificent cover illustrations of Frazetta became deeply ingrained elements in my personal mythology.  I don't remember a time when I wasn't aware of his work.  Naturally, the voluptuous, barely clad women that frequent his art drew me deep into his perspective, infecting my developing vision with an erotic intensity, such that my world is necessarily colored by his.  His influence on my generation and every generation since is incalculable.  George Lucas clearly drew heavily from Frazetta - Leia with Jabba in RotJ is pure Frazetta, an imitation that suceeds in capturing the style even beyond the ones deliberately fashioned for Conan.  As they pointed out in the film, even artists who don't know the name have been strongly influenced by his work.  Frazetta is the Picasso of modern fantasy art.

At the end of the film, they considered his place in the pantheon of Great Art.  The Frazettians have no doubts, but they took statements from a few serious artists, art critics and art historians who said (and I paraphrase) "Bah - illustration is not art."

Living in DC in the mid-eighties, I remember a news program interviewing some middle-aged gentleman who said "Rap is not music."

Then and now, my immediate response was "who died and made you Pope?"  Nothing is more arbitrarily draconian than definition.  "A word means what I want it to mean, neither more or less," says Humpty Dumpty. 

Some of the problem arises from the jargon for translation.  "Talking about music is like dancing about architecture."  Critics and historians are charged with the task of describing works done in other mediums.  In order to accomplish this difficult aspect of their task, they must necessarily define their terminology carefully and use them consistently - instilling words with meanings that they don't have in ordinary usage.  More than most, the translative arts require lexicography. 

When I don my patent hat, for example, I use the word "invention" in a way that is charged with legal definitions that have nothing to do with common usage of the word.  Speaking with another patent attorney, I can use this word to efficiently transfer specific knowledge.  Speaking with a layperson, however, my subtle meanings are completely lost.  When the layperson uses the word, I must be careful not to assume the specific meanings are intended. 

Now, the important thing here is to recognize that neither the patent attorney nor the layperson controls the definition - language is an organic phenomenon.  As Einstein would remind us, there is no preferred position in the Universe, no great god of language to set meanings into stone for all to obey.  Perhaps, I'm sure my control-freak friends will suggest, there should be.  But there isn't and should such a deity rise up, count on me to lead the revolution.  Creativity is born of confusion and I'll be damned before I let anything force order on the wonders of chaos.  But I digress.

One of the art historians dictated "art necessarily reflects society, so fantasy illustration cannot be art."  For his purposes, this definition is fine and dandy.  His audience hopefully knows what he means by the word "art" and understands him accordingly.  For me, a work that arises purely from the imagination is more clearly art than a representation of a physical object would be.  "Imagination is more important than knowledge."  (Say the word "Einstein" around my children and they'll recite this aphorism - one of the first things I taught them)

I am liberal in defining terms like "art."  I would use something like "art is expression," perhaps clarified better by "all expression contains art," and finally "art is sex."  I don't have a technical purpose when I use the word, so I don't need to be more specific.

Part of our discussion of "The Company" reflected on the first dance piece performed by the Joffre.  Dancers held streamers between them, creating geometric lines that formed and reformed shapes as they moved.  It was visually powerful, but I immediately questioned - is this dance?  In a classical sense of the term, probably not, but the classical era lost ascendency when the last century ended.  Even a modern dance afficiando might exclude such a performance from dance. 

I might define dance as "a visual art involving the motion of a person and music."  But the real question is, why do I feel it necessary to define "dance?"  If I am scheduling a dance recital, selecting nominees for an award, selecting pieces for a collection, teaching a class, performing any task where some things are included and others are excluded, a definition (as set forth or simply understood) is necessary.  Discussion may be facilitated by definition, but allows for a more organic use, shifting definitions as seems useful. 

The ability to easily manipulate photographic images will surely raise a similar debate in years to come.  My mother, the painter, once told me that Andy Warhol was not an artist.  Then and now, I understood what she meant.  But unless there is a special heaven for "artists only," I doubt that Andy cares.  He created and that is far more rewarding than any title.

The real question raised by the art analysis is endurance.  How important will Frazetta's contribution to art be considered in three hundred years?  A forgotten artist is not much of an artist, as the world turns.  I think the answer is clear - his vast influence assures his place in the pantheon.  The critic and historian disagree.  Lay your money down and carry on.  Chances are good that we - you and I and them - will never know the answer. 

To me, Larry Linville (Frank Burns) was the best part of the television show M*A*S*H.  I read that he died a few years ago.  So it goes.

Enjoy,

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 06:14 | link | comments |
petting the cat

riding wild

My brother's movie poster company won best of show last night for their poster, universal's Ray.

Movie Poster Awards



It's fun having a rich and talented brother.  Of course, I taught him everything I know.

I received a certified letter from the children's therapist today, threatening to have the kids taken from the eX if she doesn't get a grip.  God willing, that should be the final nail in her self-made coffin.  With the kids therapist strongly recommending I have custody and a hard-ass judge who doesn't forget "stupid lawyers," I imagine our next trip to court will be rather definitive.  I never thought it would come to this, but I seem to have built my whole life on underestimating the woman's insanity. 

Live, learn and love.  That's my motto.  One of my mottos anyway.  "I didn't get rich writing checks."  "Everything counts."  "Sapere Aude."  "Power belongs to those who dare."  "All warfare is based on deception."  "The only time a man should be in a hurry is when the cops are coming up the stairs."  "I have only words to play with."

So I cut the lawn and then edged it.  Whew.  Nothing quite like Texas heat.

Malinov
feeling groovy

posted by: Malinov at 14:50 | link | comments (2) |
tales of passing time

envy

Sam Shepard has always filled me with envy.  Now there are any number of reasons for a mortal man to envy Sam for he has enjoyed successes in several artisitic fields as well as Patti Smith, Jessica Lange and all that jazz.

However, my envy is completely literary.  Mostly completely, anyway.  The incredible simplicity of his words mangle my spirit, for with a casual ease that can only frustrate me, he weaves complex tapestries of incredible feeling with slaps and dashes of mundane language.  Sam uses none of Nabakovian flourishes that typify most high-literature, but still manages to soar to the furthest reaches of artistic heaven.  Just these few sentences of mine make it clear why I can only envy the playwright.  My word skills are over-developed and hence grossly under-developed in the Shepardian word ways.  Can I learn, through practice, to write with a style that has the genuine (unpracticed) qualities of human interaction?

Cats and I raised similar questions during our viewing of Neve Campbell's "Company."  Picasso, before he became the great modernist, studied drawing and painting, understood the elements of classical design, composition and realisms.  The skills he acquired in his development are evident in his abstractions, providing substance in his paintings that gave us something to cling to as he violently shifted our perspectives. 

Pollack, on the other hand, had little training in the graphic arts and made his reputation as a great artist by flinging house paint onto canvas.  Sounds easy enough - I have some house paint and am trained in the art of framing canvas (my madre is a painter) so let me fling a few million dollar masterpieces.  My hubris is easily squelched with a look at some of Pollack's powerful works.  Flinging paint is easy, but one look at a painting like "Lucifer" and my soul is torn asunder.  Pollack may not have been flinging classical skills, but he certainly had skills.  Can any amount of classical training bring us the skill it takes to fling art?

I'm full of questions and other questionable things.  Answers are, as always, in short supply.

Is modern dance improved by classical training?  "Can be," is the only real answer.  Is classical dance improved by development of modern styles?  Probably more so than in some of the other arts.

I don't believe in talent, but I do believe in gifts.  When I am introduced to a young (experience-wise) writer, I can usually tell right away if they are gifted.  Not because they know how to spell or where to place a proper comma.  Fuck grammar.  The gift I look for is a natural ability to open up and express genuine emotion with words.  Skill can be learned with enough writing.   The ability to tap a vein, however, is not so easily achieved.  Fearless passion flows from a gifted writer - often because the rest of life has restrained open expression.  My greatest concern, in finding such a writer, is the tendency of the world to carelessly push the word-fount closed.  Someone who writes because all other mediums of expression have been closed is too easily intimidated, tiny bits of cruel force sufficient to shut everything down.  This is where criticism - any and all criticism, even the slightest bit of negativity - can be damning.  Early expressions by the sensitive must be encouraged and cared for, like the first reach of a new born sprout, too easily torn from life but once nurtured growing into a world saving harvest.

Malinov
envious but joyful

posted by: Malinov at 06:32 | link | comments |
petting the cat

light fantastic

At six, we picked up the kids for our weekly dinner together.  Excited anticipation rippled through everyone as they piled into the car, several notches above the usual delight.  The boys are typically eager to see me and perfectly unashamed to let it show.  I could easily sense that my daughter wanted me to know that the ordeal in the courthouse was never meant to be an attack, but only resulted from a push for her to tell the truth.  I didn't give even the slightest nod to the ridiculous event, pretending as though it had never happened at all.  Between she and I, this is true.  I would be an idiot to let my battles with the eX to come between me and my daughter, and even more of a fool to make her feel she has to choose sides.  She is a child, albeit a rapidly maturing one, and I am her parent.  Nothing she could ever do, much less anything her silly mother could push her to do, brings even the slightest tarnish to my infinite love for her.  Most of all, I have absolutely no fear of the truth, for I acknowledge and know I am responsible for all of my many sins.  Others will twist the truth, distort and exaggerate to portray me in a foul light - nothing I can do or say will ever change the thoughts and feelings of those who would demonize me.  If I remain steady, strong and honest, they cannot hurt me.  My daughter, in particular, will judge me by my actions, not by the accusations and wild tales. 

Of course, there is always the temptation to explain things to my daughter, to point out the ways I've been wronged, to show her the fallacies in the false accusations, to provide her with the facts that discredit her mother's version of reality.  Nothing I've ever done would be a bigger mistake than to set the child up as my judge, or to maliciously tear at her image of the only mother she will ever have.   I don't need her support - she needs mine.  Even when she has believed the worst about me, I held my course steady, knowing that time would calm the storm.  The love I must provide has to rise above and beyond these petty dramas.  She needs a father and I must fulfill my role for her.  Again, nothing she can do, nothing anyone can say or do, will ever tarnish my love for her.  She must feel from me that unconditional love means exactly that - without any condition at all.   If her mother is behaving in a less than ideal fashion, the girl needs to feel my strength even more.  She has had plenty of opportunity to see my all-too-human failings.  None of it matters when it comes to the love I have for my kids.

So, we had a blast together - ate some chicken, watched some Simpsons.  The boys and I quickly rejoined our game of Heroscape in progress, while we all looked over the list of dogs up for adoption.   Matthew asked if he could take the game home, so he could play a game with his mother.  I sensed the trap the eX was trying to create, as I had begun hounding her about the fact that the kids rarely bring back the things they take to her house.  Actually, I have always taken the position that anything I give the children belongs to them - they may take them back or forth as they please.  It will be two weeks until I see the kids again, except for dinner next Thursday, so I copped a Jesus attitude at Matthew's request - he asked for the cloak so I gave him my coat as well.  His mother hoped I would begin enforcing my hounding threats by denying Matthew, drawing him into our battle with pettiness.  But again, if the boy does me wrong, my love will not falter.  I would rather be wronged by my son than make him feel that my squabbles with his mother are more important to me than he is.

I started a documentary on the Battle of Britain, pulling Greg (the Prussian) out of our fantasy battle and into the valiant skies.  Greg would never go back to his mother's, given a choice.  He asked to stay the night and I told him he was always welcome.  He called his mother - who had teased him with the possibility, probably hoping I would decline - and she denied him.   Our time will come, my son. 

Two hours, including a half-hour of driving to and fro, slips away in seconds.  Tess gave me a hug as we parted, a very meaningful gesture as I am not a very physical person so this type of demonstration is rather rare.  She also shows a developing warmth toward Cats, whom she detested sorely some six months ago.  It is difficult to maintain a hatred toward someone who provides undemanding support and affection.  Cats plays the step-mother role beautifully, asking nothing from the kids and giving everything to them.  For sheer maturity, I could not ask more from a woman. 

I told Cats not long ago that her maturity far outstrips not only her age, but her experience.  She has a natural instict, it seems, for doing the wise thing.  She grew up surrounded by lunatics and idiots, but with the help of her benevolent great-aunt and great-uncle, she used the bizarre and sad world around her as a means to grow.  There are still wounds that haven't healed and old pains that haunt her, but Cats is a survivor.  The Universe was caring deeply for me the day she came my way.  I could not craft a better partner.

We watched Altman's "Company" again last night, leading us to a long discussion of the language of modern dance, modern literature and modern art in general.  Drawing from my understanding of literature, I quizzed my ballerina for an understanding of where dance meets my artistic desires.    I disdain pantomime in dance - playing roles with stereotypical expressions, hands clutched to the heart to show love and that sort of rot.  I can't abide with technical flourishes drawn to amaze and delight.  If an audience applauds during the performance, for me, the dance has failed miserably.  We should never ever ever be aware of the skills of a performer - not because they aren't there, but because we should be so wrapped up in the emotional journey they create that we hardly even know the dancers are dancing.   Journey - I expect any and every piece of art to transform me, or it is not art.  Conflict and resolution is the only canvas I recognize. 

I love dance dearly but honestly I have seen few performances that reach the heights I demand from great art.  Of course, Sturgeon's law (most of everything is crap) applies to dance as much as anything else.   Knowing where to look is a big step toward finding what I want.  The performances in "Company" provide a fantastic selection of visually, emotionally powerful pieces.  The film, apart from the dance -art, has its own artistic achievement.  I recommend the video highly, although it probably isn't for everyone.  Malcolm McDowell is incredible, exchanging the ultra-violent for ultra-visionary.

back for another day,

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 05:30 | link | comments |
tales of passing time

Loving Anais

We don’t see things as they are,
  we see them as we are.
            - Anais Nin

(shamelessly lifted from jackman's blog - imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, n'cest pas?)

I have loved Anais so much that I had to stop reading her diaries because they made me jealous. I don't care much for her writing - with a few exceptions - but as a woman . . . sigh.

Henry Miller is one of the writers I enjoy reading most. Above all else, he inspires me to write and write and write.

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 13:07 | link | comments (2) |
petting the cat

a BLEEP too far

As magnificent as BLEEP is, at least two segments of the film are based on bunk.  This makes me sad.

The beautifully photographed molecular response of water to writing words on H20 containers is cool but definitely not based on anything close to what we call science.  No data, no controls, no reproducibility, no peer review.  Worst of all, the credentials given in the film for this bit are incorrect and misleading.  Don't pretend to be doing science when you're not, people.  Knowledge is serious business.

Secondly, there are written accounts of the approach of Columbus' ships from the Natives that completely contradict the facts given in support of the "can't see what you don't know" theory presented.  Certainly, the natives couldn't recognize sailing ships as such, but they saw the approaching vessels and called them "moving mountains," "towers," and "trees."  The first natives saw the vessels and sent a report to the village.  More natives went to confirm the strange sighting.  Finally, the king himself went to check it out.  Since no evidence is given by the filmmakers to contradict this timely account of the incident, we can only conclude that it represents wishful thinking on the part of the makers.

Such foolishness brings everything the wonderful film says into doubt.   Please don't try to "pretty-up" science with outlandish  tales.  They do more harm than good.

Malinov
back off man, I'm a scientist
 

posted by: Malinov at 07:14 | link | comments (1) |
she blinded me with science

cruising the galaxy

Exhaustion finally hit me hard.  I passed my hair follicle test, which came as no surprise but the sense of relief that came with the news passed through me like a cool wave on a blistering hot day.  The fact that the enemy is remarkably stuuupid doesn't make them less dangerous.  A foolish opponent can be more dangerous in many ways than a clever one, especially when their idiocy tempts us to let our guard down.  Never again will I turn my back on the danger she poses to me.  Hold steady and let her dash herself against the rocks in madness.  Whew.

Now I can watch the fireworks at a safe distance, as she learns, once more, that her assumptions are wrong.  The eX is absolutely positive that my drug test will come back positive.  She knows me, she says, knows I'm an addict, is certain I've only pretended to get help.  After fifteen years, she says, "I know you."  Funny, but after fifteen years it seems I hardly know her at all.  I'm learning.

She'll lose her shit when she finds out she's wrong.

She's developed a severe case of projection, casting me in a demon's role, a living embodiment of everything that she fears in herself.  We shared a great madness together, she and I.  When things hit rock bottom, she became enraged and found her relief in fixing blame on me.  I found relief in fixing blame on myself.  She sought help to prove that everything was my fault.  I decided that everything I suffered from was, indeed, my fault.  Once she fixed blame on me, she was done getting help and transferred her rage into a quest for vengeance.  Once I fixed blame on myself, I began to pull myself back together.

I am strong because I recognize that I am responsible for everything I've done, everything that has happened, for every choice I have made.  Accepting responsibility for choices, decisions and actions is the only course to freedom.  Conversely, sadly even, my strength is weakening hers.  

In humility and kindness, I am collecting allies by the dozens.  In her rampant hostility, she is alienating virtually everyone.  I know that she knows better - we spent years playing Diplomacy together and if that marvelous game teaches us anything, it teaches that we can never afford enemies and we can never afford to burn bridges.  She's living out a scorched earth strategy.   Her constant selfish attitude and hostile outbursts push people who wouldn't otherwise care into my arms, offering their help against the madwoman of Plano.

Things have become worse and worse for her.  I did my best for several years after our relationship broke, without any sensible reason, to help her get on her feet, but she takes without giving and is prone to biting any hand held out to her.  Everyone called me a damn fool as I let myself get bit again and again and I knew they were right, but my heart could not let me stand by and watch as someone I loved destroyed themselves.  Finally, I realized that she would destroy me, that she had become determined to destroy me.  For the sake of the children, I had to stop trying to help.  They need me to stand up to her.  They need their father all that much more if their mother is bent on self-destruction.  I wish her no harm, ultimately, but it is not my place to help her.  Che sera.

We shared an incredible madness together, a cruel destructive cycle of mutual disintegration.  I love her - even now - but we can only harm each other.

The best mate, I have decided, is one you can enjoy fighting with - not fighting against, but alongside.  Life is a constant struggle on every level and the ugly truth is that we cannot ignore the struggles for even a moment.  If your partner can help you with your struggles as you help them in theirs, if you enjoy battling shoulder to shoulder, back to back, in concert united, the relationship will endure beyond forever.  This is the magic that every couple needs to share - an alliance that smiles as the world brings on the worst, knowing perhaps that defeat is ultimately inevitable but feeling the endless joy of working together to combat the forces of evil, destiny and disintegration.

If struggle tends to tear the relationship apart, the fabric will eventually rip, for the struggles of life only multiply.  We cannot win by conquering for there is always another struggle waiting in the wings.  We win by accepting the constant struggles, by learning to enjoy the struggles and to be happy despite the struggles.   Demanding life's riddles be solved before we are happy is a recipe for perpetual unhappiness.

As one of the Holy Grail experts said repeatedly, the quest is not about the goal, it is about the quest.  We can never really reach the Grail because the Grail is not a thing but an ideal.  The truth comes from giving everything we have to the search.

My favorite Grail solution, simply because of the plausibility, is that the Grail of legend is the Holy Chalice of Antioch - not the actual cup used in the Last Supper but a beautiful silver cup commissioned in the first century AD to commemorate the Last Supper.  Interestingly, the Chalice is in storage at the Museum of Art in NYC, consigned to hide because it is too controversial to actually show.  So it goes.

Insurance costs prevent many great works from being shown.  What a strange world.

One of the best books I've ever found on relationships is "How to be an Adult in Relationships" by David Richo.  When Cats gave a copy to her eX, he returned it, declaring it unreadable.  No surprises there.  The prospect of becoming an adult is strangely terrifying to many people. 

One of life's greatest truths - you can't help anyone who doesn't want to help themselves.

Onward & Upward,

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 04:30 | link | comments (2) |
tales of passing time

writer's block

Avoiding writing in front of people is called scriptophobia.  I'm reading a volume of papers (Anxiety & Stress Disorders) and the paper on social phobia discusses scriptophobia as a form of social phobia.

Phobia is not defined by fear but by avoidance.  It is natural to have fears about anything that is potentially harmful to us.  Fear is not a problem until it affects our actions, particularly by causing us to avoid things or situations that rationally lack any potential for real (tiger bite) harm. 

For example, when we encounter a black widow spider, the wise, rational course is to avoid the little monster.  The potential for fatal harm is real and virtually any risk we take in approaching such a creature is unreasonable.  If we encounter a brown (non-poisonous) spider, our understanding of the potential danger some spiders pose could send a jolt of fear through anyone.  However, when we change our behavior because of this fear, even after we rationally know that the risk of danger is small or otherwise acceptable, we have achieved arachnophobia. 

It is a good idea to learn to recognize and begin combatting our phobias, because they have a tendency to snowball.  The more we avoid something, the easier it is to project horrible qualities onto it, because we never get the chance to develop positive experiences in relation to that something.

Anxious people have a tendency to over-value negative experiences and under-value positive experiences.  (When I fail it is because I'm a loser.  When I succeed, I just got lucky or I narrowly avoided danger) 

But onto the issue at hand, lest you think I am avoiding it.  (it's a joke son.  I keep a pitchin' 'em and you keep a missing 'em)

I have spent fifteen years participating in various on-line writing groups.  Yeah, I'm an Internet dinosaur.  I was blogging in '93.  Praise me!  Praise me! 

I long ago learned to despise the concept of "Writer's Block."  To me, the words represent an excuse to stop writing and start complaining.  (fx: whining voice) I can't write because I have writer's block. (/fx)

"Sit down at the computer," I would advise, "and press the T.  Now press the H key and the E key.  See, you can write just fine."  Writing is mechanically easy.  The problem is clearly psychological.  Writing and not writing is a choice.  We can't always write well, but writing badly has never been difficult and writing badly is usually the first step in writing well.  What I recognize now is that writer's block is a phobia.  "I am avoiding writing because I'm afraid."

Writer's block has absolutely nothing to do with our writing ability or writing skills.  The refusal to is a symptom of a fear that has grown out of proportion to the actual risks.

Psychological problems are as real as anything else.  Our minds are complex devices and they can easily misfunction.  You can't just be tough and get over it.  Will is a force of limited power, no matter what anyone says.  For an ADD person, our brains are wired so that focussing our will increases the tendency to impulsive thinking.  The harder we try, the less able to concentrate we become.  To get past a phobia, we need to find and treat the root of the problem if we want to alleviate the symptoms.

A friend of mine, as she approached the crash and burn stage of anxiety, just before she finally got some real help, would speak of her phobias as though they were a part of her body.  "You know I can't do that.  That's one of my phobias."  Empowerment through illness - I have a phobia, so we'll have to do things my way. 

Aside from learning relaxation and working on cognitive restructuring, phobias respond best to graduated exposure.  If you suffer from the agonies of "Writer's Block," challenge yourself to write one sentence.  Tomorrow, write two sentences.  Ease yourself into the water and be generous in recognizing your successes.  Often we chastise ourselves for not accomplishing more.  That is stuuupid.  Every accomplishment is an achievement, no matter how small. 

Expectations are our enemy.  Never fall into the pattern of destroying good things because they aren't as good as you expected.

Finally, never allow yourself to speak of suffering from writer's block.  The acknowledgement gives it strength, turns the shadow into a lurking monster.  Life is hard enough without empowering imaginary monsters.

Excuses are like assholes - eveyone's got one and all of them stink.

Enjoy,

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 06:08 | link | comments (2) |
psychobabble

tears

Didn't someone once say

"No matter how weird it seems, it is weirder."

On the course of taking my boys to their appointments, I had a call from their therapist, the next stop on my agenda.  She was crying so hard I assumed someone had died.  She told me she couldn't see my son today and I assured her there was no problem.  She could hardly speak, she sobbed so hard.  "The reason I do this job," she managed to say, "is because I'm sensitive."

She had called my daughter to talk and my eX had ferociously attacked her.  Now, let me point out that my eX chose this wonderful woman to be the children's therapist and the eX's therapist is her partner.  I hardly know her, although I quickly developed a deep seated respect for her abilities and her warm heart.  Ferocious verbal attack.  I comforted the therapist for a while.

Then my attorney calls to tell me that the eX demanded I take a drug test right now,  while I am with the boys celebrating my son's birthday.  We offered her a clean drug test this morning when we met in court.  Insane, cruel madness.

The past two years have taught me one certain thing.  The best revenge is living well.  If I were drawn into her stupid battles, I would spend my life at war, accomplishing nothing but destruction. 

Crazy, man.  What a long, strange trip it's been.

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 20:06 | link | comments |
tales of passing time

full spectrum

One of the best things that has happened in the course of my divorce has been discovering some brilliant, kind and sensible people.  My attorney, my therapist, the kids' therapist, the judge, the drug-testing guy - are all incredible human beings.  I am incredibly lucky to know them and always look forward to talking to them, although most of them make me pay for the privilidge.

At the same time, my eX, her boyfriend and her lawyer have proved to be so messed up, irrational and clueless that I simply can't believe they even belong to the same species as the others.  After the judge gave them holy hell about dragging my daughter into court to testify about things and in ways he would be strictly forbidden to hear, the eX argued with her attorney for two hours, refusing to believe that they couldn't get her testimony entered.  Thinking has never been her strong suit, but jeesh.

The poor girl's testimony is that I'm treating the boys with suggestion therapy - with their therapists blessing - and that I have a file (which I have never played for the kids and that she filched from my bedroom) that gives positive suggestions about sex.  Sex is good.  Sex is fun.  Relax and enjoy sex.  Oooh, am I bad, or what?  The eX's attorney told the judge that I am obviously grooming my daughter for a sexual relationship with me by trying to brainwash her.  Wow.  The madness knows no bounds. 

I have never even offered any suggestion therapy for Tess.  She has to trust me completely before she'd get anything positive out of such an offering.

Fortunately, my strategy will be simple - continue being the best person and best parent I can be and let God sort out the rest.  My only vulnerabilities are the ones I make for myself.  Patience and the crazy lady will destroy herself.  With the help of my attorney, the judge and the kids' therapist, of course.  The Lord works in mysterious ways.

I was supposed to take the boys to therapy and then celebrate Greg's birthday with them.  The eX told me I couldn't take them to therapy because she wanted to celebrate the birthday too - which I can understand but she didn't tell me so I could rearrange the appointments.  So I surrendered our celebration so the boys can still go to therapy - they are falling apart at the seams.  Isn't she wild?  She insisted I put our arrangement in writing.  I guess she wants to collect proof that I'm a good parent and she's a loony.  Just a theory, but it's the only one I can think up for now.  Oh, well.  Che sera.

Enjoy,

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 12:11 | link | comments |
tales of passing time

GregorMeister MeisterGregor

Happy Greg's Birthday.  My intense, brilliant, devilishly handsome and joyous boy has reached the mighty age of twelve.  Given his incredible fearless nature, it is a miracle he has survived so long.  May his good fortune continue for dozens of dozens of years.

I owe much to my son, for through getting to know him, I have learned worlds about myself.

It will be a busy day, although a quick court appearance will free up some time.  I will be very surprised if the eX dares enter the courtroom and even more surprised if her attorney does.  He has to be concerned about the fix she's put him in, convincing him to file such an outlandish document.  It's his own fault for signing the thing.  I imagine he will read the next one BEFORE he signs it.

What do a chicken dinner and a well-tanned woman have in common?

The white meat is the best part. ;)

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 05:06 | link | comments (1) |
tales of passing time

lying in a fool's bed

No one else is to blame - I made my own bed.  Never marry a dummy, my boy said, unwittingly advising himself out of existence.  Tomorrow she's dragging me to court.  My lovely attorney walked into the conference room and sat down.  "I have a theory," she said.  "The woman's a bitch."

I am accused of nothing substantial, but she asks the judge to throw me in jail.  If she were a layperson, her litany of errors would be understandable, but the eX is a lawyer.  Not only that, but a lawyer trying to establish herself as a reputable lawyer in these self-same courts.  Her complaint is, all by itself, sanctionable.  It is unconstitutional to jail a person in Texas for failure to pay debts.  Our judge is a hard, serious judge.  He told her that he didn't want any more of this crap in his courtroom, but she apparently forgot to listen.  So I get to waste a morning in court, hopefully watching her get what is coming to her.

Paulette says she believes I'll get full custody of the children in thirty days.  Music to my ears.

It is amazing to consider how much I have grown over the last year.  I was such a mess.  I feel much better now.  Sometimes the worst things have to happen for us to grow.  From the ashes of disaster grow the roses of success. 

Even so, I am amazingly tense. 

Dropping by the used bookstore, one of my places of worship, I picked up two hardback Pinkers - Mind Works and Blank Slate.  Muse is Wednesday at the Gypsy Tea Room.  Tim's advice is definitely being put the test, although after BLEEP, I'm ready to trust him completely.  C'mon - Tim introduced me to Genesis, so many years ago.

We watched docs on Vietnam prisoners, Holy Grails and the best of Chris Farley.  Hmm, Hmm, HAHAHA!

Malinov
with plenty of time for blogging, living in a van, down by the river

posted by: Malinov at 22:23 | link | comments (2) |
tales of passing time

Petting the Cat

I once knew a fellow fiction writer whose signature read:

"There is nothing more important than petting the cat."

Now I always thought that this meant he was a feline fanatic, and he probably was, but the other day I realized that there is more to this slogan than affection for his pet.

Petting the cat is a very simple way to give joy to another creature.  The process is reasonably simple, exceedingly cheap and maybe even selfless, providing us with little reward aside from the pleasure we give to our furry friend.  At the same time, there is something remarkably soothing about stroking a kitty.  Never done in a hurry, at least not very well, we slow ourselves down for a moment to give a little bit.

Perhaps the message isn't that petting the cat is so important.  In the grand scheme of things, it is difficult to assert petting is an important thing.  Nay, it isn't that petting is important but simply that nothing else is more important.

Other things are important, no doubt.  But they aren't more important than a simple act of gentle kindness and connection.  The mistake we make - the mistake I make - is aggrandizing the importance of all the things we do or don't do or should do or shouldn't do or . . . you get the picture.  We lose perspective all too easily.  Selflessly giving someone else a moment of joy - there is the height of importance.  Many other things may be very, very important.  But not so important - they never rise up to be MORE important than petting the cat.

Bravo, mon frere.  Bravo.

Figaro is a strange and delightful cat.  He likes to drink from the faucet in the sink.  He loves to lay in wait to take a swipe at passing feet, playfully provoking a game of tag.  I stroke his soft tabby-orange fur.  Nothing is more important than that.

Late last night, having relocated from the apartment to the house (hopefully one of the last times we'll do that) Cats and I watched a doc about "The Lost Pharaoh" on the TiVo.  A French dude dug in the sand and told us wild stories from the hieroglyphs that seemed to come from "All my Ancient Egyptian Children."  As the show approached climax, we saw the Frenchman (obviously a bitter rival of Indiana Jones) crumble in disappointment when he discovered that enemies of the dead Pharaoh had desecrated the tomb and erased (cut away large stones) many details about the controversial (at the time, anyway) king.  History happens, doncha know. 

What struck me was the crushing blow of lost expectations.  The archeologist clearly had hopes and dreams about what he would find in the tombs.  When he didn't find what he thought he would find, he lost sight of the wonders he had discovered.  Marvelous and incredible bits of history that had never been known before meant nothing to him (at that moment) compared to the fantastic things he didn't find.  I felt sorry for the little guy.  However, he had also discovered another set of ruins close by.  "He hopes to find dozens, maybe hundreds of . . . " 

Stop hoping, dude, and just dig.  Expectations can become our worst enemy.

Malinov
ready to enjoy another beautiful, bountiful day

posted by: Malinov at 04:54 | link | comments |
psychobabble

Ode to Anxiety

When I think about my mistakes
I feel myself grow sad
And that's the way it should be
Can't avoid mistaking
Every reason to be sad
But once the feeling passes
The errors melt away
The feeling of forgiveness
Begins within ourselves

The world is always difficult
The poor always among us
Poor of money, poor of spirit
Bereft of all we need

And yet, forever yet
Love transcends this earth

The dirt that forms our bodies
Lives and dies in pain
The soul our God provided
An  illuminating flame

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 21:51 | link | comments |

Tory Joins the Pack

Tory - the newest member of the Malinov pack.  Tess couldn't resist her softness and cuteness.  Please daddy?  Cats offered no resistence, falling quickly in love with the little mutt.  As the Frenchman said when Bismark came calling - I surrender.  What chance do I stand against beautiful women?

Let's see, that makes 5 dogs, 2 cats, 2 ferrets, a veiled chameleon, two mice and a wide assortment of fishes.   Badgers?  We don't need no stinking badgers!

Next weekend will be especially fun when cousin Sadie (aka Clifford the Giant Golden Puppy) comes to visit while sister Lisa goes camping with her boys.  Sadie is a golden retriever, almost a year old and simply huge.  And still growing.

I think we're going to look for a house in Frisco with at least an acre.  I still want a swimming pool, but we'll have to wait and see.

The strange part is that I'm not really much of an animal lover.  However, I am owned by women who love  animals.

Just another animal,

Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 18:25 | link | comments (2) |

posted by: Malinov at 09:54 | link | comments (1) |

Tales of Anxiety

or how I learned to avoid avoidance



I spent a long, long time denying I had any problems. One day I discovered I had placed myself into a position where I had everything I could hope for and yet I was completely severely dysfunctional in several important ways. I finally admitted to myself that the problem HAD to be within me. I spent a year digging away at my psyche in my own way. Soon, my wife left me and tried to wrest the kids away from me. I crawled into the shrinks office, pleading for help.



Once I had the Lexapro and Adderol (I'm also severely ADD, a condition which causes and feeds on anxiety to form a horrible knot), the pieces began falling into place. My voracious appetite for learning began to serve me well.



Anxiety is our response to fear. We need fear, lest we start playing with tigers, so anxiety can never go away entirely.



Anxiety is fed by our imaginations - what will I do if there is a tiger behind me? The problem comes with poor risk analysis and the fact that the brain activity of an imagined event is virtually indistinguishable from the brain activity of the actual event. Our adrenal gland doesn't bother to ask for a risk analysis, so unless we check ourselves quickly, thinking about a tiger threat causes the same rush of adrenalin as an actual tiger threat. Whenever we consider tigers, we must consider the actual odds posed by the risk. If the risk is low, we need to forget the threat. If we have already begun to imagine the threat, we need to stop, clear our minds, slow our breathing and take the ten minutes we need to return our emotions to normal.



All obsessive thought and compulsive behavior stem from anxiety - they are rooted in natural coping techniques. When worried, we seek something familiar to take us away from the rushes of fear. This can actually be a very useful response. Cats compulsively washes dishes when she becomes anxious, which is wonderful from a clean-kitchen perspective. Most obsessesions and compulsions are not so well chosen.



One thing to keep in mind is that the obsession, compulsion or addiction is NOT the problem. It is always a symptom of the problem. Taking away our bad habits can only be accomplished by forming new, better habits, although usually we simply go find another worse habit. Encouraging an anxious person to stop smoking, drinking, eating, picking, cleaning, whatever is almost always a meaningless exercise. The only way to end compulsive behavior and obsessive thinking is to relax.



It took me 42 years to understand, face and fight against this horrible problem. My mother, father, sister, brother, girlfriend, three kids and most of my friends suffer from various degrees of anxiety. (My eX causes anxiety in as many ways as a person can, a sad combination that doomed our marriage and is crushing my kids) I came to accept my problem when my brother told me about his anxiety. My sister only just recently accepted her problem with the encouragement of her very stable husband.



Cats and I tried to compile a list of all the people we knew who were really and truly substantially sane. After going through everyone we knew, my brother-in-law was the only person on that list. He should be studied, because he is definitely the odd-man-out.



Once my eyes were opened, I began to listen again to the words of people of wisdom. "Calm yourself" is one of the principal messages given repeatedly. I can only wonder why I never heard it before.



The moment that sent me searching in the right direction came after watching the movie "Fight Club." My eX, in one of her rare moments of enlightenment, said "we spend most of our lives beating ourselves up." I suddenly realized that I invariably awoke to immediately begin berating myself for all the things I hadn't done, all the things I wouldn't do and all the mistakes I'd made, all the mistakes I was going to make. What chance did I stand, repeating those admonitions from the first to the last, even into late night insomnias of self-abuse? We can't win, trying to defeat ourselves.



I hit rock bottom before I finally sought help. I thought I was alone but my close family and a few friends (whom I was horribly ashamed to show my failure) rose to the occassion and gave me a hand, not only in support but in sharing their struggles and pains. We are not alone. You are not alone. Together, we are strong. The Universe cares.



Speak your thoughts. Share your feelings. Some of the basic destructive reactions we have to anxiety is a desire to simplify our lives, to control everything around us and often to isolate ourselves. Avoidance is sometimes a good plan, like when dealing with the tigers of southern India (a very interesting Animal Planet documentary on maneating tigers was, synchronistically, on last night. As a general plan, however, avoidance is a terrible plan.



In the words of the Bene Gesserit, "Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear, allow the fear to pass through me. When the fear has passed, only I will remain." (forgive me if I paraphrase, but my copy of Dune is at Cats' house)



Most of all, enjoy. Life is waiting for you.



Malinov

posted by: Malinov at 05:33 | link | comments (1) |