Perfume Behind Her Knees

Love is a good thing. Love rocks.  Love is an alive force of nature.  Chemistry, pheromones, hormones, synapsis, rapid heart rate, sweaty palms, perfume behind her knees.  How did she know?  Her bright orange fingernails raked his face.  "You fucking bastard!" A shout but more a plea than volume. "You have love oozing from every open pore on your body!  Goddam you!"  She wanted something he wasn't giving.  Too much love for one person.  Too much love for her.  Still, she wanted his love.  Not just his body but his soul, his core, his energy.  She wanted to know how to plug into it like he did.  When he was plugged in to his source, it was a dance away the day world.  Nothing mattered but what was going on in the room at the time.  The room was the center.  It was where he was and when he heard music, it was there also.  Dancing was the magic. Let yourself roll with it for I say unto you that ye shall dance your life away to the music that plays from the jukebox inside your head.

He looked at her.  Disheveled, mascara running down her red cheeks, her gold Doris Day dress wrinkled, she was crying.  No sobs, only tears.  He loved her, he knew.  She didn't know his world but he thought he knew hers.  Empty vessel looking to fill up on something, anything that made her feel alive.  She had come to him.  A nightclub, she asked him to dance.  They danced all night.  She liked him but there was a quirk about how he danced, free, flowing body movements, almost like ballet but with a heavy beat.  The band wasn't bad but they played covers and only with enough talent to pull it off.

She wasn't like this but she went to his house that night.  He put on Cheryl Crow.  They danced to every song on the album, the fast ones, the slow ones, every one of them.  The dawn came and went.  She tried to get him to bed.  He danced.  She had taken her jacket off and her shoes.  She was feeling it, the love, the energy.  Oh my God! she thought.  This doesn't happen to me.  What am I doing here?  He has so much just pouring out of him and he says nothing and twirls and twirls to the music.  He looked at her eye to running mascara eye.  "I love you," he told her from across the room.  She viewed him from a downturned face with upturned eyes.  Shit fuck!  "I...I love you," she whispered, " but I don't know what to do."  One night, not even twelve hours with this man and she knew that she, too, was in love.  He had plugged her in to the core, the juice, the power, the source.  She wanted to stay there.  It was good.  It was positive.  It gave off light.  It made her alive.

"Well, then," he said in a low voice, "let's dance."  He started across the room.  She met him halfway.  They embraced tightly, no air between their bodies.  She was slightly taller than he so her head fit on top of his shoulder.  Perfect fit.  She could feel the hardness in his pants rub against her pubic bone.  Oh God!  She quivered slightly and pushed against him.  They swayed back and forth to music only they could hear.  Nothing came out of the speakers except ambient static. He looked her straight away in the eye.  "To dance is to celebrate God," he quietly whispered in her ear.  She thought of another way they could celebrate God.  He didn't seem interested in anything but dancing.  That's when her hand went toward his face in a swipe.

Now he was standing, looking at her thoughtfully, as if determining the remedy for a particular situation.  "Are you finished dancing?  Then you must go."  It was a matter of fact statement with no discernable emotion in his voice.  Just a statement.  "And if I'm not finished dancing?" she hoarsely whispered.  "Then we shall dance until we can no longer and sleep demands to be let in. Then we shall lie together and sleep.  When awake again, we shall dance.  It is love."  He was self assured and seemed to truly believe what he was saying.  She was trying to be skeptical without much success.  It was all too real, the smells, the facial expressions, the feeling of his body, it was all here.  She was hooked.  She had to go with him.

"Come with me, love, and celebrate the goodness we take for granted.  Love me, and I you and we shall never climb down.  Be assured that I am here for you.  Now, let's dance."

She looked at him, looked away, then back at him.  Yes!  I will.  I belong.  To him.  And she knew that he belonged to her, as long as they danced.

Twice Bitten...

Cliff wondered what kind of man could still love a woman who dumped him twice and was having too much fun to drop him a line once in a while?  Why did he believe the things she said to him?  Why did he trust her?  It could go two ways, he thought.  Either I loathe myself and need to somehow punish myself with anxiety and depression.  And it's a textbook depression.  The kind where you just can't get out of bed.  Or, is it because, somewhere in the valleys of his core, he knew he loved her and that she loved him and things would turn out.  Turn out how?

What happened to the plans?  The preparations for travel and uninterrupted communication?  Didn't he say she would call but it would have to be very judicious?  Yeah, Cliff thought, I remember that.  Didn't he say we would Skype once a week?  Again, Cliff remembered those words.

What about the almost unintelligible "profile" on the business connections site?  What the fuck was that all about?  Bewildered and feeling disheveled, Cliff lifted his glass of wine and sniffed.  He drank.  Yes, he told himself, it would be great to be a drummer in a hot band again.  But I've already done that.  Man, I'm 60.  I don't think I want to do that anymore.  What is it like, Cliff wondered, to get to a place where you can even forget about love?  Is there such a place on the Earth?  Must be, Cliff assumed, my girlfriend found it.

Cliff stood stiff.  His eyes darted back and forth as if an answer was just beyond his sight.  What is this all about?  Cliff is perplexed.  He had taken her at her word.  He didn't know forces stronger than he were at work when she left country.  It was agreed the time would be short.  He would repair the house.  She would return and come see Cliff and the house.  She would take the train.  It sounded like a storybook romance where the couple overcomes all the obstacles and wins. Cliff reveled in it.  He felt the love, he felt her presence in his house.

Cliff ruminated about it.  Was it me?  I'll bet it was the first time we Skyped.  I was probably too matter of fact, not lively enough.  Fuck, it didn't make any difference right now.  One thing Cliff knew was this is as real as a rock for him.  He still loved her. It's real.  She is a part of me, he said out loud to the empty room.  When she quit communicating with him, he tried to shrug it off.  Lots of excitement, he figured.  Then he tried to ignore it.  She sent a short note on Valentine's Day.  That was cool.  Cliff was hopeful.  The next couple of emails were the nuclear ones, the ones that sent Cliff into a frenzy, the ones that said yes, I'm ready for a relationship but can't give you what you want right now.  Cliff's frontal lobes ached.  He thought he had a relationship only to be informed that, if anything, it was nothing more than a rehearsal.  Miffed.  Cliff was miffed.  It was as if he didn't understand anything anymore.  His world had never been like this.  Maybe he was naive.  Didn't see it coming.  They promised monogamy.  He held no hope for that. Yes, he was still monogamous but for how long?  He wanted to be.  Damnit, Cliff said.  Damn! Fuck! Shit! Hell!  How could he let himself fall?  He had dated other women.  They were cute, vivacious, funny, beautiful but they did nothing to Cliff like this woman did to him.  She collected his heart and left town.

He missed her.

Boom Boom, Out Goes My Breath...

I had severe chest pain tonight.  I get chest pain a lot but this was accompanied by trouble breathing which is never a good sign.  I got through it once the stress of working lowed.  I'm ok now.

Wonderful dy otherwise.  Students were friendly, want to hug me or shake my hand as if I had just won an election.  I don't remember the election. Do you?  Summer, come to me. Melt the winter from my bones.  Let me make a close friend.  I could use one.  Maybe I'm too particular.  Still, I could use someone to talk to.   Slow, meandering one on one with wine.  We can talk about love and true love and all the times we thought we had it nailed down.  Then someone comes along and pulls the nails.  The irony of it, the why of it.  Maybe some people just want to be in love and dont 'really think of the ramifications of telling someone you love them when you only think you do.  I am open to what happens next.

Are My Ears Ringing or Is There Someone at the Door?

Tinnitus is mostly described as a ringing in the ears.  It is most often caused by constant exposure to loud noises and is most prevalent in the industrial world.  The loud sound is actually a frequency wave, or several of them at once, that mows down the stereocelia in your ears.  Kind of like clear cutting the forest.  If you had enough amplification, you could log with sound.

Ok, that's lame.  I have tinnitus.  It can best be described as two or three high frequencies going all the time, with extremely slow modulation.  All the time.  24/7.  Sometimes I don't notice but if I stop to listen, I can hear it.  It makes it difficult to hear a conversation at times.  At one time, I could read lips and understand as long as I could hear the tonal quality of the voice.  It made me good at reading body language, too.

My particular form tinnitus is the result of listening to loud music, mostly through headphones, and playing loud music as a drummer.  Certain medications exacerbate the condition but it has been with me so long, I hardly notice the extra frequency.  That was an attempt at levity, there.

Slip, slip, slippin' into that dreamscape of sun on my face and water on my back.  Water, a trip to a body of water.  I did not make it to the river today although there was plenty of time.  I didn't think of it until just now.  The dog is moving slow today.  I might have worked him too hard.  Now I'm floating in the sand, swimming back out to sea, waves pushing against me but I am Bert Lancaster without Deborah Kerr leaving a trail in the sand as I crawl on my elbows to meet the waves.  I had a deep crush on Deborah Kerr when I was a kid.  I don't know how old I was, possibly twelve.  I saw her in a movie with Cary Grant and was smashed in the heart by her classic lines and porcelain beauty.  I was smitten for at least two years.

My inner peace became manifest the first time when I was a wee lad of 18 or 19 years.  Nothing was holding me down when I received a "job" offer from a band that was located out of town and I skedaddled.  I eventually wound up in Seattle.  I answered an ad in one of the two Seattle newspapers for a roommate. Ended up living with two of the most esoteric people I have had the privilege of knowing.  They were gay and showed me a culture that this little apple knocking kid from this town would never otherwise have experienced.  They threw parties with the most beautiful women in town.  The women felt very safe with them.  Me?  I was a fly on the wall.  I watched bugged-eyed.  Voices mixed, smells mixed, laughter, existence all happening and I was there watching and being a part.  I was the curiosity.

The owner of the house and I took a midnight trip to the Seattle Memorial Cemetery.  The house was next door but across the street to the boneyard.  He had a place of entrance he called "the hole in the wall."  It was a place where you could pull back the wire fence and crawl under. Nobody ever put a move on me in that house and I trusted the owner.  At that age I don't know if I would recognize a pass.  He and I stood at the top of the hill.  I went over and sat on somebody's giant tomb and watched the sun come over The Olympic Mountains and I swear I heard a choir of male and female angels emanating an E maj chord.  It was a perfect moment.  It has stayed with me to this day.  Even more so now as I realize I have incorporated that moment into the fabric of my daily life.

To this day, my life continues to experience "eternal" moments, where time stands still and I can take a look around with that half smile that graces my face and think, "This is ok."  Everything fits.  The many make the one.  Even now, as I sit typing, I am smiling.  Not grinning.  Not laughing. Smiling.  Sometimes I feel this life to be one continuous moment.  Lately, say for the last few months, as I am lying in bed trying to convince myself to sleep, I think of something that makes me laugh out loud.  Then I even more can't get to sleep.  And I laugh again.  Just some random, idiotic thing that happened either during the day or the previous day.  It will pop into my head and I laugh spontaneously.  A mild burst, I suppose.  Then I think it's funny that  I thought whatever was funny and laugh again.  Eventually, I sleep.

I am not grasping.  I am not trying to over reach myself.  I accept what I am and am very content to be who I am.  I'm usually pretty good at keeping myself entertained.  I'm not looking to be rich.  Money is fine but it has to be from me.  Be it through music, art, or teaching, I have to do it.  I am good at what I do.  If I wasn't, I would be too embarrassed to do it, I think.  That's it, though.  I have the confidence of being on stage.  Certainly Shakespeare had it right when he said that all the world is a stage.  We are the itinerant actors upon this space at this time busy being what we are.  And what are we?

Are we the sum of our experience?  Are we able to shed some experience in favor of more wearable experience?  Like dirty clothes for clean?

I haven't thought of it much but I AM divorced now.  It still amazes me how quickly I slipped back into being me and how comfortable I am with that.  Soon, summer.  Peak season.  Reason to roam.  Summer nights are my absolute favorite.  This summer will be interesting and most assuredly fun.  I hope to hell I have this house done by then.  Sure, I will, if I want to have summer.

Everyday is a winding road.  My daughter sent a message to me on Facebook tonight with the Cheryl Crow song and video attached.  She told me that it was the song of her childhood.  When the daughters were much younger, I made a home video of them with this song as the background.  No narrative, just music and kids.  I've got to find that.  Everyday is a winding road.  Take a walk, see where it takes you.  Leave your mind behind.  Let intuition and your heart lead you.  Hang on if you have to, let go if you want to.  Don't over analyze.  It's all as good as it gets at any time.

I'd also like to thank the angel or angels who have been watching over me these last few years.  I almost believe in you.  That was an attempt at ironic humor.  Did it work?  I used to tell people that I'm a pantheistic agnostic:  God is everywhere.  So what?  Funny?  I think so. You have to be smart to get it.  Or not.  Maybe I just have to explain it every time I tell it.

Thanks for this day.  It has been good.  I laughed and made people laugh.  People I don't know smiled and said hi to me.  That's always a good sign that I'm on my game.  I'm me.  Cool.

Cliff's New Clothes (working title)

Cliff washed the clonazepam down his dry throat with a chug of cabernet.  He held the glass of wine in his left hand and looked out the window. The city lights grew brighter as the evening dropped in.  Everything shot to shit, he thought to himself.  It looked good this morning but, goddam, it wasn't that way now.  Cliff knew that situations changed on a dime.  It's just that they usually happen to other people.  His patients, for instance.

Cliff is a chiropractor.  He had his own business until the new age chiropractors starting graduating from every college in America.  He still had his business but had added writing prescriptions for medical marijuana to his practice for the quick, easy cash involved.  It's the only thing keeping his business alive.  Chronic pain or illness, that was the criteria that would keep regulators off his back, so he wrote them, gleaning medical records for anything that might satisfy the regulator's staring eye.

He's at home, by himself, again.  Is it just me, he thought, or does every body go through life feeling as if something is about to happen?  It caused him anxiety.  Waiting, waiting, for what?  My whole life, waiting for it to happen.  What?

Another glup of wine and Cliff was still staring out the window.  Earlier in the day, Cliff had taken his dog, Flash, down to the river to walk.  Cliff wanted Flash to be a service dog but Flash got too excited at the river.  Today Cliff was going to walk Flash and not let him off the leash.  He and Flash walked one half mile, sat for a while and then turned around and walked back.  Flash knew he was being tested and kept calm but all the time thinking that if he got half a chance he was in the water.  Done.

Done.  Done walking.  Cliff looked up and saw his friend Amos coming toward him with his two young sons.  About a year ago, Amos had asked Cliff to sign off on his son's physical for football.  He had just wrecked on his bike and Amos didn't want to take the chance that his son would not be able to play Pee Wee football.  Cliff needed the cash and did it.  Doesn't make much difference, he thought.  At least he gets to play football.

"Hey, Cliff," Amos called, "How ya doin'?"

"Good, Amos.  You?"

"Good, man, good.  Junior's football team did pretty good last year, you know.  Thanks for letting him play."

"I only signed a piece of paper that could have put me in jail if your kid got hurt, Amos"

"Yeah, well, he didn't and he's even stronger this year."

"Right," Cliff sighed

Now, Cliff stared out the window.  The leaves on the apple orchard across the street had yet to come in.  It was February and the flickering anti crime street lights of the city could be seen through the trees.  There would be a full moon.  The house was quiet.  Flash was asleep on the floor.  He was snoring.  The furnace kicked on with a whoosh.  Flash sighed.  Cliff sighed.  Cliff drank.  It was a cheap cabernet sauvignon bought at Costco for $32 a case.  It was decent and not at all acrid as a cheap wine might be.  Cliff didn't know shit about wine.  He drank it anyway.  It helped put things in perspective.  It was good for his heart.  He drank it.

This is a rough draft of something, I don't know what yet.  I have to think about Cliff and figure him out.

The Wino Who Mistook His Wife For a Ukelele

Remember that book, The Man Who Mistook His Wife For a Hat, by Oliver Sachs?  Full of funny psychotic disorders?  And you're thinking, "Well, how can any psychotic disorder be funny?" And I'll be the first to understand your point of view, but yes, some are funny.  Soooo....

Off We Go

The Actual River, Honest.

Dear Diary:  I took my Border Collie to the Mighty Columbia River today.  He wanted to swim. Badly.  The river is down and swift in parts and waves swelled on the round rocks. We were walking off the asphalt path from one of the many dirt trails that lead off to the river.  Because the powers that be are draining the river so it can hold this year's mountain snow runoff, the river is harder to get to.  Round rock, some the size of a bowling ball, makes a shore.  The dog runs through the waves surging on the rocks.  I am fifteen feet up on the shore from the river.  Too much mud.  Another man had a Golden Retriever who was galloping after a green tennis ball being chucked by his owner.  My dog took notice but still had bushes to pee on.  Off he went.

We crossed the rocky mudflat to get to an island that you can only get to this time of year, as long as the river is down.  In the warmer months, the PUD's on both sides of the river dam up the river and slow its flow to produce more power. This route becomes underwater and swimming is the only access or by boat.  I wanted to take advantage of the river's ebb.

We made it over and the dog sought out the river bank while I stood atop the flat part of the island.  Downstream about one hundred yards probably more than forty Canadian geese took air and floated on the wind blowing across the river.  Then the wind let go and the geese swooped low over the river before rising up on the other side.

The wind kept up but since it wasn't biting cold , we kept going up river, along the shore.  The man was letting his retriever swim and this bugged my dog because I wouldn't let him swim. He loves any water deep enough to have a go 'round in.  This water, while warm for the time of year, would give him hypothermia.  Since he just about croaked from eating rat poison, I stuck to my guns and he did not swim.

We meandered back to the dirty, water stained asphalt and followed it back to the path to the parking lot.  I could tell the dog was tired but happy.  I was happy.  I sat on the brick wall and swung my feet while the dog sat far enough away not to get smacked by an errant foot.  We sat for a while.  The wind was blowing.  We crossed the parking lot to my car.  I got in and looked for my "government issue" sunglasses.  Crap...I left them at the river.  They could be anywhere.  I was not going to go look for them.  Too much ground to cover.

The dog and I got into the vehicle and drove toward home, stopping at Costco before going home.  After Costco and before home, I stopped off at my coworker neighbor friend's house to tell her kids that Banjo was ok.  They bought him a big tube of tennis balls for Christmas.  They were getting ready to go watch roller derby so it was a hi and goodbye hit and run.  On the way out, my coworker told me she might buy her friend's house.  I asked her how much.  She said $305k.  I thought: Holy shit!  Is it one level?  Yes.  With a three car garage.  Where?  Up the street, turn left on Mary St.  It's a small lot with hardly any yard.  I drove by and took a look.  Holy Shit, I thought again.  If this is what $305k gets you, what's my place going to be worth?  At least that.

And again before I got out, my coworker neighbor friend who lives up from Costco but not quite to my neighborhood said, "Why don't you buy my house? It's just right for you!"  I asked her how much.  She said probably $209k.  Holy shit, again.  Three bedrooms, two car garage in a neighborhood.  Hmmm...neither of those two houses has half the view I already have.  If somehow this did come about, and I'm only half considering it, it would be the newest house I have lived in since high school.  My mom kept popping out kids so, instead of building a new bedroom, my mother would have my dad build a new house.  Contract to have a house built to my mother's spec, I should say.  To this day, I pity the guys who built any of the houses we lived in.  My mother was OCD for detail.  The last house we had built and lived in as a family had a winding wooden bannister that my mother sent back THREE times before she would pay for it.  I'm sure the people making the custom bannister did not make a cent on it.  It probably cost them. That was my mother.

And I'm off track again.  Just before I went to the river today, a van pulls into my driveway and pulls through and parks in the lot as if they have been here before.  There was that air of authority about the van and its foreknowledge of where to park that put me at ease as to who it could be.  It turned out to be another coworker friend teacher person and his two beautiful sons who think I'm the best thing since Dr. Seuss.  My coworker needed to use my phone.  He was supposed to be at a church kid's party with "the inflatable castle thing..." and couldn't find it.  I gave him my phone. He couldn't find the church.  He was on the wrong side of Grant Road.  On one side of Grant Road , everything is North or Northwest.  The other side is South and Southeast.  He needed to be North but was South.  Seems they were late because the oldest son, who is five, was watering the flowers.  Nobody asked him to but he was doing it anyway.  His younger brother, who is four, decided that the mud being produced was too much to pass up.  After all, this was a once in a lifetime opportunity.  After this, they would be told that this activity was wrong and would not be able to do it again.  That's how discipline is supposed to work.  He tromped through the mud.  Again.  And again.  Yet again.  Then he walked into the house just as it was time to go to the church party.  Both boys had to be cleaned up.  When they got to my house, the father was flustered.  He had the phone and started to call someone.  The oldest boy told me what happened. the youngest said, "Yeah, my boooots were muddy.  I should probably take them off."  They looked good to me so I told him that's ok, we'll hose down the place later.

Dad was still on the phone trying to figure out what was going on.  This is a guy who told me last week that he had smoked weed for the first time.  He read that Carl Sagan had tremendous insights when smoking marijuana.  I looked at him and said, "Well?"  "I was couch bound," was his only reply.

I took the boys out to look at the bamboo.  I pretend to hide in the bamboo.  "You can't see me!" I shouted at the boys.  "Yes we can!  Yes we can!" They were both jumping up and down.  I jumped up and laughed.  "Hey you guys, what kind of animal lives in bamboo?"  "A panda. Pandas!" They were both shouting.  "Should we be watching out for Pandas?"  They both stopped, looked at me, looked at each other, looked back to me. "There's no pandas here, " said the oldest. "Right!"  I said, "Let's go find some!"  I led them back into the house where dad had finished his trail of calls.  Turns out he was too late for any activity, no they didn't need his help tearing down but thanks for asking.  They three trooped off to the van and vanished on the road.

Returning home from the river I still had enough energy to go out to the studio and decorate some platters.  I'm into a series with basically the same design.  The design is Picassoesque as I admire Picasso's work on ceramics.  One of the best exhibits I have seen was the collection of Picasso's ceramics, owned by his daughter.  It was on exhibit at the Tacoma Museum of Art.  Simple, expressive strokes.  Fabulous.  Tomorrow I will finish fixing the kiln and try to get a load together to test it.  Wish me luck.

Ahhhh...

This is a storm that was coming over Mission Ridge the other day.  It looked as if we were in for snow but, as usually happens, the storm circled the valley and went on its way to somewhere else.  Too bad.  We could use the moisture.

Crocus Are Popping Up

This day is off to its beginning.  The sun is out, the wind is blowing 5-10mph from the northwest, bending the green yellow bamboo to the southeast.  I sat for a bit on the front deck with my tea in my self made tea bowl.  I'll be moving to coffee as soon as the machine fills the pot.  Sitting on the deck with my eyes closed and face toward the sun, I let the warmth caress my face and warm my clothes.  Like I'm St. Francis of Assisi, the animals gather around me and lay in the sun.  They peer at me expectantly but I have nothing to offer except the occasional petting of whichever animal is closest.  If they aren't within reach I make no effort to extend my hand.  This is the moment of peace, when life is what it is and acceptance, forgiveness, and love fill my soul.  Ah, I hear the beeping of the coffee machine. Time for coffee.  Hang onto your hat.

My lovely daughter came over to visit Monday evening.  She and I share just about the same temperament although I'm probably a bit more aggressive than she.  She is like her mother in that she does not like confrontation of any sort.  But, the rest of it is me.  We have the same sense of humor and shake our heads at certain human frailties and are in awe of certain human strengths.  We talked about love and long distance relationships, something we both know about.  She fell in love with a high school exchange student.  Both knew it was star-crossed but took it as far as it would go and then let go.  She still thinks about him, probably still loves him.  We always laugh at the same things.  She is lonely but, like me, I think it might be a self-induced loneliness.  There are plenty of people to hang with but something about it is missing, so we don't bother.  We like to celebrate moments.  Each moment, special moments, moments with people we love.  Each other.  Nobody.  Although I'm her father with many years of experience behind, she still has a sensitivity of someone quite beyond her years.  She knows of things without actually experiencing them.  Wondrous.

We visited.  I let her take all my "The Midnight Special with Wolfman Jack" dvd's with her.  Like me, she is totally into music and especially the late 70's and 80's.  My other daughter is the one who gives me today's music.  This daughter digs the music she grew up listening to.  She also grooves to new music and attends concerts whenever she can find the time.  I remember when Owl City was big and she went to a concert at Neumo's in Seattle.  Holy cow, was she excited.  I went to a Dandy Warhol's concert at the same venue.  It is a huge room with a balcony where the seating is located and then the dance floor with no tables, only a bar and a stage.

She is unsure of what she wants to do.  She feels pressure from her self and from others to do SOMETHING!  I went the other route with her.  I encouraged her to take it slow and not do things because they are expected.  Too much pressure is put upon people to "choose" a path.  It is not necessary.  Maybe the path should find you.  Still, she doesn't know what she wants to do although she is excited to go see her sister in Italy this summer.  Even that seems to be anticlimactic for her.  I think her attitude is, yeah, it's great to be able to go to Italy but then what?  Like me, she is looking for avocation, adventure, someone to care for and love, companionship.  It seems we both may be too particular for this level of life.  To her advantage, she is young and can fully expect to see her desires become manifest. I am very glad to have a relative, a daughter, like her.  She chews a lot of gum.

The Old Boy

Then there is me, the twice divorced father, who tried online dating, and succeeded, who is remodeling his house but wants to do something else, who hates being alone at night, who is alone at night, who's roommates are a dog and a cat.  Both the dog and the cat seem to adore me.  The two of them are like toddlers.  The cat wants in and out constantly.  Consequently, she is out for the most part.  The dog just wants to chase something.  Doesn't matter what.  You throw it, he'll retrieve it.

I live with these creatures and end up talking to them quite a bit.  It's very different than how I talk to people.  With animals, they may understand a word or three.  There is a Border Collie named Lucy, who graced the cover of National Geographic one month, who has a vocabulary of 300 words.  The researchers put over three hundred objects in a room and then called each object by name and Lucy would go to the named object and retrieve it.  My Border Collie has a vocabulary, too.  Most of them are one word commands.  Talking to the animals I get to use my baby talk voice or my cartoon character voice.  I think they understand the tone more than the words.

Panorama of the Property Taken With iPhone 5

Here I sit, no one home to talk to but for myself, the cat, and the dog.  Yes, selfish it seems, and probably selfish it is but who among us does not look out for themselves first?  This house I live in and am paying for and which will never be paid for because if I stay here I will probably die before the mortgage gets paid off, could use some activity.  That means deep cleaning is due.  A party?  I know enough ne'er do-wells who would show up.  It could be fun.  Most of my conversations these days are with 18-21 year olds.  They can be fun, too.

My feeling is that most of us want or need to have a life with meaning.  Otherwise, what's the use?  The working for 25 years in one job, the mortgage, the bills, the relationships that come and go, the accidents, the deaths, the love that passes, why?  I can't say.  I lean toward the Buddhist philosophy of being in the moment.  Just because we can imagine a future doesn't mean there is one.  We remember the past but in the here and now can only serve as a guidepost.  What is, is.  What isn't, well, that's self explanatory.  Love is given away with no expectation of return.  Not sure, but I think that's one of the factors as to whether love exists in a person.  Yes, love yourself first, always.  If you don't, no matter how long you live with somebody or how many nights you spend making love, it isn't what you think it is.  To love someone else, you must truly love yourself.  Indulge yourself for the sake of yourself but not to the point where you are within yourself and unable to see anything but yourself.  Danger, Will Robinson.

Right now I am wearing my lucky blue slippers.  They are magic, fit my feet like skin, and are rugged enough to take a daring trip to the mailbox.  Soon, though, I'll exchange them for my running shoes and take a trip with the dog to the loop trail on the Mighty Columbia River.  Used to be mighty.  Now it's dammed at about every 50 miles and produces the cheapest electricity available in the world.  It will be good.  I will take the camera and my phone will serve as a video camera.  It is windy at the house and likely windier at the river. Fine.  I'm going out to grab some life.

Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galalxy...

I’m starting this now while I’m at work as I am very tired and won’t make it far once I get home.  Six new students today.  That means a lot of jumping around for me, gathering student info, finding out what subjects they need, when they plan on graduating, if they can read.  Yes, really, if they can read.  Everybody says yes until you have them read aloud.  Then the ugly truth emerges and a moment of embarrassment quickly passes as I reassure the student that it’s ok as I have material that will help them.  I can’t teach them to read.  I don’t have the time.  I wish I did.

We are at our capacity of 80 students.  That’s an even split of 40 students.  Doesn’t sound like a lot, eh?  When you consider that I teach about 15 to 20 different subjects or different levels of the same subject and the other teacher does the same, it is a lot of work.  No, I’m not complaining.  The law is the law and it is what I follow when doing my job.  They take away some of my salary, then add record keeping regulations that add a significant amount of paperwork, but I still show up.

After 21 years of this, I am ready to move on.  Where?  Where it is warm, preferably. Where the people are warm and tan and healthy looking.  I also mentioned in my last post that I have lived in this town for over 21 years.  I’m ready to move on from here also.  Since I am starting the last decades of my life, I should like to see and meet different people, explore cultures, live in cultures, participate in cultures.  I should like to contribute something to wherever I land.  I’m fairly intelligent and handy.  There are many things I can do.

And if I end up here for a while, it will be with the knowledge that someday I will be able to go and not come back should I choose.  If I did go, there would be no reason to come back.  That’s a very liberating thought.

I’m also done with people telling me I should “find” myself.  I will say that from a young age, I have always known who I am.  It hasn’t always been comfortable but I am pretty capable and get through the worst and the best of it.  I think people who tell me such things are people who have had some sort of personal revelation as to who they are and what makes them tick.  I was lucky enough in 1971 to figure that out with the help of a man who guided me.  It’s been a great story ever since.  And it keeps on going, one adventure after another.  It will be interesting to see what the warmer months bring.  The crocus popped up the other day and the sun has been shining for two weeks.  Cherry branches that I cut in the fall are putting out buds.  It will be an early Spring this year and probably a hot summer, complete with dry weather and the occasional thunderstorm.  The year is barely begun. 

Yes.

It Ain't Pretty...

Pretty Vegas is a song that has been on my mind lately.  I first heard it when auditioning guitar players in my vain, feeble attempt to keep my last band together.  When I say last, I guess it could have two meanings.  The first would be the latest band I was in.  The second, more profound meaning, would be that it was my last, final band.  Learn the song I did and have enjoyed playing along with it ever since.

The song produces a visceral, energetic response in me.  I need to dance when I hear it.  My favorite section of the song is when they break into the bridge, "The party's over and the road is long..."  The ride cymbal is prominent and talks to me, telling me there is rhythm in the world and to just go with the rhythm.  It certainly can't hurt anything.  Also, I listen to the lyrics.  The song picks up for me at the break, "The party's over and the road is long/The party's over and we're movin' on" reminds me of when I figured out I wasn't going to be a musician the rest of my life.  I wasn't that old and hadn't really prepared myself for any suitable long-term employment.  Day jobs came and went but music was pretty consistent.  Too bad I wasn't. That's ok now. I like where I am spiritually and wouldn't be who I am without it. Still, the song reminds us that you can get what you want if you do what you have to do to get it. "So If you think you want it/Just come in and get it/But it ain't pretty."  I think that's what we did as a generation.  I jokingly tell people my sixties lasted all the way to the eighties but it's no joke.  They did.  A lot of people did.  Then we woke up from a big party and the road was long.  We moved on.

Where did we end up?  Most of us had children, wives, husbands, partners, pals, business acquaintances, other unknowns who move in and out of our lives.  A striking thought occurred to me as I listened to this song on the way home from work tonight: This is the longest I have ever lived in Wenatchee in one stretch.  I lived in Wenatchee, grew up here, graduated from high school and hit the road when I was 18.  I came back sometimes for as long as a couple of years but never a stint like this.  At first it was the family, my family and my dad, his wife, Grace, and my mom were all in the valley.  My parents are dead and the kids are grown and gone.  The only Lynch by blood left in Wenatchee is me.  My step mother is a Lynch by marriage but she's all I have as far as a mother goes.

When it hit me, I was driving, and I had to do the math.  I don't do math so I just used my memory.  It worked this time.  I've been living in this valley for twenty one consecutive years.  It just might be time to do something else.  Wonder what it would be like if I had a job where I wasn't in front of people all the time?  Geez, I suppose that insipid need to be the center of attention would find other ways to manifest.  I'm probably better off working my routine in front of the classroom.

I have been thinking of moving on, possibly trying something different.  I have no idea what that would look like or might be.  The will is there.  The means have yet to become apparent.  It would have to be a good fit as the job I have is pretty hard to beat.  I can always teach somewhere, I suppose.  English teachers in korea make dollar.  In fact, Korean teachers are the highest paid in the world.  The world seems to ignore Korea.  When you look at the map it looks like it is the epiglottis of China.  North Korea gets all the press while Korea plugs along, making good cars and good cell phones.  Even sponsored classes I have taken on East Asian history tend to favor the Chinese and Japanese of the Koreans.  Korean potters taught the Chines and Japanese potters their craft (hobby, whatever...) Koreans craftspeople were kidnapped by the Japanese Emporer's army and brought back to make foods for the Emperor and his buddies.  Hey! I have a passport that has not one stamp in it.

Ramble, ramble ramble...I did my tax return today.  If I don't get raked over the coals, I should be able to pay for this frikkin computer.

Today is my father's 87th birthday.  He's been dead for a while but I though of him today.  I don't usually.  Maybe he's thinking of me, too.

They Went Thataway...

I am a potter.  I make useful things out of clay.  They are all made by hand.  That's unusual in this day and age.  It used to be that everything was made in Japan.  Now everything is made in China. In fact, China is where porcelain was discovered and first used.  So, to be a potter is kind of an anachronism.  Out of fashion, but quaint.  Why do I mention this?  About six months ago, my electric kiln stopped reaching temperature.  I had to fire my wares two or thee times to get them the glazes to mature.  Not a good thing.  Once, while in Seattle at Seattle Pottery Supply, the kind folks who sold me my kiln, I happened to talk to one of the employees, Kim, who said she remembered one other lady who had the very same problem.  It turned out that they were sent a "ferric bead" from the manufacturer of the digital control for the kiln to fix the problem.  Kim thought that was probably the problem with my kiln.  She told me she would contact the manufacturer, Orton, to see what could be done.

That was maybe three months ago.  I didn't hear from them so I ordered new elements for the electric kiln.  the thought was that nothing had happened with the manufacturer of the digital control and that the problem was burnt out elements.  This really pissed me off for a couple of reasons:  1.)  The elements weren't that old and should have plenty of life left in them.  2.)  I HATE HATE HATE replacing kiln elements.  I always break some of the brick and they never fit correctly.  Plus, it's a pain in the ass.

I received the new elements but didn't get around to replacing them right away.  I waited a week but decided if I was to make and fire pots, I needed to get this horrible task done.  I did get the top element in and gave up when the wiring fell apart.

Then, a couple of days later, Kim from SPS calls me and tells me that they just got the part from Orton.  Did I want it mailed or did I want to come get it?  I called the next day and asked if I could return the unused elements. Of course.  Ok, then I'll come get it and return $200 worth of electric kiln elements.  It would be worth the $$$ spent on gas.

So, I hopped in the car at about 9:30AM and set out, leaving the dog at home.  I brought my Nikon with me, just in case a fabulous photo op popped up.  You see the result on this page.

I arrived at SPS, which is in the SODO district of Seattle.  Starbucks headquarters is nearby.  I came in the door with my box of elements.  The only person I could see working there was busy so I set the box on the counter.  I wandered idly, which I am very good at. When I came back to the counter, Kim was there and knew immediately who I was and why I was there.  She handed me a piece of paper with a photo and a quarter inch long by quarter inch wide piece of iron with a hole in it.  That's it.  A tiny thing, it is.  About this time, Jim, the owner came out from the office.  "Hi, Tim," he said, "How are you?"  "I'm good," I replied trying to stifle the sarcasm I felt boiling beneath my bosom.

Jim and I go back farther than we have known each other.  He sold clay to my grandfather.  That is probably the only reason I still go to his store.  I'm probably the only potter in Wenatchee who still goes to Seattle Pottery Supply.  For some reason, most of the potters in the valley have a hair up their ass about SPS.  Something about bad service.  What I know is that the people at SPS do not suffer fools lightly.

Kim threw in a 50# box of porcelain for me at no cost.  That was a good touch.  I may not give them as much business at the University of Washington does, but I talk a lot.  I don't say bad things about SPS.

I grabbed my box of clay and my "ferric bead" and headed up 1st Avenue.  That's the vantage from which these photos were taken.  I never made it to downtown.  I was tired.  I've been tired.  I took off driving straight onto I-90.  Going through the tunnels before the floating bridge is such a trip.  Engulfed in darkness except for the lights hanging from the top of the tunnel, the sound of traffic wraps around my ears as I try to stay in my skinny lane.  I see the light in the distance and know what I will see when I emerge.  I will see lots of light.  I will also see Lake Washington and the floating bridge.  Then I'm on the bridge crossing Lake Washington.  Lake Washington is where I first water skied.  We were out in the guitar player's boat drinking Olympia beer.  I was sort of inebriated.  The guitar player picked me up, threw me in the water, then drove the boat a bit away from me.  He threw the water skis at me and then threw the tow rope.  It was hard enough getting the skis on but getting up on the water took almost all afternoon.  I did it.  So I have history with Lake Washington.

When you emerge from the tunnel that goes under the Rainier district of Seattle, it is a different world complete with houses, boats, yachts, and sailboats.  I've never seen a jet ski on that part of the lake.  The bridge rolls out in front of you and even in the midst of rush hour traffic, you feel as if you are the only one allowed to travel on that part of the highway.  It's always a rush for me, no matter how many times I've done it.  There is also some melancholy involved as I'm leaving the city.

I love Seattle.  I think I would rather retire to a city.  Seems like there is more to do.  More to do, live longer, right?

I stopped in North Bend on the way back for some bbq.  Damn good.  I got home and hit the computer to see if I had any fan mail.  None.  Then I called the phone company and had an international calling plan attached.  $4 a month and 25 cents a minute.  Hope I get to use it.

As I started talking to the phone dude, my daughter texted me and asked if I would be home and could she come visit.  Who would say no to that?  Certainly not this lonely old man.  And think of Banjo!  She is his absolute favorite person.  She arrived and I showed her the "new" floors.  She was amazed.  I thanked her.

Then we talked.  And talked. And talked.  She is an adult but feels a bit lost as she is not doing anything her friends are doing like going to college or getting married or traveling abroad.  She takes one class at the local community college where she lives and has a job.  I assured her she was doing just fine.  I just about said look how long it took me to find my way but thought better of it and shut my pie hole.  I listened to her talk about herself and was in awe of the insightful awareness she had.  What a great person she is and will be.  I told her that I don't have hope or faith that she will do well.  I told her I KNOW you will do well.  She wouldn't have it any other way.  I love being around her but understand that when it's time to go, she needs to get up and go.  That anxiety thing can really fuck up your life if you let it.

Anxiety.  Don't let it get you.  It's a mindfuck and it only gets worse if you give it wings.  I'm working on it.  I've got a handle on it and I know that it is just a matter of changing my pattern of thought.  That and a glass of wine can do wonders.  The power of positive thinking?

It works.

So Far Away...

You're So Far Away From Me

Are We Men or Are We Mental?

As a person who has been considered by the medical industry, big pharma, and an ex-wife as having a few mental disorders, most imagined by the power of suggestion, I feel qualified to speak about psychiatrists.  I have seen one shrink in my entire life and that was at least three yeas ago.  I remember that he upped a bipolar drug to an ungodly dosage which I took faithfully for about six months before seeing a psychologist who told me I was not bipolar.  I already knew that but buoyed by the psychologist’s prognosis, I decided to quit taking the bipolar meds.

Before I get to the meat of this essay, I gotta tell you that that I never thought I was crazy.  Maybe horribly depressed, but never psychotic.  Why horribly depressed?  Me?  Mr. Funnybone?  Maybe it was because of the way I was treated as a boy.  Yes, we can all say we got hit, spanked or suffered corporal punishment.  I suspect, though, most parents dished it out reluctantly.  I never spanked my kids so I understand the reluctance.  My parents didn’t like each other.  They were angry punishers, complete with wooden spoons, belts, hands, palms, fists, whatever was handy.  I was ducking a lot, not successfully for the most part.  What the Nurse Practitioner told me was that I suffered from PTSD due to the punishment my parents dealt.  Yes, I am vigilant and notice everything.  I remember being amazed that I could drive down the same road every day with the same person and notice when something was different.  The other person, who had been down the same road with me for the same amount of days, did not notice.  It floored me.  When I was told the reason I noticed every thing was because I was waiting for the next whack on the head, it sort of made sense.  Vigilant.  Like a wolf.http://www.wenatcheeworld.com/news/2013/feb/13/wolf-photographed-near-ardenvoir-probably-just/

Now, my parents are dead.  They died young at 75.  My dad died in 2005 and my mother, uh, a couple of years after that.  Both died of disease.  Dad, lung cancer.  It’s an awful way to go.  People have such hope that they will try anything and everything to buy time.  My dad stuck around because of his wife, who could not bear to let him go.  Even though my dad told me several times he was ready and very tired of chemo, he stuck with it.  That is love and devotion.  

My mother, alone, never remarried.  She died of Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.  http://www.alsa.org/about-als/what-is-als.html  It was very ironic for her to come down with this disease as she had been one of the most active people I knew.  She was involved in everything, Kiwanis, Meals on Wheels, and many community activities.  To have a neurodegenerative disease was the most unkind thing God could have done to her.  Maybe it was the twenty years of dating a married man.  I don’t know.  Doesn’t matter.

So, my roaming along point is that my parents died younger than the family average on both maternal and paternal sides.  My guess is that because they didn’t figure out they didn’t like each other until after they married, they carried a smoldering resentment.  I, being the oldest, was the obvious target.  Consequently, I was on the lookout for the unseen hand coming down to whack me on the side of the head.  Vigilance.

That’s over and done and I should be able to deal with it by now.

Ok, let’s get back to shrinks and other people ill equipped to judge mental disorders.  I read an article in the New York Times today about the new DSM V coming to a bookstore near you soon.  The article was written by Gary Gutting, Professor of Philosophy at The University of Notre Dame.  http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/02/06/the-limits-of-psychiatry/  He questions the way a diagnosis is made by the psychiatrists.  He calls them “moral judgements.”  The short of it is that Gutting says shrinks use a moral compass, or societal norms, to make decisions on disorders.  From my experience, I must agree.  I was only asked questions.  It was on my dime that I had a psychological exam by a Ph.D psychologist.  I took a 550 multiple choice exam, the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory.  I was also shown pictures.  Then the pictures were hidden and I was asked what I remembered from the picture.  I was also given other memory tests such as counting backwards and forwards using multiples.  2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64 and on as far as I could go.  It took six hours.  It was supposed to take 8 hours but I did the MMPI much faster than other mental defects.

I got the results and it looked like I was ok.  I guess the test is designed to rule out certain disorders and not really diagnose.  So, I was poorer yet no closer to understanding what the fuck was going on.  My prognosis:  poor life management.  Bad marriage.  Two people together because they don’t know what else to do.  Love lost, gone with the advancing years that harbored disagreements, differences in child rearing, differences in a personal approach to life.  I won’t put all the blame on that because I’ve always been a handful but being trapped, so to speak, makes one anxious.  Subconsciously, I knew what was happening but in the real world, I didn’t want to face it.  Too much to consider.

I was introduced to the big pharma end of mental disorder by a doctor who thought we should find out why I wasn’t sleeping well.  I had already done the sleep test.  You know, the one where they hook wires to you and then hook those wires to a computer and then say, “Good night!”  Yeah, like I’m going to sleep with all that shit hanging off of me.  Like anyone could.  I think if they could, they don’t have a sleeping disorder.

That led to a Nurse Practitioner with a specialty in psychopharmacology.  I swear no tests were given me other than a few questions.  Within one hour I had three diagnosis: bipolar disorder, PTSD, and Chronic Anxiety.  Boom!  Just like that.  I think I was relieved because, one, someone had put names to what I was feeling, and two, I could stay in the domestic situation awhile longer.  When you know, though, deep down in the bowels of your soul, that whatever it is that you are doing is only a temporary fix and that sooner or later you will have to deal with the certainty of outcome, it doesn’t help a whit.

My first Nurse Practitioner moved to Texas to be closer to her sister.  I was moved to the current Nurse Practitioner I am seeing.  Or was.  I don’t think I’ll go back.  We’ve accomplished next to nothing in four years.  She immediately diagnosed me as being ADD Without Mention of Hyperactivity.  (So, if it is without mention, why mention it?)  That brought Adderall, amphetamine salts, into the picture.  Things got ugly quick.  They stayed that way.  I was quick to temper but just as quick to subside.  It was a horrible roller coaster ride.  I was told by the “dealer,” my name for the Nurse Practitioner, that I may have to take them for the rest of my life.

As an itinerant musician for many years, I used and abused many forms of stimulants.  At first it was crosstops.  I would take a few before a gig and then count on being told to quiet down. (I play drums.)  Although I first used cocaine in 1971, it wasn’t until the late 70’s and early 80’s that I got into it as part of my lifestyle.  Performing and partying, staying up for a couple of days at a time, life of the party, crashing hard, sleeping, eating and then at it again.  I look back and think that I probably should have died a couple of times already.  I guess something or somebody wants me alive.

So I knew the drawbacks of using stimulants but I took them anyway because I was prescribed them.  I thought they worked.  I got strung out and stayed there, losing weight and not eating.  All this because someone trained with a certain point of view thought I needed them to cope with my life.  This is what Gutting talks about.  Should we go on using the “moral compass” as a guide to medicating our troubles away?  I think not.  I am still a strong believer in testing.  If a disorder has symptoms and those symptoms are identifiable, then I would hope that more than just a few questions would determine whether someone puts poison in their body every day, three times a day.  Yes, there are people who need these medications.  My brother takes lamictal for bipolar but he is no more bipolar than I.  As he says, he likes the way it contains his emotions.  I thought that was why he rode a bike.  Anyway, the meds do all the heavy lifting for him as far as that goes.  What I have found out is that, yes, the meds do the heavy lifting but to continue to do so you have to take them every day.  If you quit taking them, there will be hell to pay until you learn to do the heavy lifting.  I’m learning to do the heavy lifting.

The inevitable divorce has come and gone.  Even after the divorce was announced, I continued to take Adderall, Clonapin, and Trazadone with an antidepressant thrown in to smooth out the edges.  I quit taking the lamictal after being told by a trained professional that I was definitely not bipolar. (As mentioned, I already knew that.)  In addition, my dosage of Adderall was upped by 20 mgs to 80mgs a day, 20mgs over the recommended adult dosage.  I was cruising, baby, zoooom...

As the separation entered its second year, I knew I was strung out but went with doctor’s orders.  I entertained the thought of how to get off this shit.  I knew that I depended on the boost given me by the meds.  I took the first dose at 7:30AM and then went back to sleep.  By 8AM, I was up and blasting away at whatever.  I took two more doses later in the day.  When it was time for bed, I took the Clonopin and Trazadone to get to sleep.  Classic dysfunctional cycle, yet prescribed.

Someone found me and realized I was not in good shape.  My Christmas present was losing the Adderall.  It was magic.  The bottle of meds just disappeared.  God must want it that way.  I am glad for it.  Probably saved what is left of my life.

So whose “moral compass” was being used to determine whether or not to medicate me?  My then wife?  The Practitioner?  Me?  It is something to think about.  If indeed one uses a moral compass, then many assumptions must be made by the professional.  What input did I have other than answering questions? Of course we count on professionals to know more about the situation than we do.  I know more about teaching than a doctor does.  I formerly assumed that when prescribed a medication, the doctor knew what they were doing but it isn’t that way.  YOU must ask the pertinent questions.  Find out what the side effects are.  If possible, look the meds up online to find out what the long term effect might be.  Remember, clinical trials are performed on a very tiny portion of the population so the effects may differ for you.  Yes, a particular drug may have the desired result for you but the side effects may make that the lesser of the evils.

Ask the doctor who’s “moral compass” are they using to come up with a diagnosis.  You might have to remind them of the Hippocratic Oath.  

Life can get pretty hectic at times and it is up to each individual to decide how to walk their path.  Take care of yourself.  Don’t always leave it up to others.  Realize your strengths and your limitations.  Listen to yourself and listen to your body.  Trust yourself.

I Found God Under The Carpet.

...and one more thing about yesterday's legal procedure.  The judge noticed that the divorce decree did not say who was responsible for making the mortgage payments (me,) so he put that in for us.  What I should have made sure of is whether the credit cards that the ex agreed to pay for got put into her name and out of mine.  Sure, she'll pay them but if they stay in my name, it's my credit score that suffers.  Ok, done.

A magic thing happened the other day.  Ok, a few weeks ago, maybe two or three.  I had been painting one of the upstairs bedrooms.  I finished and put the lid back on the can of paint but did not pound it on just in case I found a spot I missed.  I left it on the drop cloth.  When I came back to it, it had spilled, the lid coming off and paint was pooled between the bedroom and the hallway.  One carpet white, the other a reddish brown.  Now both were blue.  Damn.  What a deal.  Now, instead of just painting, I was going to have to do something with the carpets.  Of course, why not?  It's always something.

I got curious, though, and wondered what was under the carpet.  I pulled a little of it up in the closet and saw sub-flooring.  In between the floor and the wall was a little gap where I could see what was under the sub-floor.  There were oak slats!  Could I have oak floors?  Would that be a goldmine?

I pulled up the sub-flooring in the closet and, lo and behold, there were oak slats that continued on into the rest of the bedroom.  I went to the hallway and looked under the sub-flooring.  Yup!  Oak floors!  You can see in the photo on the left the sub-floor and the oak floor.  There are staple holes in the oak but I like them.  They add character and age to the floor.

So, I got to work pulling up the sub-floor.  I have a staple puller that I bought when alpacas were kept here.  I don't want to talk about the alpacas but if I never see another one, that's ok.  I took the hammer and knocked the staple puller under the staple and yanked.  It made that creaky sound you hear when pulling nails or...staples.  Thing is, somebody must have thought that sub-flooring was going to get up and walk away because there were about 500 staples in the bedroom alone along with 2 full 4' x 8' sheets of sub-flooring.  The rest of the room had cut chunks of sub-flooring measured to fit but still stapled.  I spent a lot of time pulling staples.  I got a rhythm going and it was almost fun.

Hall Floor With Two Coats of Polyurethane

After the staple pulling was done, I got my grandfather's belt sander and started sanding the floor. Oh man, this was going to take forever.  I thought of an orbital sander but the time I used one, it took me for a ride.  I didn't think I could handle one again but I went to Home Depot to look anyway.  The rental guy showed the "latest and greatest" in floor sanders.  It had four rotary sanders that spun opposite of one another.  That way, he told me, the sander wouldn't get away from you.  And as far as sawdust went, you just hooked up a shop vac to the outlet on the sander, turn on the shop vac and sand away.  I took it home and got to work.  I got it done inside of three hours and took the sander back.

After the sanding, I vacuumed with the shop vac.  Even though I had hooked up the sander to the shop vac, there was still sawdust everywhere.  After vacuuming, I got out the tack cloth and started wiping the floor down.  FYI, the tack cloth is a resin coated cheesecloth that picks up the sawdust that the vacuum missed.  If you rub your hand on the floor after vacuuming but before using the tack cloth, you will see very fine sawdust on your hand.  Rub the tack cloth across the same area and the sawdust is gone.  This is a very good idea before putting any down kind of finish.  Otherwise, you put the finish on the sawdust.  Not cool because then the finish comes up when the sawdust works itself loose.  How did I learn this?  Next paragraph, please.

Bedroom Floor Looking In From Hallway

Another View From Hallway

About three years ago I had the brilliant idea of putting electric guitars together.  I bought all the parts from eBay; the body, the neck, and the electronics.  I bought the bodies already drilled for the bridge and pickups but unfinished as far as the guitar body went.  I would sand them with 220g sandpaper then stain them.  I used a dark stain usually.  Then I would start putting coats of polyurethane over the stain and gloss the body up.  I used polyurethane for the first three coats and then spar urethane for the final coat.  I did about three guitars then gave up.  That's how I figured out how to do the floors.  At least it didn't keep me from doing the floors.  It never occurred to me I couldn't or shouldn't do the floors.  I always think, in the beginning of any project, that it won't be as much work as it turns out to be.  I'm an idiot in that respect.  Some people would just say I'm an idiot.  I don't hang out with those people anymore.

View From Inside Bedroom

I got down to it and finished sanding and brushing on polyurethane.  Yes, I wore a mask but still had a bell ringing headache the next day.  And I wasn't finished.  Usually you only have to wait three to four hours before putting down a second coat but, for some reason, possibly lack of proper ventilation, the finish did not dry that quick.  I had to wait a day to get the second coat on.  It has to be somewhat wet still for the second coat to adhere.  I got the second coat on both the hallway and the bedroom.

I posted photos on Facebook.  Somebody commented they couldn't believe I did all that in a week.  Whatever.  Once you start something like that, you don't stop until you reach a stopping point.  I'm still not finished.  There is a second bedroom right next to the bedroom I just did and it has the same oak under the carpet formerly known as white.  I have to get the first bedroom finished before I can start the second bedroom.  The second bedroom has all the shit from the first bedroom in it.  And more.  Which means I have to find a place for all the extra shit.  Probably time for a yard sale.

I probably won't get around to the second bedroom until March.  Someone I love very much inspired me to take this on.  I want her to see the work I've done first hand.  I'm glad to have done it and, while not necessarily looking forward to it, am anxious to get the second bedroom done also.  It takes time, just like everything else.  I've got to finish one before I dig into the other.  Then maybe have a yard sale.  Or a celebration.  Both?  Sure!

Happy Happy, Joy Joy...

Happy Happy Joy Joy

Remember Ren and Stimpy?  No?  That's ok, I do.  A leetle song to celebrate another eventful day in my eventful life.  I am a very lucky man.  I seem to come out on the other end of things ok. Adversity, schmadversity.  Hang in there, dude.  Remember, The Dude abides... Just another in a string of events that make up the strands of my life, which has been a good one, so far.  I expect it will continue to be that way until the coyotes eat my bones.  I have strict orders to my wonderful girlfriend that should I become infirm, I should be wheeled in my wheelchair to the top of Rock Island Grade and leave me to the elements.  I shall drink Cabernet and Everclear and watch the stars come up.  In my infirmity, I will probably wet myself unless I am, as usual, dehydrated.  Either way, I will go peacefully and the coyotes will eat my bones.  It's not as bad as lying in a hospital bed in a permanent vegetative state with machines doing all the heavy lifting.  I've seen it.  No thanks.

Wait a minute, I'm not even going there yet.  That's a just in case.  I have plenty to do in the meantime.  I'm in a very good relationship to which my full attention can be given.  Not that it wasn't but this divorce thing, being legally married, always hung in the background kind of like somebody standing in the corner of the room, listening to every word said.  Now, there is no person listening, not that there was but I thought it a good analogy so I used it.

I'm feeling very light right now.  I've tried repeatedly to get a hold of my beautiful lover but I am afraid she is lost in the jungles of the Amazon and cannot get to me.  There is hope.  That just popped into my head so I wrote it.  I miss talking to her.  I love the sound of her voice and our conversations are perfect.  I never get tired of listening to her.  She is an intelligent person.  Me, too.  It makes it fun.  We have fun together.  When we're together.  We have fun on the phone.  I am excited to follow through with this person.  I have wonderful luck.

As good as I feel, and relieved, I still have work on the house to do.  I have a four-day weekend coming up.  I hope to get the bedroom finished so I can move back in and quit sleeping in the downstairs bedroom.  I found a box of laminate wood flooring, I think it is birch or maple, in the studio.  It was used for the kitchen floor.  I am using it on the landing just outside of the bathroom.  I think I've got it the way I want it so I will start the attaching process which includes adhesive.  I'll put the main part down first, then spend hours, probably, cutting the little pieces.  I'm not too sharp at doing the little pieces but have enough flooring to practice on.  :)

The courtroom today was comical.  The judge was a hoot.  Couples were yelling at each other in the courtroom.  I expected the gendarmes to come in at any minute to whisk the offenders away.  the judge yelled, "Be quiet you two!"  And they were.  Then, as they are sitting down after their case had been heard, the guy says to the woman, who evidently was his ex-wife, "You lyin' bitch!" Then she screams at him and I was positive the gendarmes were on their way but there was only an interpreter to come between them.  I laughed and shook my head.

When it was my turn to go sit in the hot seat, it was very formal.  My ex-wife sat at the other table. I think I was sitting at the prosecutor's table but that could be wishful thinking.  The divorce is uncontested.  The judge read through the stuff and was really nice about us forgetting to put stuff in the statement.  I get the house so he figured it should say I am responsible for mortgage payments.  Never thought of that.  He went through it all and then said, "It's too bad you two are getting divorced.  You seem to agree on everything which is unusual."  I replied, "We decided to go with Divorce With Dignity, your honor."  The two lawyers in the room, my ex-wife, and the judge laughed.  The judge said, "There ought to be a law or something..." to which I said, "You'd think so, your honor."  I knew I was winning huge brownie points by calling him Your Honor.  Then again, I teach Civics and know the protocol.  My father was a judge, too, but I never called him Your Honor.  Even my ex-wife said, "Yes, sir."  I would smile at the judicial faux paus.

What the judge couldn't know as to why we agreed on everything is because we couldn't afford lawyers and really had nothing to fight over.  Oh sure, she got the Chinese porcelain vase I coveted but what the fuck?  That was about it.  We both just wanted it to be done.  Outside the courtroom, my ex-wife offered me her hand.  We shook.  She said thanks.  I said you're welcome.  Then she said, "Drive safely back to town."  I said thanks again but was thinking  Thank God I don't have to if I don't want to.  But I did anyway.  The county seat is at the 3000ft above sea level mark.  Coming down you can see the Cascade Mountain Range in the near distance.  They were capped with snow and the sun was shining.  Voluminous, poofy clouds floated through the blue sky.  There was an air inversion which held some of the clouds onto the mountains with only the mountain peaks climbing above the clouds.  It was perfect.  I felt so good, I turned on the radio and sang along to classic rock.

So, that's that for that.  Next?