XMas & Nicotine

I had no idea.

I truly had no idea the depth of issues I have with the holiday season.
I am in a Christmas play. I'm the token Jew in the Avantguardians' "DaDa XMas". I was fine with the idea of singing altered XMas carols, and telling classic XMas stories in some DaDa/AvantGuard/Abstract way. Tom and Lisa have great ideas and I love the creative process of developing a show with them. I assumed the content would be irrelevant and that the process would be the point.

The trigger was our conversation about whether or not Christmas is a religious holiday. My opinion is that since it's based on a Christian construct about the fake birthday of Christ and some stolen Pagan rites and symbolism, it's a religiously-based holiday. It's a Christian holiday. Jews don't celebrate Christmas unless they have someone Christian in their family or unless they've developed some elaborate explanation of why celebrating Christmas is allowed even though they're really still Jews. Really. Muslims don't celebrate Christmas either (see above). Christmas is intrinsically Christian. It's about Christ. The name of the holiday even contains the dear Baby Jesus' last name, or whatever that is. Ok - not his last name, but the name by which Baby Jesus is alternatively known.

Tom and Lisa vehemently deny that Christmas is a Christian holiday, citing the examples of Pagan symbols and the inescapable conspicuous consumption of modern-day American XMas. Though I attempted to explain why Christmas is nonetheless a Christian holiday, they could not understand, or refused to agree with my reasoning. During the whole discussion I was surprised by my emotional reaction. I became rather upset and frustrated.

What the hell is frustrating about a difference of opinion among friends? I think I felt betrayed in a way. My friends and art-colleagues don't share my point of view and suddenly I was alone at the table arguing a point about which I was so clearly right, in my mind. My friends and art-colleagues are not religious, so their position is not founded upon any scriptural theory or some covert, open-armed-personal-saviour effort at converting me. Not only was I surprised at my own reaction, I was surprised that Tom and Lisa didn't immediately agree with me. The conversation then involved whether or not this was a "Jew thing" and I was being oversensitive or even paranoid.

"You're not paranoid if they really are after you, " I said to them.

"Exactly," Tom nodded.

Added to the mix is the fact that I quit smoking a few days ago and have cycling homicidal and suicidal ideations. Quitting closet smoking seems to have magnified these issues as well as my obsessions with everything else in life that could possibly be a source of depression. Who knew that two or three cigarettes a day could be so addictive? Who knew that removing such a small amount of some brain-altering chemical would have such a dramatic effect on my affect?


If smoking wasn't stinky and carcinogenic I probably wouldn't bother quitting. I've thought about continuing to smoke through the holidays, just out of spite. The question is - out of spite for whom? Plus, it will be just as difficult to quit in 2007 as it has been this horrid week of 2006. Maybe I could ask my shrink to add some nicotine to the daily dose of happy pills I ingest. Can you add tobacco to brownies?

Quitting smoking feels remarkably like going through a bad PMS day. Everything seems more irritating, and more urgent than usual. By January I will have forgotten all about the descriminatory practices of the Christmas revellers. During PMS days it's not that my issues are made up, it's just that they seem so IMPORTANT and overwhelming. So if I'm short on money, it seems like I'm BROKE and I'm NEVER going to have ANYTHING and might have to go on food stamps or welfare soon, and I'll never get to go on a vacation again, and my bills will never be paid....

Currently, my withdrawal symptoms are causing me to hate Christmas because I'm sure I'm permanently inadequate for my inability to buy the right presents. The nicotine-deprived voices in my head are also telling me that our Fundamentalist Christian culture is against me and it will only get worse. I'll probably end up in prison for not conforming. I'll have to become a handmaiden and have some rich Christian wife's children. No, actually, I'm too old. They'll just hang me as an example for the others. In fact, I'm too old to really make much of myself in this life, with or without the Fundamentalist Christian Handmaiden dilemma. It's too late. Oh, woe is me.... Alas... blah, blah, blah.

So that's the path my withdrawing neurons walk today. On the up-side, I have almost completed my first crocheted scarf. Red. A little bumpy and uneven. I'll say I meant it to look that way. Right now, though, I'm insanely craving just a little, itsy, bitsy, teenie, weeny, bitty, baby puff of a cigarette. Just one more. Just one more time.

"Jane says... Gonna kick tomorrow...." to quote Perry Farrell.

Quivering Quiverfull

Ok - I just learned about a new movement called the Quiverfull Movement. These are Christian people who've decided to try to have six or more children in order to contribute to the Evangelical Christian movement. Does bearing children and indoctrinating them equal evangelizing and converting non-Christians?

Here's a paragraph from the ToiletPaper blog that got me thinking about possibilities of countering this Quiverful movement:

Jeff Sharlet sent us this link to a Nation story about the "Quiverfull" movement among fundie Christian women who consider their vaginas God's house and having babies as a way of populating God's army. All kinds of terrifying quotes like these: "Tracie Moore, a 39-year-old midwife who lives in southern Kentucky, is mother to fourteen. Wendy Dufkin in Coxsackie has her thirteen." http://www.toiletpaperonline.com/index.php.

I'm thinking we should start a similar movement to forward the "Gay Agenda" and counter this growth of Christian soldier-babies. All I need is some gay sperm, and some willing, fertile lesbians. We'll breed and create armies of gay babies to fight with their Christian babies. This project is still in the primordial ooze stage, but I think I'm on to something with potential here. We could take out full-page ads, recruit people at the mall, convert adolescents with rock music, fog and lasers... speaking of which, did anyone see the live brodcast from New Life last week?

If any of my three or four readers have suggestions, let me know. Plus, if you want to be a part of this movement forward my blog address to everyone. We also have to come up with a name - like Quiverfull - but gay.

Babies

Everyone I know is having babies.

Well, not everyone. Not the men, obviously. When their wives or girlfriends are having babies men like to boast about their masculine involvements and martyr-like tolerance of the hormonal swings and cravings. Who's doing all the real work, though?

In the past year, here are the babies who've come into my life:
1: My neighbor to the East had a baby - Kieran.
2: My neighbor to the West had a baby girl - Sylvie
3: My neighbor to the West is pregnant again - ? They thought, before Sylvie, that she couldn't get pregnant.
4: One coworker at Cedar Springs had a beautiful baby boy. Somehow she kept him safe inside her inspite of the agressive, violent children we worked with.
5, 6, 7, 8, 9: Four women I know well from a particular local group had bunches of babies in the past two years - Oliver, Ruby, Kennedy and a couple of others whose names I can't recall at the moment.
10. My brother's wife had a baby girl in July - Abigail.
11. My brother-in-not-law's (because the bigots in Colorado voted to define marriage as one man and one woman legally and will not allow me to recieve civil union benefits from my spouse) wife had a baby girl in August - Shayla.
12. My cousin by illegal marriage had a baby boy in October - Gavin.

Babies - similar to parasites while in the womb. It's not even a mutually beneficial situation, unless you consider the expectant joy and all that glowing. Well, and the loose, comfortable clothes. Okay, and the weight. I'd have an excuse for several months for gaining weight. Considering the constant drain on a woman's internal resources, the growth of a living organism inside her, feeding, bound by blood. Sounds like a horror film, really.

Babies - if I'm still fertile I should be able to sell my babies on Ebay.

Babies - I'm thinking of going out and getting really drunk so that Heidi and I can have a baby of our own. It seems to work for so many others.

Babies - why aren't they more like Octopi? What? Well - an octopus can exhale a lot of its water, make itself very thin, and get through tiny holes in coral reefs and such. Why didn't God or Allah or Yaweh or whatever higher power may exist make babies' heads more like Octopi so that they could become really narrow to make childbirth less painful? Yes, I've read about the Garden of Eden and the snake and all that.

Babies - I'm also thinking that if I get pregnant for some reason, somehow, someday that I should chain smoke so that the baby is really small and doesn't hurt so much coming out. I mean so that I don't hurt while it comes out.

Babies. So much to consider.

I'm kidding about the chain-smoking, in case you don't know me and are reading this. Sometimes I imagine that I'd like to have a child. Then I think about how messy my house is, and how much of an obligation dogs have been. I really love other people's children, though. We'll see.

Strange Ideas?

I was sitting in the bathroom yesterday... yes, on the toilet, at work. I suddenly imagined how horrible it would be if we didn't have bathrooms. Someone a couple of stalls down from me was peeing, really loudly, and it made me want to giggle. I always think it's funny when you can hear people doing their thing in the bathroom. I always think it's embarassing if someone else can hear me, so I guess it's silly that I want to laugh at the loudly-peeing woman in the other stall. Anyway, it occurred to me that it would be truly horrible if we had no public bathrooms in office buildings.

There would be an elaborate pulley & bucket system attached to the outside of skyscrapers. Waste would dump into tubes and then the buckets would hopefully be rinsed out before returning to the offices to be used again. Something like that. Can you say dysentery? Where would all the goo go? Where does the goo go now? To the spinach farms.

Blow-By-Blow Service at New Life Church

Heheheheh - blow-by-blow - get it?

New Life Church has blessed us this morning with a live-feed of their service. My wife and I are watching their mesmerizing, horrifying indoctrination of the children present at the service, and the idiots who believe this crap. Basically, in my not so humble opinion, the New Life congregation is made up of people who either can't or don't want to think for themselves. Being a member of NewLife and the other mega-churches absolves one of all responsibility for self-determination.

The main pastor on stage today reminds me of the gay men I went to college with - in the theater department at NYU. Not everyone can make it on Broadway or in Hollywood. Jesus, we just thank you today for the musical and theatrical opportunities you have provided for the actors in our fold.

OK - one of the pastors on stage just said, during his introduction and explanation of why he's in Colorado Springs today, "I was jerked off a treadmill...". They just can't help it. Satan lures them and puts dicks in their mouths... oops, I mean, words in their mouths and treachery in their hearts. Jerked off. Ooops. Freudian slip.

There are thousands of people watching this service either to support the church in its time of need, or to watch in horror the cult-like followers, swaying, hands in the air. What's the difference between this and the Moonies? What's the difference between the New Life congregation and the followers of Hitler, or Jim Jones, or David Koresh?

The guy just called New Life a "non-denominational" church. I need a dictionary. I thought non-denominational meant that it would be inclusive of all religions. I don't see them welcoming Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus or Satanists in to worship the energies that rule the universe.

From www.dictionary.com:
American Heritage Dictionary
non·de·nom·i·na·tion·al (nnd-nm-nsh-nl) adj.
Not restricted to or associated with a religious denomination.
The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth EditionCopyright © 2000 by Houghton Mifflin Company.Published by Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.WordNet

non-denominational
nondenominational adj : not restricted to a particular religious denomination; "a nondenominational church"
WordNet ® 2.0, © 2003 Princeton University

Denomination
1. a religious group, usually including many local churches, often larger than a sect: the Lutheran denomination.
2. one of the grades or degrees in a series of designations of quantity, value, measure, weight, etc.: He paid $500 in bills of small denomination.
3. a name or designation, esp. one for a class of things.
4. a class or kind of persons or things distinguished by a specific name.
5. the act of naming or designating a person or thing.
[Origin: 1350–1400; ME denominacioun <>denominate) + -iōn- -ion]
Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.0.1)Based on the Random House Unabridged Dictionary, © Random House, Inc. 2006.

Basically, the letter Haggard wrote in apology to his congregation states that he's been struggling against the horrible, evil part of himself all his life. He says he needs to be lovingly counselled, disciplined and corrected. LIKE ALL GOD-FORSAKEN HOMOS (my interpretation of what his letter really means). He says that by his example we can all learn how the sick and disheartened may be healed. WE CAN FIX THOSE SINNING HOMOS - AND I'LL SHOW YOU HOW!!! Ugh. He's horrible.

Haggard's wife wrote a letter too, to state and reinforce her love for Ted. I wonder if Ted's as good in bed with Gail as he was with his gay masseur. A lot of housewives do meth to lose weight and stay on top of all their wifely duties. Hmmm. She's a busy woman. Maybe she just needs a little extra impetus some mornings. Plus it's supposed to be great for your sex life. Or somethin'.

Enough for now. I have to do real life things, like get dressed, buy groceries, pay some bills. Too bad I'm not a better actress. I coulda made a fortune singing Christian songs and fooling my followers. Maybe it's not too late.

Happy Happy Childhood

I had a happy childhood. Didn't I?
I had food and clothing and shelter and love.
I had a brother, a mother, a father and a dog.
I had hamsters and hermit crabs and fish now and then.
I was allergic to the cat so it was sent away.

We collected frogs.
We listened to Elvis.
We slid down the stairs on a pillow.
We pretended to be adults.
We swam in the ocean.
We played in the snow.
We fought over bubble wrap.

We took car trips in the yellow station wagon with "wood" siding. We fought and played in the back seat. My parents put the back seats down, so that we had a flat area to lay on, stretched out, to nap or read.

There were no restricting, binding car seats then. Or maybe there were. Parents were just not as concerned about children's safety.

No helmets, no child-car-seats, no baby monitors.
We lived through it anyway.
A lot of us.
Enough of us.

Maybe subconsciously I believed my parents were trying to kill me and that scarred my soul.
I doubt it.

Maybe my mother's chain smoking affected me as a fetus, and the withdrawal symptoms, followed by constant second hand smoke, caused my brain and CNS to develop into the system of an addict, which I am.
Maybe she has nothing to do with it.
I doubt it.

Chain-smokers should teach their infants to smoke so that the poor creatures won't go through withdrawal!
Ok, not really.

I've considered chain smoking through pregnancy - I mean, if I were pregnant - so that the baby would be really small and not hurt as much during delivery.
I also think that if I am still fertile, I should be able to have babies and sell them on Ebay.
Right now the only limitation is a lack of sperm.

Plus, after nine months I might develop some affection for the parasite creature inside me and not want to sell it after all. And there I'd be, with no alternate financial plan, trying to support a child.

Ugh. Life.
Is bigger.
Bigger than you and you are not me.... la, la, la, la, la, la--------------

I had a happy childhood until I started therapy and realized how much angst I had collected about which to complain.
I had a happy childhood until I was encouraged to be angry about my parents' imperfections.
I had a happy childhood until it ended and I had to go out into the world unprepared.
At that point, in spite of all the schooling and therapy and achievements, I regretted leaving my happy childhood behind.

Triskadekaphobic Dreams

I dreamt I had inherited pet monkey-creatures. They resembled ferrets, but with long arms and legs. Really, they were like those stuffed animal monkeys with velcro on the hands and feet that can hang around your neck. They had long claws so that I had to be very still in order to let them climb on me. Otherwise they'd get nervous and cause scratches.

I dreamt also that I was with my Aunt Phyllis and my brother, Dan, and we stopped by Cedar Springs. My father was there as well. My brother was in some sort of depression and after chatting with my father, decided to stay at Cedar Springs for a while. In the dream he was a teenageer, not an adult. He talked for a long time with Rodney, an artist friend. Rodney, in the dream, was some sort of therapist. I knew that he could help my brother while Dan was in the psych hospital. The check-in process took a long, long time. Phyllis was annoyed and restless. I went down to the library on the hospital campus and looked at CD's. I talked to someone about a particular Jazz artist, and how Jazz had sort of fallen out of fashion recently. After long time I went to speak with Rodney about my brother. He was very sensitive and reassuring about the situation and my brother's mental health. That was comforting. Because Phyllis was so annoyed, but only expressing that non-verbally, which was just making me angry, I told her to go ahead and leave. I assumed she wanted to go shopping or to a movie and was irritated that we'd wasted all day waiting around for my brother. She left. I knew I could get a ride from Rodney or someone else at the hospital.

In another dream last night I was in the military, as was Heidi. We had gotten in trouble for drug possession and were just waiting for them to process the evidence for drug residue. We didn't want to go to prison or ComCor, so we snuck into the investigation lab, stole the evidence and threw the containers into the incinerator outside the lab. We were seen by officers. We ran to our Subaru Outback and tried to get away. The tv inside the car was playing my friend Ruth's comedy hour. We came upon a very steep, icy hill and could not get all the way up it because the car didn't have 4-wheel drive. We slid back down, got out and tried to run. Heidi was caught, but I got away. They arrested her and she again awaited prosecution and punishment. 5 years in prison.... I felt so guilty that I returned to the base and turned myself in. Heidi, by that time, was living with another woman, her new best friend, a pretty, petite Latina woman, with a convincing, loathing glare. I tried to apologize and they let me stay in the room with them, but neither one was friendly. During this part of the dream we made t-shirts with hand-painted tattoo designs on them.

That's all I remember.

My vivid dreams are far more intriguing sometimes than real life.

Evolution

Do not discuss evolution at work.
Do not discuss evolution at work.
Do not discuss evolution at work.
Do not discuss evolution with a religious fanatic.
I think he has Aspberger's syndrome. He's a complete nut about history and languages - knows a ridiculous and impressive amount of American Presidential trivia. Plus he has that odd inability to judge when his peers are kidding.
But that's besides the point.
My chest begins to feel tight as I realize that this person who is so well-read in other areas, has read all the pro-Creationism and Intelligent Design crap and does not believe in Evolution. We start to bicker about it and his arguments have no form, no logic. AND HE SMILES.
What angers me about this topic?
Maybe it's that I live in a city full of religious fundamentalists who believe that every word of the Bible is true because God wrote the Bible and said, in the Bible, that the Bible is true. I'm sick of hearing stupid, baseless arguments about the value of religious theory in education. This trend is all about enforcing mindlessness so that the masses will follow those who simply say they're right based on the Biblical theories used to brainwash the masses.
The most unfortunate part of all this is the level of complicity by us - the masses. Our culture is more and more focused on superficial, external aquisition and accomplishments. We value beauty, fashion, wealth, possession and participation in the currently agreed-upon cultural norms. Education is WAY down on the list.
That's great, because the less educated the masses are, the less they will involve themselves in government and politics. The more we'll all be sheep, herded along cultural pathways regardless of consequence. The people retaining power in all this will remain in power, as they planned. The gap between rich and poor will continue to widen.
Do not discuss politics and religion at work.
Do not discuss politics and religion at work.
Do not discuss politics and religion at work.
But if someone doesn't speak out, what will become of us?

Mean People

People are just mean.
Just plain mean.
They're mean for no reason.
They're mean because they're frustrated with a situation beyond their control, beyond my control.
They're mean because I can't help them the second that they call.
They're mean because they're powerless in a world of difficulty and chaos.
They're mean because they're bored.
They're mean because they're unfulfilled.
They're mean because they're doing a job they dislike.
They're mean because mom and dad were mean.
They're mean because the Xanax doesn't work anymore.
They're mean because they've had to quit Xanax and join a stupid-ass 12-step group.
They're mean because they wanna be the boss of the world, and the world doesn't work that way.
They're mean because of global warming.
They're mean because the Republicans are in office.
They're mean because the Republicans in office are perpetuating global warming.
They're mean because it's raining.
They're mean because it's too hot.
They're mean because they're just plain mean.
You know what I mean?

Lies

Finding lies
left lying
around found
behind corners
on ledges
allegedly unexpected
but truly no surprise
Compartmentalize
Hide beneath piles
Slip through the cracks
Ration the truth
Leave bits and pieces
Hoarding perception
Creating deception
Driving wedges
Between us
And "could have been".
Evasion
Elusion
Illusion
Lies

Margaritas

I have spent years drinking and not drinking.
I have reasons. I have excuses.
I had too much to drink tonight.
I am too old to drink much, and I feel like crap, really.
I am in a play in which I am supposed to be an opium addict. Alcohol probably doesn't equate to opium, but drugs are not an option. What a stupid idea, though, that getting drunk would assist me in building some character. Ah well. Folly.
This theatrical endeavor reminds me of myself - who I am - underneath the job, the complaints, the compulsions. I am, at heart, an artist of some sort.
It is a breath of fresh air to spend time with people who are as off-task as me.
Drunkenness does not aid my artistry.
I think I'll wait and let this wear off and hope to feel better tomorrow - or Sunday at least.

Tinnitus

You remove the foam-padded headphones before leaving the room on a break. Walking outdoors, you hear a quiet, constant ringing from deep inside the tiny canals in your ears. You hope this is not a sign of developing deafness. Your music is so important, you assert, regardless of your undisciplined, sporadic practice habits. Beethoven was deaf in his later years, composing through his deep understanding of theory and tonality. He probably intuitively, instinctively remembered the sound each dot on the page made, and the chords as notes rang together. Your memory is not so sharp, your distractions are many. Deafness would be the end of your musical life. You hope the ringing is from last week's cold, rather than some type of permanent damage caused by call-center headphones. You hope.
Maybe later you should practice some music, while you still can.

Faces, Flashes, Memory

Faces
Flashes
Memory
Fear
Regret
Anxiety
I played a role
Once and again
Reciting lines I learned from them
Perfecting poems
Reflecting smiles
Expecting nothing less than lies
Acting
Asking
Faithfulness
Leading
Bleeding
Breathlessness
Earning
Yearning
Turning past
Aching
Breaking
Love can't last
Designing loss
Baking disdain
Project "Procreation Pain"
Again
Anew
Attempting this
Love lives
Love gives
Love seeking bliss
Lying
Longing
Rooted deep
Waking
Within
Leaving sleep
Twisting
Turning
Seeking sight
Growing
Groaning
Towards light
Instincts leading
"Dance again!"
Sifting past
"Remember when?"
"What might have been?"
Holding hostage hoarded past
Mourning moments I've amassed
Nothing sacred, nothing lasts
Questioning each present task
Wishing
Wond'ring
Worrying
Making more of daily scenes
Dramatising
Empathising
Synchronising
Anesthetising
Euthanising

A Cold?

I have a cold in my nose.

My manager had pneumonia last week, walking pneumonia. She didn't know she was very ill until she coughed blood. Wow. She said the P.A. told her not to jog anymore until they cleared her. Apparently her difficulty exercising was not due to mere tiredness, but rather to her congested, BLEEDING LUNGS.

I have no such excuse.

I imagine calling in sick today, but really I don't feel that bad. I'm hoping this morphs into tuberculosis or something equally morbidly impressive. People could come visit me, gazing through my oxygen tent, at the hospital. I could press my hand to the plastic, to touch a hand on the other side. Actually, I don't know what an oxygen tent looks like.

I guess I just want attention. I want to know that people would be concerned and that they'd think I was strong for going through such a thing.

Having a cold is not much of a story.

On the other hand, many people I know have been ill or had some sort of surgery over the past two years. One friend died of lung cancer, refusing to quit smoking until her final day. Another friend died unexpectedly just before her next treatments for breast cancer. She did her best to live well daily until the afternoon she took her final nap. A third friend died after fighting cancer for a couple of years. During her last days her brain was being crowded by tumors. She seemed happier and less worried than I'd known her to be when well.

Among my friends and aquaintances there have been three hip replacements, various biopsies, two full hysterectomies, cancer treatments, acid peels, a breast reconstruction, a broken leg, self-starvation, Bi-Polar diagnoses, pregnancies - planned and not, births and deaths.

I have a cold.

I'm not good at being a caretaker, a nurse, but it seems that is my role, as the colds never progress into anything disturbing enough to earn attention. I should be grateful, I know, but that also is not my nature. I have to work at it - put it on like a piece of clothing. It never fits quite right, but it's something I need to wear more often. Maybe it will stretch out and be more comfortable at some point.

I have a cold. I need to get out of bed and go to work.

A plea to Georgiann

Each morning for the past few months, because my workday starts at 10 a.m., I have enjoyed the luxury of lying in bed and watching the "Today" show on NBC. I watched the entire hullabaloo about Katie and Meredith playing musical media chairs. I listened to the outdoor morning concerts. I heard Jessica lose her voice on national television. I got my news and entertainment trivia on a regular a.m. basis.

Around 9 o'clock I start my get-to-work-on-time routine, including the usual hygiene and inconsistent fashion efforts. I work in a basement behind a dual monitor, headset ready. As long as I don't have purple hair, dress provocatively or stink no one cares what I wear, really. But I digress.

At 9:30 a.m. our local Jesus-Saves Superstar, Dr. Dobson of Focus on the Family, has purchased several minutes on KOAA 5 & 30 (NBC) to tell us all how to live our lives. Because I'm in the middle of applying deodorant, brushing my teeth or wishing I were waif-like, I hear his wisdom wafting from the other room. The other day he started in on how government should support traditional family values and that just GOT me. What happened to non-profit religious organizations having to remain NEUTRAL politically in order to maintain their tax exempt status?

I think about boycotting channels 5 & 30 every time I hear Dobson's whiny voice and moronic rhetoric. My partner, however, has a crush on Georgiann Lymberopoulos, and refuses to watch any other local news. My question is. why oh WHY do our local media coddle the Christian criminals?

Why did the Gazette distribute Bibles last year? Because they sold out.
Why is Channel 5 & 30 hosting Dobson's drivel? Because they sold out.

What's my problem with Christian, non-profit, ministry organizations?
1. Focus' and New Life's properties take up much more land than many local and national businesses do, yet these Christian moguls give nothing back locally.
2. They don't pay property taxes to support our local infrastructure, claiming non-profit exemption.
3. They support amendments and agendas, advocating that members sign petitions outside their churches regardless of the fact that having tax-exempt status conflicts with engaging in political issues.
4. They distribute pamphlets and online information endorsing particular policies and candidates.
5. They pay to have Bibles distributed in the paper indiscriminately to Christians and Non-Christians, lowering a religious text to the level of advertising inserts.
6. They aren't contributing to our community as much as trying to assimilate others into their own hive.

Perhaps if these quite profitable theocracy-pushing organizations paid their dues to be here we could have streets without craters and bridges that aren't falling down. Notice you did not receive a Koran or a paperback Torah in your daily rag. Other religions are not building compounds and buying our government.

All of this ranting is really just a plea for NBC to dump Dobson.. Or, if his little daily sermon is that profitable - Georgiann - PLEASE move to a different network. We'll follow you. Please Georgiann - for your fans.

September 11th

I am sitting at my cubical desk this morning. Jenny on her way to work calls Alicia to tell her about the first plane, the first tower. Alicia spreads the news. We continue answering phones though calls soon slow and cease. My memory of September 11th comes in still-life photos.

Coworkers gather around a television watching as the first flaming tower falls. We gasp and "oh NO!" in scattered unison. I walk away, look away for a moment. Crying.

I don't know that I am actually sad about the disaster. I miss Jim, who I've pushed away this Summer. I miss my group of friends, since really they are his friends more than mine. I am alone again. The regular happy hour indulgences are taking their toll on my serotonin levels. I've never been a good drinker. Apparently I am wrong and probably should not go off my anti-depressants just because I am feeling better.

Of course, it is a horrific event. Suddenly, though, I am distraught over the deaths of people I do not know. I am afraid. I stand shaking in a restroom stall. I learn the name of a colleague, as she is kind enough to offer comfort. I feel like a child, somewhat embarrassed at my dramatic reaction.

For months tears seep at inopportune moments. I cry in staff meetings, in my car, at the grocery store. Something inside me is broken, off-balance. September 11th is the brick that shatters glass and lets in icy wind. In autumn my decline begins. By winter I am living in black and gray, moving through thick fog, feet weighed down by heavy chains. My anxiety grows too under a weighty, woolen blanket of depression that I cannot shrug off.

Through these months I scan the skies for danger and unauthorized aircraft, as if I will know. As if I will recognize intruders and be able to tell someone, do something....

One morning during a staff meeting a coworker arrives late, in full-dress brass and blue. He announces that he'll be leaving soon. Again, my tears surprise me, embarrassing others I suppose. Are they embarrassed for me during my insanity? Or are they just annoyed at my dramatic performances?

I try so hard. I try so hard to do my job and be present - but I also am compelled to look at CNN, research potential chemical warfare threats, email friends about fears, distract myself with useless knowledge about things beyond my control. I cannot contain it all in my skull and learn tech skills simultaneously. My heart is heavy, a sponge for sorrow and fear.

Today, five years later, I am sad, reminded of the despair that descended from elsewhere as much as it welled within. Emotions were triggered by imagined global chaos, fear of alternative warfare and hemorrhagic illness. Again, I am sad, but is it for lives lost, or for my own years wasted? Am I sensitive or selfish?

Yesterday was my 39th birthday.

I worked a busy 10 hour shift, then returned home where Brutus, the mighty dachshund, greeted me ecstatically, wiggling and licking. Sebastian, the brown hound, barked and barked to tell me about his day, and Mick, the gentle giant, followed us around, wagging his huge, graceful tail.

Finally, I made my way to the bedroom to kiss my wife hello. She surprised me with a gaggle of gifts including my favorite scented oil (Woody Sandalwood) and vanilla lotion from The Body Shop, a couple of Sudoku scratch tickets, my favorite dark chocolate and a lovely card, all in a beautiful, beaded, lavender silk clutch. My wife offers me her gentle, loving heart each day.

This past weekend my parents drove hundreds of miles to spend time with Heidi and me for my pre-birthday weekend, and to see their few-week-old first granddaughter. They treated us to dinner and breakfast during their time here. My father got up early on Sunday to join us for watching giant balloons inflate in the park, though weather prevented their launch. And after all I've been and done their gaze envelops me in love.

Sometimes I feel like the Grinch, Oscar the Grouch, Squidword, Eeyore, one or another of the cynical, complaining, cartoon-characters. People tilt their heads and laugh, as if I'm attempting to amuse. Others walk away, finally tired of my catastrophising tendencies. Still, I have family and chosen family who never leave me lonely.

Thank you all for the life you remind me I should truly live.

10th Anniversary of My 29th Birthday

It's the 10th Anniversary of my 29th birthday
Will I get what I want this year?
Will all that's come to me these 39 years
Fill the pocket occupied by seeming need?
Will I be who I want this year?
Will all that I've done and seen and been
Grow to more whole than the pile of dried seeds?
----------------------------------------------------

My birthday enters Singing Autumn

Summer lingers
Green goes golden
Morning later
Evening sooner

Atonal rondos of
Neighborhood children now
Quiet, occasional
Indoors they worry through
Pages of stories and
Memorization of
Tables and scribbles
Tables and scribbles

Writing Intentionally

Perhaps if I had written more before now there would be fewer thoughts swirling in my head, thus making writing a simpler task. For me, the most difficult part of writing is choosing a topic. Before that the most difficult part is the discipline it takes to regularly write. It's easy to lay in bed and think about future chapters of a non-existent book. It's difficult to stop and record those ideas somewhere. And - in a moment - the ideas are gone. Sure they're replaced by new ones the next time I'm doing some repetetive task, or avoiding thinking about bills or something. Grandiosity = thinking I could write a book when so far the only writing samples are pages and pages of decades of self-indulgent journalling. Someday maybe I'll go through them and pick out the good parts - throw the bad writing away.

Then again, the minute I take the time and discipline to sit and type or write or work out a new song or pursue some creative task, I have something to work with. It's the starting that's hard for me. Getting started.

Once, near the end of a relationship, I went to do laundry, having saved up six or seven loads. I dragged all the laundry baskets into my car and drove to the nearest clean laundrymat. There's a tiny, run-down place near my house, but it always looks seedy to me. And there's no comfortable seating. I'd rather pay more and go to the big, shiny, clean place, farther away. They even have televisions hanging from the ceiling, each one showing something different, playing quietly, with subtitles that can be read in spite of the machine-song.

Having a few hours of free time while the washing-robot worked I wrote songs about my strained relationship. I wrote three songs which all "worked". The words were already waiting for me to write them down. My constant spiraling thoughts about love and not-love had already organized themselves into something useful. My songs told the truth about my commitment, my shifting attention... intention. We broke up the following month.

I just need to write, create opportunities to write, have the intention to write and follow that with action. Blah, blah, blah. How many times have I thought and said and written this exact thing? Maybe I'm feeling more committed because another birthday is around the bend. I'll be one year away from another decade next week. 39 years old. But that's a topic for another time.

Later.

Conscious Rambling

Conscience
Consequence
Consciousness
Countinence
Coincidence
Concurrence
Continuance
Consecration
Condemnation
Conflagration
Consideration
Contemplation
Consolation

Hump Day

It's Wednesday. Tomorrow is my Friday since I only work four days per week. The ten hour days are long, but the three day weekend makes it all worthwhile.
Truly, I have nothing to say at the moment. My mind contains black and white static-fuzz, probably because I've been sitting in front of a dual computer monitor for 6 hours straight and I need to go outdoors for a few minutes. Get some oxygen into my blood.

I want this blog to change my life. I want to write meaningful things - not just self-indulgent drivel. I hope you'll indulge me while I work up to the intellectually brilliant output I hope will emerge.... It may take some outpouring of sludge before that occurs. My ego wants to make its mark on the world. My lazier self doesn't want to work very hard, though.

Really, in most areas of my life I want to do whatever is the equivalent to winning hundreds of millions of dollars in Powerball. Minimal effort, maximum return. Where the hell is my trust fund? This is known as a sense of entitlement. It's hard being poor and still retaining this desire for... well... a lot.

Next lifetime perhaps.

The Myth of Ur, Plato's Republic (introduced to me by Jim, who I won't discuss herein) illustrates the idea that we each had an opportunity to choose this life we're living. However, before we became embodied we were made to forget the fact that we'd selected this particular existence.

In that scheme, I assume that I was previously a really, really, ridiculously good looking supermodel with outlandish wealth and countless friends, not to mention infallible self-esteem. Everything I tried turned out as I hoped; and though life was pleasant it was not much of a challenge. At the end of this time of ease and joy I devised a plan to learn more through my next life journey. Thus, this.

I sometimes imagine that in my next life I would like to be a fluffy, well-tempered, smart, beloved pet dog or cat. The downside of choosing to be a dog or a cat is that I'm not sure that a dog or a cat wishes to be something else. I think that's a purely human trait - the dreaming of being OTHER. So... in that scenario, I would forever remain a pet.

I mean, from my perspective right now, being a pet forever and ever, over and over again, doesn't sound appealing. Being a pet for one lifetime, as sort of a rest period, would be nice. But I don't get to choose for the next several lifetimes. Just the upcoming one, right? So, if a dog always wants to be a dog and a cat always wants to be a cat, I'd be stuck.

On the other hand, if I were a dog or a cat, and I was happy being a dog or a cat, and I didn't have the cognitive ability to imagine myself otherwise, would it matter that in my current awareness being a house-pet forever doesn't sound like the perfect answer? After this life I will, assuming things go the way of Ur, have a completely different consciousness - maybe one that thinks being a pet mammal forever is really the way to exist joyfully. Do pets achieve enlightenment?

My dog enjoys the same games and the same petting day after day. Or does he? Maybe he longs for fancier foods and agility training and canine massage, but has no means by which to express these wishes. Ugh. One more vat of worry and guilt. How conscious is my dog?

Maybe he does want to be something else in his next life, but he arrives at the opportunity with only "Woof!" He's destined to be a fluffy-dog over and over again simply for lack of communicative ability. Maybe he doesn't know he wants to be something else, but if he were given one day to be human he'd understand his options better. How conscious is my dog? How awake are you and I?

You have to think these things through. Choices have consequences.

Birth... School... Work... Death

Here I sit at my desk at work at 7:54pm, waiting for the last 6 minutes of this part of my day to pass. Next I drive to a rehearsal for a scene I'm doing at the request of a friend. The drive will take 20 minutes or so and I will arrive around 8:25 to rehearse a 5-minute scene for more than an hour, most likely. How could it take over an hour to do a 5-minute scene, you might ask? Because we drag our heels through every twist and turn of phrase in this poorly written drivel which we actors agreed to do. Next time I'll read the script first, I think. The script of this scene makes me sometimes visualize shooting myself in the face.

7:56. I'm a fast typist.

I wouldn't hold the gun in my mouth. I'd shoot diagonally through one cheek sort of up and back, towards the back of my skull. I think then I'd hit major areas of the brain, ensuring avoidance of vegetablism. No - not vegetarianism - vegetablism - vegetativism - living-void. I do not desire to be a zucchini, thank you.

At least if I were in a coma or otherwise vegetative state I would hope that someone would come in and do my hair. Beauty school students should be allowed to practice on coma patients instead of those plastic heads. It would make for more interesting tv shots when the coma patients' spouses try to pull the plug. Poor Terri Schiavo. Her hair looked awful!

8:00 pm.

Gotta go.

M

My first BLOG

Blog:
Agog
Bog
Cog
Dog
Fog
Flog
Frog
Grog
Hog
Jog
Log
Nog
Pog
Prague
Sog
Smog
Tog
Trog
EggNog.