Marriage Go Round

Time to Fly

2007-01-11T17:53:00.000-08:00

I'm migrating to a new site.

Not sure why.

Better view . . .

maybe.

There's something happening here . . .

2006-11-15T05:40:00.000-08:00

I can no longer reach Crazy Jane at Feral Women and Angels, for some reason. The link on my page rebounds back to my blog, even though it's correctly addressed in my template. When I navigate directly to her URL, I get some weird propaganda about "effective manipulation." Does anyone know what's going on? I'm confused and a bit concerned.

In Memoriam

2006-08-26T12:54:00.000-07:00

Our dog, Sadie, died early this week. I found her when we got home from work, lying under the house where it's cool. She was on her side, as usual, and seemed to be looking at me. But she didn't come when I called, didn't wag her tail. Then I realized that her eyes were watching god.

She seemed so natural, otherwise, that I was having trouble processing the unreality of it all. "How could she be dead? She was fine just hours ago, and now she's suddenly, inexpilicably dead?!" I told J, who---like me---lapsed into shock.

J gathered up Sadie's toys and her bed while I retrieved her body, wrapping it in the comforter from her doghouse. We then carved out a grave with a pick axe and spade. The clay soil, baked hard by two month's of drought, was unforgiving.

She now rests in the grotto, a shady area just outside the bedroom window. She's close in death, just as she was in life. Still, our world just isn't the same without her. Sadie wasn't much of a watchdog because she simply loved people---better than most people do. I wish everyone had a heart like hers.

We miss you, Baby Girl.

Till We Meet Again

2006-07-05T05:34:00.000-07:00

I'm taking a sabbatical from all this. Time to get introspective and reconsider my personal and professional priorities. Maybe one day, when I get my shit together, I'll return--armed with relevant insights, meaningful philosophies, and amusing anecdotes.

Those of you who care, thanks for listening and sharing these past months.

Vaya con Dios.

The Meaning of Love

2006-07-02T13:48:00.000-07:00

Both light and shadow
are the dance of Love.
Love has no cause;
it is the astrolabe* of God’s secrets.
Lover and Loving are inseparable
and timeless.

Although I may try to describe Love
when I experience it, I am speechless.
Although I may try to write about Love,
I am rendered helpless;
my pen breaks and the paper slips away
at the ineffable place
where Lover, Loving and Loved are one.

Every moment is made glorious
by the light of Love.

---- from The Love Songs of Rumi

*An instrument used to determine the altitude of celestial bodies.

Wants

2006-06-28T14:32:00.000-07:00

In my previous post, I declared rather boldly that J and I know what women want. A friend has since asked me to elaborate. (I imagine your arched eyebrow and sly grin, Jane.)

Women, like men, want numerous things, most of them trivial, transient, and often unrealistic. Such wants are usually appeased through the acquisition of things and by resolving emotional issues (sometimes the former attempts to do the latter). But wanting a new pair of black leather heels or Tivo is not the same as wanting to be safe and unafraid.

At our core, each of us has basic needs that we strive (want) to satisfy. According to Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, all humans need/want such things as food and sleep, health and security, friendship and intimacy, recognition and self-esteem, self-actualization, and self-transcendence. In a healthy relationship, a man does his best to help a woman satisfy these needs, and she does likewise.

In addition to these core-essential needs, the women with whom I’ve have had intimate long-term relationships had individual wants, and they let them be known in their unique ways. I didn’t always recognize their wants, I couldn’t always satisfy them, and occasionally I simply chose not to. And vice versa.

At present, J and I are pretty attuned to one another, which means that we are sensitive to each other’s wants. It’s a matter of awareness, attentiveness, and love. Since we articulate our wants to one another, satisfaction is just a matter of attention and desire. I know what my woman wants, which is as good as it gets.

While I was in the other room, J snuck in and wrote the following:

“Women want the same thing as men: to be validated, listened to, honored, and respected. The catch is that every woman defines this differently. You learn how YOUR woman defines it by validating, listening, honoring, and respecting.”

So there’s our elaboration of what we feel women want. I hope it touches the chords of your heart.

Art is an intimate concept

2006-06-19T15:08:00.000-07:00

This past weekend was a real masterpiece. No cat emergencies, no weekend office hours, no tickets. Just fun, intimacy, and new beginnings.

After a rainy day spent sleeping in, watching movies, and cuddling blissfully on the couch, J and I went to dinner Saturday night at one of our favorite restaurants. It reminded both of us of our early courtship, when going on a date was a romantic affair, full of discovery and sharing. We went home and discovered some other stuff, but I won't share that here.

Sunday morning we went out for brunch and then visited some antique and curiosity shops as well as a folk art exhibit. I admit that I have a love/hate relationship with this kind of art. Some of it, like the following piece, was thoughtfully designed, displayed skill with the tools and materials used, and exhibited a creative coherence. It was compelling and had heart (no pun intended)--though it didn't appeal to my aesthetic at all.

Price: $750.00

A few steps away, another artist had his maps on display. (They aren't to scale, so they would be useless to a mariner or a family on vacation.) A nearby sign said that he creates his art by scratching away layers of paint on old boards that he finds.

Price: $600.00

WTF? I'm sorry, but maybe I just don't understand what constitutes art. I do understand that I have far too many uses for my money to pay $600 for an old board that someone scratched on with a rusty nail while watching Gilligan's Island reruns and drinking Captain Morgan. "Aye! This one be worth a king's ransom, I'll wager!"

Anyway, J and I played dominoes for about two hours later that day, tossed back tequila shots because we could, and had an uproarious time. I cooked, we watched What Women Want (although we both already know the answer) on television, and then retired to the love chamber and celebrated our glorious weekend, our glorious relationship. . . which truly is a piece of art that to this day remains absolutely priceless.

Many's the drip 'twixt the cup and the lip

2006-06-12T14:58:00.000-07:00

. . . as an old mountain man used to say.

The weekend didn't turn out quite like we'd planned. We ate pizza and watched movies on Saturday, but somebody out there must have drunk the wine and had all the sex--even though I called it first. Bastards! I hope you got hungover and badly chafed! (-;

Sunday, J slept till about 11:00, so we didn't make it out for brunch. The appeal of going to art galleries gradually waned; had they brought the exhibits to our living room, we might have enjoyed them, though.

Eventually, J went out to shop for girlie stuff while I stayed home and worked on a table we're refinishing. We frittered the rest of the day away watching Highlander (yes, again) and eating Egg McSandwiches. I'd love to be able to tell you that we were wearing kilts. But we McWeren't.

The DVD included a couple of music videos. I really miss Queen. Wish I could have seen Freddie Mercury perform.

On stage, I mean.

Weekend Update

2006-06-09T16:00:00.000-07:00

It’s been a while since I posted an actual comment. Apparently, digital paintings and Retrospective installments don’t count. So, let me regale you with some current happenings.

Memorial Day weekend was spent in and out of vet clinics and emergency animal hospitals. Two Socks (who is 15 and diabetic, as you may recall) took a sudden downward turn, apparently from some sort of infection. Her glucose level was at 48, lower than it’s ever been. Lower than she could live with for long. The vet reduced her insulin from 3 units twice a day to 1 unit in the morning. By Monday, her level was at 312, which is actually high but closer to normal for her. She’s stable now, but still weak, lethargic, and thin. At her checkup this past Wednesday, she’d dropped to 8 lbs, which is the lowest she’s been since reaching adulthood. Here's a picture J took of Ms. Puny Butt on Memorial Day.

I’d hoped last week that we could have an intimate and cozy “makeup weekend.” But J had to work both days. On Sunday, I made the mistake of thinking I could wait for her, car running, in the handicap spot just outside her building. I suppose I deserved a ticket rather than a warning, but with our recent vet expenses, the $250 fine was a blow.

I’m still working at the framing shop, which apparently exists outside of time as we know it. No matter how busy I am, time crawls at a snail’s pace. When I get off, normal time resumes. When J gets home, time doubles its pace. I guess if I want to live longer, I need to stay at work. I wonder if Michael Jackson is aware of this phenomenon. Honestly, though, I don’t think I could work with the dude.

Anyway, another weekend has rolled around, and J and I are excited at the chance to play for two days and hopeful that nothing will intrude upon our plans. Being Tauruses, we intend to do nothing Saturday but eat pizza, drink wine, watch movies, and have all the sex. (I apologize in advance to those of you who must do without because of our lustiness.) Since Tauruses also enjoy pretty things, we plan on going to brunch and taking in a couple of art shows on Sunday. We’ll probably only have time for some of the sex on Sunday, so indulge yourselves. (-;

Gotta go pick up my Shakti. No more waiting in the handicap spot, though. Once bit, twice shy.

Retrospective, Part 13: The Descent

2006-06-05T14:29:00.000-07:00

In the weeks following Benjamin’s death, J and I resumed the functional requirements of our lives: we went to work each day, visited with family, hung out with friends, made plans for the future. Our routine remained basically the same as it had always been, but we were changed. In the dim reaches of the soul, a person can wither from personal wounds and become lost in private despair. The gossamer threads that connected our hearts had begun to fray, and—as 1999 began—we gradually fell into a pattern of squabbling, resenting, and pulling away emotionally and physically.

I began drinking increasing amounts of Diet Coke. Though it seems like a small thing, it had enormous significance. Coke was not my drink of choice, but I always substituted it during periods of sobriety. It was, in its way, a pacifier that satisfied my oral fixation. I hadn’t drunk alcohol for some time, but I was still an addict. While Coke was socially safe, I elevated the habit to abuse and was soon drinking three 2-liter bottles a day. My increased intake suggested that I wanted very badly to be drinking alcohol, but I chose to ignore the warning.

I continued to write in the evenings, sacrificing time with J to work on the dissertation, which had become a psychological ball and chain. My office was my sanctum sanctorum, a private space where I could focus on the noble goal I had set for myself. But during lulls in the writing, while waiting for connections to come, I began surfing for porn—specifically, for slender brunettes who resembled J. I honestly don’t know why, but I became infatuated with hunting for look-alikes in sexually explicit situations. The implication was that I was becoming increasingly restless and looking for ways to ground myself, which meant feeding my addictive nature. Because J was my standard of beauty, only images that resembled her appealed to me. Soon I was surfing for porn more than I was writing, but I didn’t care. I was pleased to have found a stimulating diversion.

J, relegated to spending increasing amounts of time alone, had developed her own interests. She escalated the pace and intensity of her workouts, doing a nightly power aerobic routine that she augmented with Tae Bo and yoga. She also became devoted to the X-Files, which she watched and recorded every week. At first, her obsession was simply the macabre story line and the sexually charged dynamic between Scully and Mulder. In time, however, she became less interested in Mulder the character and more fixated on David Duchovny the man. She collected his photographs, read articles about him, and memorized facts about his life. She didn’t attempt to hide her infatuation from me, and I didn’t protest. In fact, I thought that it—like my surfing—was a healthy, normal, and safe outlet that could benefit our sexual connection. Soon, however, she was fantasizing about him privately when we had sex. Other phantom lovers followed, and our bed became occupied regularly by imaginary partners who, having borrowed my cock, were fucking J’s brains out without my realizing it.

* * * * * * * * * *

J eventually, inevitably, discovered that I was surfing for porn. We fought, she cried, and I made promises that I didn’t want to keep. I had also begun to spend extravagantly on dubious remodeling projects and unnecessary tools, which threatened our budget and diverted money from the house fund. We fought, she held her ground, and I felt emasculated. I told her that I wanted more sex, more variety, more raunchiness. We fought, she rejected my best arguments, and I resented her close-minded selfishness.

I may have become thoughtless and moody, but I hadn’t lost my capacity to think. In a moment of clarity, I recognized that the constant battling and unhappiness had a common denominator—me. I was shocked to realize how different I had become, how I had grown into something so contentious and undisciplined. I told J that I feared my chemistry was again out of balance; she agreed, though she had been afraid to suggest it. I called my psychiatrist at once.

When I related what had been going one for the past few months, my doctor told me that the obscene amounts of Diet Coke I had been drinking had simply washed the lithium out of my system. As a result, I had become hypomanic, even though I was taking my meds faithfully. Without immediate and intense treatment, full-blown delusional mania would soon follow. He put me on a mood stabilizer and suggested that I take a 30-day medical leave from work to get my shit together. I was devastated—not only by being victimized once again by my defective chemistry, but by having to out myself to the people I worked with.

When I finally returned to “normal” and went back to work, I did so with little self-confidence. An innocuous criticism from my supervisor reduced me to tears. A question by a co-worker about my absence made me tremble with shame. That my subordinate had taken over many of my duties made me feel dispensable, threatened, resentful. I never regained my leadership role in the organization. Despite the meds, weekly counseling, and J’s encouragement, I slipped inexorably into depression. The increased lithium dose rebalanced my chemistry, but it couldn’t remove my sense of failure. My marriage had been damaged by months of distress and discord, my professional identity was compromised, and I could too often see pity in my friends’ eyes.

Meanwhile, J was stuck in a job far below her potential. Her editing position was laborious, repetitious and boring, though it paid okay and provided solid job skills and experience. She worked in a small office with two other editors and her supervisor, Jake, who was something of a provocateur. To alleviate the boredom, Jake enjoyed tossing out probing questions during the course of the day to elicit stimulating, sometimes intimate discussions. J kept in touch with me regularly at work, encouraging me to hang in there and look for the silver lining. I envied her light-hearted workplace and emotional health.

* * * * * * * * * *

It began slowly: a beer at someone’s party, a sip of J’s wine after dinner. Then, on a business trip, I indulged my demon every day and every night at the hotel bar. Back home, I began to drink whenever I felt I could get away with it, using all the tricks of the alcoholic to mask the smell. When J caught on, she was furious—first that I was drinking behind her back, and second that I had lied about it. I made promises and, for a while, resumed drinking Diet Coke, which understandably terrified J in a different way. Feeling like I was caught between a rock and a hard place, I announced that I was going to drink, but that I would only do so at home and with J’s knowledge. She hated the idea but eventually grew tired of arguing about it, of being my caretaker when I obviously didn’t care about myself. I chose to interpret her silence as tacit permission.

In spite of our growing distance, J and I tried to function like an ordinary couple—or at least like shadows of the extraordinary couple we had once been. We smiled and held hands at parties, went out to dinner often, took weekend trips, and went through the motions of physical intimacy and desire. But even when I was sober, J complained about my growing paunch, lack of stamina, and inability to satisfy her sexual needs. Even her fantasies couldn’t overcome my dismal reality. When she suggested that I get a prescription for Viagra, I didn’t protest; I had little pride left by then. It helped in the obvious way, but it couldn’t restore J’s respect for me.

* * * * * * * * * *

By the end of the year, J’s advanced workout pace had paid off in a slim, buff figure and a huge dose of confidence. Inspired, she decided to act on a childhood dream, so she signed up for a modeling camp, auditioned for several agencies, and was offered a modeling contract. I accompanied her to every interview and audition and applauded her victories enthusiastically. She eventually turned down the contract, being far too self-possessed to let herself be exploited by an industry that thrives on objectification. She had, nevertheless, proved that she could do it, and I was very proud of her courage and discipline.

Although our marriage had been on autopilot for over a year, it never occurred to me that J’s new self-confidence posed a threat to our future together. One might generously call it naiveté, but my attitude about our marriage was actually closer to complacency. J had chosen me, years before, against all odds and in spite of my blemished past. She gave me reason to believe that the gods had blessed our union. Sadly, I allowed myself to take her love and loyalty for granted. I had waned in my role of knightly prince charming, and she had grown into a strong and self-reliant warrior-princess. I was no longer slaying dragons for her favor; I was the dragon.

* * * * * * * * * *

Finally, the much-anticipated 2000 arrived, the year we would move to mecca, buy our first house, and wallow in cultural nirvana. That June, I completed and defended my dissertation. J gave me a silver bracelet before my graduation ceremony, cheered wildly when I walked across the stage, and took me out for a celebration dinner afterward.

The next month, she and her office companions drove to an out-of-state workshop. I drank without restraint and surfed for porn each of the three nights she was gone. When Jake dropped her off in front of the house, I was badly strung out but tried my best not to show it. J, on the other hand, was light-hearted and didn’t seem to mind the messy house or the empty beer bottles.

In August, I received my 5-year service pin from the company. It was a bittersweet recognition, since I had already announced that I was leaving the following month.

On our last night in that city of concrete and bad memories, we threw a party to celebrate our new beginnings. Our friends and co-workers came and went, wishing us well and making the obligatory promises to stay in touch.

We relocated over Labor Day weekend, unloading the U-Haul at our new home on the hottest day of the year. It was a fresh and exciting transition, although we had brought many of our problems with us. J had taken a job at an ad agency, and I had secured an editing position at a small dot com. Although we spent much of the first three weeks acclimating ourselves to our new circumstances and overlapping schedules, we also found time to immerse ourselves in the sights and sounds that drew us to the city in the first place.

But it soon became evident to me that something wasn’t right. J was acting strangely, holding back, being evasive. Something. When I mentioned it one night at a funky nightspot, she became overly defensive, and her reply felt fabricated and hollow. I was now certain that something was going on, so I asked her point blank:

“Are you having an affair?”
“How can you ask me that?”
“Would you tell me if you were?”
“No.”
“What!? Are you telling me that if you were having an affair, and I asked you directly if you were, you wouldn’t admit it?”
“No, I wouldn’t.”

My mind careened out of control, skidded on thin ice, and plunged over the edge. We argued until we left, argued on the drive home, argued until we fell asleep, and argued in the morning while we dressed for work. Throughout it all, J insisted that she hadn’t done anything. But I couldn’t believe that, not after what she had said.

When she left for work, I picked up her journal from the coffee table where she usually left it. In all the years we’d been together, I’d never so much as glanced inside one of her journals, and J made no effort to secret them away. Now, twenty minutes before I was to drive across town to my new job, I sat on the couch, opened to the last page, and softly began to moan.

J Series: 6

2006-05-31T19:12:00.000-07:00

Occidental Wisdom

2006-05-27T10:56:00.000-07:00

"Joys are often the shadows cast by sorrows."
---From a recent fortune cookie

J Series: 5

2006-05-24T14:07:00.000-07:00

J Series: 4

2006-05-19T06:24:00.000-07:00

Fresh PB & J

2006-05-15T12:17:00.000-07:00

A friendly nudge has alerted me to my extended silence here. Apologies to my many fans who must have worn a shine in the edge of their seats by now.

Let me hit some recent highlights in the life of PB & J and see if any pique your interest.

My job at the framing shop has entered its 5th week as of today. It's altogether not unpleasant, though sometimes the repetitious nature of my duties grates on my sensibilities. I dislike doing and redoing tasks, but since we get art orders day upon day that need to be mounted and framed, the regimen of cutting backs, mounting canvases and prints, cutting and assembling frames, and packaging each piece for shipment is, by its nature, repeated over and over ad naseum. Fortunately, I usually work on a different part of the process each day, so the tasks vary in the short term.

We had an "office party" week before last and I got to show J my work environment. She was a hit, of course, both with my coworkers and their spouses. She has an intimidating beauty that often causes other women to bristle and men to drool, but she also has a warm and accessible humanity that usually causes people to put aside their assumptions and just accept her for her sweet self. At the end of the evening, the founder dude held a contest based on art history. J won first place (a $50 gift certificate at a local food boutique) and I won second place (a bottle of champagne). I felt rather self-conscious about our sweeping the awards, but one shouldn't hide their light(s) under a bushel, as they say.

I'm still calling myself a freelancer, by the way (just got a client check in the mail today, in fact), but I don't have any work lined up right now. I have a couple of potential clients, but "potential" doesn't pay the bills. More on that as/if something takes shape.

Yesterday (Sunday) was J's birthday---Princess Day, as we called it. It was also Mother's Day, and Two Socks and Sadie, who can't seem to hold onto money, limited their gift-giving to a nice card. Being the warm-hearted Mom that she is, J was delighted that they even remembered.

I had bought J the "perfect" ring on Saturday at an out-of-the-way gift shop, so I was already on the fast-track to being the golden boy come Sunday morning. We slept in, then I made J her favorite brunch: eggs McFunky. It was rainy when we left to hit TJ Maxx, where J spent a nice chunk of the cash she'd received from her parents. From there, we drove to the shoe store to get J’s requested b-day gift: some sexy new heels. We'd about given up on finding that "perfect pair" she'd hoped for when I saw an out-of-the-way display apparently dedicated to the discriminate woman who appreciates the professional-slutty look. I swear: when J put on these strappy sandstone pumps with 4-inch heels and cutout toes, my pants got tight. I was delighted to buy them, and she was delighted that we'd found the perfect pair when all appeared lost.

J had requested that we go to a hillside restaurant where we could drink margaritas and watch the sunset, but the persistent rain and lightening called for a last-minute change of plans. Her request? Go home, order our favorite pizza, play dominoes, and drink tequila till bedtime. And we did. Eight shots and a couple of bowls later, J slipped off to the bedroom and returned wearing her new high heels and little else. She strutted up to me, ran her hand along the inside of my thigh, and sashayed down the hall to the bedroom. You can imagine what happened when the lights went out.

This morning, after I dropped her off at work, I ordered a dozen red roses and had them delivered to her office. (Part of the pleasure in getting flowers at work is having your co-workers ohh and ahh, after all.) You might think they were for last night, and in a way they were. But actually, this being our 12th wedding anniversary, the roses signaled appreciation for a dozen perfect years together. Was every day flawless and filled with happiness? Hell no! If you’ve been reading the Retrospective (and as you will see in the upcoming installments), we’ve been through hell and caused each other considerable heartache. But where we are today is perfect, so how can the steps that led us here be anything but?

In about three hours, I’ll pick up my Shakti-bride at work and take her to our favorite restaurant to continue the celebration. Then back home, where we’ll turn out the lights once more. It will be memorable, you can be sure.

Retrospective, Part 12: The End of the Beginning

2006-05-02T17:33:00.001-07:00

By late 1998--four years after I was diagnosed as manic-depressive--I was still under the care of a psychiatrist who monitored my lithium levels and my mental state regularly. Because the meds had stabilized my condition so effectively, our visits had leveled off to once every six months. I had also been seeing a psychologist for nearly three years, which provided a healthy outlet for my general life concerns. My illness had understandably raised many questions about my past and the course my life had taken as an adult. For instance, I discovered that what I had always proudly called my “cavalier nature” (being easily caught up in dubious adventures; making impulsive decisions with little thought of the consequences; burning bridges that I should have crossed; crossing bridges that I should have avoided) was more than likely cyclothymia. My full-blown attack had not suddenly sprung up out of nowhere; I had been reacting to my chemical imbalance throughout my life--sometimes imperceptibly, occasionally dramatically, and often in ways that impacted the lives of others.

I learned that my drinking, which began in my late teens and grew into full-blown alcoholism by my mid-twenties, was in all likelihood attributable to my mental illness: manic-depressives often drink to cope with their symptoms. I reexamined the string of failed marriages that I’d left in my wake: my first marriage was damaged beyond repair by my chemical excesses and erratic behavior, eventually eroding X1’s patience and causing her to fall out of love with me; my second marriage--the Christian era--came unhinged when I was swept away by intellectual and artistic pursuits and saw X2 and the church as roadblocks to my self-fulfillment; my third marriage, one long chaotic drug- and alcohol-fueled adventure with a woman more fucked up than I was, eventually became so bizarre up that even I couldn’t stand it. J opened my eyes to the possibility of spiritual redemption and bliss beyond my wildest dreams; ironically, the beauty and wonder of her love for me--flawed as I was--probably helped trigger my most intense dementia.

I naturally reconsidered the gene pool that I had been dipped from: my father was an alcoholic who was never there when I needed male guidance; my mother was a passive-aggressive busybody fixated on the morbid who, late in life, also drank to excess. I have yet to figure out which was bipolar, since I can’t remember any conduct by Mom or Dad that was blatantly manic. Either could have spawned my defective biology. The sister who also turned out to be bipolar? She has never drank alcohol of any kind, but she had a long history of extravagant spending habits prior to her diagnosis. She’s equally uncertain which of our parents passed along the disorder, but--like me--she suspects that it was Mom because we both favor her in many ways. My other sister? Ditsy and lost in the past, but apparently sane. My brother? A social buffoon whose self-importance is largely a delusion, but he’s never been diagnosed with a clinical disorder--that I know of. I eventually had to accept that it didn’t matter how I came to be bipolar; taking care of myself so that I never again had to go through such an ordeal was--and is--my chief concern.

As the fourth year of our marriage melted warmly into the fifth, J and I were prospering. We had each racked up seniority and pay raises at our respective jobs, which had allowed us to begin saving for a house. We intended to maintain the status quo until 2000, when we would relocate to the city where we now live, the mecca of the state, the heart of our hearts. My alcoholism, which had flared up at the beginning of our marriage, had been under control for four years. I had become addicted to Diet Coke, however. J and I still smoked marijuana, together and in moderation, whenever we were lucky enough to find some.

With my psychologist’s support, I finally began writing my dissertation with just over a year remaining on the 5-year deadline. I had lost interest in getting my PhD shortly after taking an industry job. Why should I bother, after all? I had no intention of returning to academia now that I had a successful career an editor. But J--along with the chairman of my dissertation committee, my professors, my supervisor at work, and my friends--had been encouraging me for a couple of years to just do it, to finish my degree for my own sake. So, every night after dinner, I marched into the office I had set up in the spare bedroom, closed the door, and pecked away for a couple of hours. J occupied herself by doing yoga, reading, and watching television while she made jewelry.

It was a very productive, personally fulfilling time in our lives. We were still working out regularly and watching our diet. We had a circle of friends we enjoyed, and we each had made close friends at our offices. Whenever we had a long weekend, we packed up the Explorer and went camping. We called it "hitting the honeymoon trail." We also made frequent day trips to the city that would soon be our home. I had resurrected my interest in photography and sketching, and J was selling her jewelry at a local shop. Our intimacy remained a priority, and we celebrated it by making love three or four times a week. Yeah, life was good--so good that we completely forgot about logging trucks.

One morning we noticed that Benjamin had become uncharacteristically lethargic. You could always count on the boy to lurk in the shadows and, just as you stepped out of the hallway, suddenly shoot across the room and lump right where your next step would land. Naturally, you would be thrown off balance in your frantic attempt to avoid stepping on him. He would then zip off in a flash of watermelon fur, laughing all the way. But he was no longer lumping, and we were concerned. Curled into a ball near the stove, he seemed disinterested in the world around him and wouldn’t--or couldn’t--eat. That afternoon we took him to the vet. It wasn’t good news. They told us he had an untreatable congenital liver condition, and that his health was deteriorating rapidly. Had we all the money in the world, we could not save our baby. We were devastated. We’d had Benjamin less than a year, and his joyous spirit has inspired us all. Even Two Socks, who at first ignored him, was eventually won over by his tireless playfulness. To watch Benjamin diminish was like watching the sun set for the last time. How could there be life without him?

We hovered close to him in the evenings and came home from work a couple of times a day to be with him. As J fed him with a dropper, holding him close and whispering tender assurances, I held the I.V. bag to hydrate his limp body. After two or three days, we realized that he wasn't improving in spite of our love and ministrations. Eventually, his obvious pain and withering spirit made it clear that we had to let him go. We both cried and stroked his fur as the veterinarian administered the shot that relieved Benjamin’s suffering. As he slipped into the shadows forever, a part of each of us followed. His death would lead J and I into dark places within ourselves, places neither of us anticipated. As individuals and as a couple, we would never be the same again.

J Series: 3

2006-05-01T17:42:00.000-07:00

The Best of Times, the Worst of Times

2006-04-28T07:23:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was my birthday.

It was unforgettable, I'm afraid.

O happy day.

Retrospective, Part 11: The Blue Period

2006-04-23T14:59:00.002-07:00

I’d reached my manic pinnacle somewhere during the 2-months between my mom’s death and my marriage to J, a period characterized by deranged thoughts and bizarre actions. During our honeymoon, I gradually edged back into a hypomanic state: I was still hypersexual, euphoric, and unreasonably confident, but the psychotic episodes had mercifully ended. By the time we reached home 35 days later, I was pretty much a wrung-out version of my former self.

Without the red filter, I became increasingly aware of my mortal limitations and human frailties. An eagle is a glorious thing when it’s soaring overhead, rising and spinning on the wind. Confined in a steel cage, its tail limp and its wings folded uselessly against its sides, the eagle must wonder how such glory could so easily be humbled. Life without mania seemed bland and pointless; having experienced godliness, how could I again settle for mundanity? The loss of my power (whether delusional or real) was like the loss of the true me--the fearless, powerful shaman who communed with gods, aliens, and nature and had single-handedly thwarted evil with his magical talismans.

Compounding my mental and emotional distress was the realization that I--mortal once more--must now face the economic, social, and psychological consequences of my manic period: the frivolous purchases that now baffled and disturbed me, the bills that were quickly stacking up, my empty bank account, the friends who eyed me warily, my damaged reputation in the English department. It was as if the world itself had been stripped of its magic: the apartment seemed so small and plain, the town so sterile and ugly, the horizons so suffocating near. Trains were just trains, people just people. The angels had fled and left me to wrestle with memories of a faded glory and fear of an approaching doom.

Within two weeks of our return, I had become increasingly despondent and lethargic, afraid to leave the apartment and face the real world. My confidence plummeted to depths equal to the heights I had known while manic. I froze at the slightest challenge: washing the car, cooking a meal, making love, getting dressed. I couldn’t read or carry on a conversation or sleep due to the voices of doom that now occupied my head, condemning me day and night. I was obsessed with images of myself living in a cardboard box under a bridge, deserted and destitute.

My days were marginally bearable, for J stayed close and did her very best to break the black spell that was rapidly consuming me. But alone in the quiet hours of the night, I paced the floor and cursed my existence. My fears, magnified by the chemical imbalance terrorizing my brain, coalesced into a single horrific mantra that looped endlessly through my mind. Nothing could break the cycle, except unconsciousness.

I still remember that deep-blue night vividly; the vision of my exhausted and pathetic self crashing in flames will haunt me for the rest of my days. It was about 4 a.m., and I was pacing downstairs, whimpering and tearing at my skin and hair while J, exhausted, slept fitfully in the loft above. I had by then worn a circular track in the carpet, my thoughts and actions now a cycle of unbroken despair. I felt like I was at the brink of the abyss, circling nearer and neared the inevitable plunge into oblivion, yet I couldn’t stop, couldn’t save myself from myself. I was falling, falling like a dead bird.

I came to when my chin hit the coffee table. Lea, awakened by the crash, ran downstairs to my side and helped me to my feet and onto the couch. Until that moment, I had never blacked out in my entire life. Dazed and in pain, I could barely speak. I cried and clutched J tightly while she rocked me in her arms. At daybreak, she drove me to the emergency room.

Within 10 minutes of entering the examination room and hearing a brief history, the doctor announced that I was suffering from bipolar disorder, a mental illness that would require daily medication for the rest of my life. I can still see myself as if looking down from the ceiling: crumpled in the corner of the room, devastated by a diagnosis I couldn’t bear to hear, and wailing over the death of who I had been. From that day forward, I would carry the stigma of my illness around my neck like an albatross. We left the hospital with a prescription for lithium carbonate and an appointment with an HMO psychiatrist the following day.

Unable to face my teaching responsibilities, I asked to be transferred to the department’s writing lab where I avoided contact with people as much as I could. I was emotionally erratic and would cry over a minor difficulty, an unkind look, a sudden memory. I had no concept of the nightmare that J was living; she always showed me her brave face, knowing that her fears would only drive me deeper into despair. For over two months, she had followed me through my private heaven and my private hell, shoring me up and gently assuring me. (“Ba-a-a-by. Baby! Everything’s going to be just fine.”) With me “gone,” J had no best friend to confide it, and pride kept her from turning to her family or to counseling. The universe had placed a tremendous burden on her shoulders, and that burden had a terrible burden of his own.

Weeks flowed into months and months became years, and my illness stabilized through medication, psychotherapy, and J’s steadfast presence in my life. I was offered an editing internship at a local company and was promoted to full-time editor within 6 months, to senior technical editor within 9. J graduated with an MA and eventually took a job as a production editor at a company a mere two blocks from mine. We lunched almost every day in a nearby park, reading Pooh stories to one another and tossing leftover sandwiches to the ducks. We had started over, but neither of us forgot how we had begun. Beneath the laughter and the intimacy were deep and jagged fissures that held secret fears and unspeakable resentments.

For now, though, we were rosy cheeked and optimistic. It was a time in our marriage for celebrating the strength of our union and capitalizing on lessons learned, to build a future filled with happiness and success. The money was rolling in, the bills were paid, and we had made new friends--friends who didn’t know. We worked out together, made love often and vigorously, and went camping regularly. To all who knew us, we were love incarnate. We had become what other married couples aspired to be.

After some discussion, J and I decided that we were ready for a baby. We went to the city shelter where we found Benjamin, patiently waiting; he knew we would come. So young and strong and spunky! He was the most handsome cat we’d ever seen! As J bent down to say hello, he reached through the wire and gently cupped her face with his paws. We spirited him home at once.

Benjamin became the center of our brave new world. He was our baby, our little lump of joy.

Shiva-Shakti

2006-04-18T15:52:00.000-07:00

Close Enough

2006-04-14T06:38:00.000-07:00

"Every child is an artist. The problem is
how to remain an artist once he grows up." ---Picasso

Starting Monday, I'll be working part-time as a Materials Handler, preparing fine art prints for shipment to customers around the world. I won't make art, but I'll faciliate art. That's closer to my childhood calling than I've been in many years, and I'm pants-wetting excited.

It's a small operation with only three full-time employees: the founder/president, an accountant, and the guy who prepares and frames the prints. I immediately liked all three. I'll assist in the framing shop, working about 20 hours a week for $8.50 an hour. I make over 4 times that as a freelance writer. But my heart feels rich.

When I walked in, the first thing I saw was art---everywhere. Prints of classic works by Van Gogh, Escher, Degas, Da Vinci, Van Eyck and contemporart artists like Jack Vettriano, Bill Brauer, and Steve Hanks were stacked or hung in every room. Many works I recognized; most I didn't. It was like being back in Art History class. My mind was boggled.

I wanted to share one of the images I saw when I first entered the printing room:

It's called Black Dress by Ed Martinez, and it immediately reminded me of J. Hard not to love a place that appeals to both my aesthetic and romantic interests.

Honestly, I haven't been this jazzed about working---full-time or part-time--- in a very long time. I start Monday and will give you a better-informed assessment of my place in the operation after my first day on the job. For now, my heart is light and the little kid inside is tickled silly.

J Series: 2

2006-04-12T15:43:00.000-07:00

Crossroads

2006-04-08T07:59:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about taking a new job. I never intended to be a writer/editor. It sure wasn't my "dream" as I was growing up. No, I was going to be an artist.

I was the only one in my family with any artistic talent. Where it came from I don't know. But even before I started kindergarten, I drew constantly. As I got older, my parents and aunts and uncles continued to buy me art supplies: paper, drawing pencils and erasers, finger paints, watercolors, charcoal, pastels---even an easel. Throughout grade school my teachers and classmates praised my creations. I even won a citywide editorial contest in sixth grade, and my cartoon was reproduced on the front page of the newspaper. I decided then and there that when I grew up, I would be an artist and do the thing I loved for the rest of my life.

In junior high I was fortunate enough to have an excellent teacher who introduced me to oil painting, printing, and pottery. One of my pieces was chosen for display at the city art center, and I was awarded an art scholarship there. I was totally caught up in the dream and was rubbing elbows with people who had successful careers in art. I realized that I had sufficient talent to become an illustrator, perhaps even the next Norman Rockwell! I continued to take art classes all through high school; when I graduated, I enrolled in the art program at a nearby university. Because I had always liked to write, I chose English for my minor.

Then, I blew it. I got scared, and I blew it. After one only semester, I let an instructor convince me that I wasn't good enough to become a professional artist. It was so stupid! Why did I listen to one insignificant asshole and turn a deaf ear to all those who had supported and encouraged me throughout my life? But I did. I dropped out of college, married my high school sweetheart, and enlisted in the Air Force to avoid Viet Nam. I had just turned 19, and the dream simply vanished.

By the time I had turned 33, I had divorced and remarried, moved to a rural community in northern Arkansas, and worked several jobs, most of them grunt work that paid little and required no real skill. Like the prodigal son, I was working on a hog farm when a friend encouraged me to return to school. I was soon enrolled in the BSE program at a respectable university, this time hoping to become a junior high art teacher, just like the man who inspired me. Them that can. . . .

As part of my degree plan, I had to student teach at a rural high school. I was appalled at the chaos and disturbed that the teacher spent more time disciplining students than teaching. Fuck! This was just a small school in the country; a city school had to be far worse. The experience jaded me so badly that I abandoned my plan to teach in public school and inspire young artists (like I had once been) to greatness. My counselor pointed out that an English degree would open more doors than a BA in art, so I switched my major to English and minored in art.

Three English degrees later, I’m still wondering what happened to my dream. Such gossamer things! If you take your eyes off of them for only a moment, they can vanish into thin air. Can dreams return to you? You'll have to ask someone else.

All I know is that lately I've become uncomfortable in my professional skin. The past six years have been, in total, dismal. Jobs in my field are scarce, and---as much as I hate to say it---employers aren't interested in applicants my age. Freelancing is only a little better, but clients are unreliable and the gaps between contracts have gotten larger in the past 6 months.

Sometimes God pokes you in one eye so that you'll look at things through the other. Right now, I'm trying to look at other ways to earn a living. I'm not calling it a career change, but I do need something that will appeal to my sensibilities, tap into my aesthetics, bring to bear some of my diverse skills and interests, and provide enough income so that I can take J out to dinner again. It's been too long.

Tomorrow, I have an interview at a framing shop. It could be fun, even though the pay is ass. If you believe in luck, wish me some . . . if not for this job then for something even better.

J Series: 1

2006-04-04T16:38:00.000-07:00

Retrospective, Part 10: Under the Rainbow

2006-04-01T15:14:00.000-08:00

After we returned home, J and I began tying up loose ends and preparing for our honeymoon. Because neither of us had classes during the first summer term, we had over a month to explore the country and each other. Both were largely unfamiliar territories. We still had much to learn about one another, which wasn’t always easy, given my state of mind. My euphoria was persistently exhilarating and it was often frightening, but it was something we rarely spoke of directly. J wanted to believe that she had made the right decision by marrying me, hoping that the man she had met at the party and eventually fallen in love with would soon reappear. She also wanted to believe that I wouldn’t hurt her or do something that might endanger us. I was unaware of her emotional struggles, of course. For one so young, she was surprisingly headstrong and kept up a convincingly brave front. I, on the other hand, was buzzing with manic energy, confident that I could do the impossible, convinced that I was a demi-god. If I ever saw fear in J’s eyes, I must have convinced myself that it was awe.

As you can imagine, I became obsessed with buying supplies. I have always liked road trips and camping, I was manic, and I had what seemed like an endless supply of money. I bought necessities, luxuries, and things we’d never need but were just fucking cool. I stocked up on non-perishable provisions; knives; fire-starter kits; several large red tubs to carry clothes, food, and gear; fireworks; sleeping bags; a camp stove; coolers; lanterns and flashlights; snake-bite kits; hats, boots, and sunglasses; balsa wood gliders; trail mix, pancake mix, and cocoa mix; playing cards and board games; predator calls; two ounces of KB; and a 35-mm camera with several lenses--among other things. Because I didn’t have time to wait for a handgun permit, I bought a high-caliber lever-action rifle and a box of ammo for “protection.” Lea fashioned mosquito netting out of tulle for the back window of the Explorer, our bedroom on wheels.

The plan was to head north to the Badlands, spend the night at the Devil’s Tower in Wyoming, continue on to Yellowstone, experience the Northern Lights outside of Banff, drop down into Washington, follow the Rockies south, and then make our way home. We agreed to alternate between camping (my idea) and lodging at hotels and B&B’s (J’s idea). We made reservations at key points along the way, spacing them out according to our route and the miles we expected to travel each day.

Our first campout was at Lake Francis Case, a man-made lake near the Nebraska-South Dakota border. It was an unspectacular experience, but it gave us our first taste of roughing it together. J was a good sport, considering that I had chosen a remote spot with no bathrooms, no running water, and no people. The highlight of our stay was the double rainbow that arched above the honeymoon trail as we drove away early the next morning.

J contemplating Lake Francis Case

The movie “Close Encounters of a Third Kind” brought the Devil’s Tower to the public’s attention in 1977. Unfortunately, by the time we got there, the aliens had dismantled their base—probably because of all the tourists and rock climbers. Nevertheless, I was captivated by its abrupt majesty and haunting mystery. The Sioux, who call the formation Bear Lodge, tell of seven sisters who were being chased by a giant bear. The Earth thrust up the pillar to save them from the bear’s great claws, which scraped long marks in the mountain as it rose. The girls were carried into the heavens and became the constellation Pleiades, the Seven Sisters. Native American legends are so poetic.

Bear Lodge

As we traveled, my mania began to subside. Perhaps it was because I had settled into my familiar role as hunter-gatherer-adventurer-protector. As a kid, I had traveled extensively with my parents and, in my mid-twenties, had lived in a hippie community in the mountains of northern Arkansas. I felt at home traveling back roads, cooking by campfire, peeing in the bushes, climbing mountains on acid to watch turkey vultures circle below. J, however, was out of her element, having never been north of the Mason-Dixon line. She had lived in the city all her life. Her parents, who were affluent and protective, immersed her in the arts. Unfortunately, her skills as a pianist, ballet dancer, singer, and calligrapher didn’t prepare her for the insane yodeling of coyotes at night, the sight of a rattlesnake sunning itself on a nearby rock, the sense of isolation while driving a back road 50 miles from the nearest town, or the desolation and despair of an Indian reservation. But she never complained, never called her folks for a plane ticket, never stopped holding my hand.

Playing with gliders at a roadside park

One the more idyllic places we visited was Silver Gate, Montana, a rustic tourist hideaway 13 miles outside Yellowstone Park. My brother had encouraged us to stay at his vacation cabin there, which was one of the nicer things he’s ever done for me. Silver Gate sits between two mountains, a snow-fed creek babbles happily through its center, and majestic pines whisper overhead. The small community of yellow-pine buildings was nearly deserted at that time of year. Fortunately, the Log Cabin Café across the street had just opened for the season. Their specialty was fresh trout, caught daily at the nearby creek. We immediately fell in love with the primitive architecture, the unpretentious shopkeepers, the too-breathtaking-to-absorb view, the cabin with its stocked kitchen, wood stove, and four beds. (Yes, of course we did.) The morning after our arrival, snow was falling so heavily that we could no longer see the mountains. J, who had never seen actual snow, giggled in her little-girl way as it fell on her hair and upturned face. Later that day, we had a snowball fight; J nailed me several times, which delighted us both.

The cabin at Silver Gate

Yellowstone Park was immense, surreal, and breathtaking. On our first outing, we discovered an out-of-the-way lake where speckled trout were spawning in the frigid waters. We were completely alone in a bowl formed by snow-capped mountains domed by a robin’s-egg-blue sky. The experience was so magnificent and peaceful that we vowed to have our ashes sprinkled there. We spit and shook on it, in fact. Because the park was so full of wonders, the wildlife so diverse and abundant, the cabin so cozy, and the trout dinners so incredibly cheap and delicious, we ended up staying in Silver Gate for a week, which meant abandoning our plan to see Banff and the Northern Lights. Hell, it was all good; as long as we were together on the honeymoon trail, we really didn’t care where it led.

J at Trout Lake, watching the salmon

Artist's Point, Yellowstone

Other highlights from under the rainbow: we bought wedding rings at a small silversmith’s shop, got stuck in snow outside an abandoned mine at the top of the world, climbed spired rock formations at Colorado National Monument, hiked 3 miles through the hot sand to burn sage and marijuana at the ruins of a Chaco pueblo, spent a spooky night at a Hopi reservation while three wild dogs—who might have been shaman shape-shifters--circled the Explorer, were confronted by angry Navajos for inadvertently stumbling upon a burial site, and marveled at cliff dwellings once inhabited by the mysterious Anasazi tribe. Their name in Navajo means “Ancient Aliens,” which some say explains why they suddenly disappeared without a trace 700 years ago. (Try as I did, I never knowingly encountered a space traveler during my mania.)

Our campsite at the Hopi reservation

By the time we reached southern New Mexico, we had traveled through 12 states in 33 days. Now, just two days from home, I was becoming sober and anxious. I had, for most of the journey, believed that it would never end, that felt that we could continue driving and laughing and loving endlessly, free of all responsibilities and limitations. But the truth was that we were getting low on cash, I was out of film, the KB was running low, and we had second-term teaching assignments. As we pulled into El Paso for the night, my red phase had waned and reality was becoming an anvil around my heart.

The next morning, after securing all our gear, I suggested that we cross the border into Mexico. We were just miles from Juarez and had plenty of time to kill before we started the last leg of the trip. The concierge at the hotel gave us directions that would take us to a Park and Walk area, where we could cross the bridge for a small fee. But as I rounded a long curve, I realized that we had apparently taken a wrong turn. We suddenly found ourselves in line at a checkpoint, hemmed in by cars being inspected before crossing into Mexico. We both freaked. Ahead of us, Mexican border guards were rifling through suitcases and inspecting vehicles inside and out. If the marijuana and paraphernalia didn’t land us in prison, the rifle and ammunition certainly would. I considered approaching them to explain my faux pas, but when I saw their humorless faces, their guns, and their dogs, I thought better of it.

J was already envisioning the worst--the very worst—that could happen when I saw some kids hawking cold drinks to people waiting in line. I motioned to one and pantomimed that I needed to turn around. The few dollars it cost me to have him stop traffic and let me head the Explorer back north was nothing compared with the look of relief on J’s face. But once in line, we realized that we now had to pass through the American checkpoint. Same problems, better prison. I was certain that we would be searched. After all, the back of the Explorer was filled with large red plastic tubs, which could easily hold small brown Mexican illegals. The guard listened to my explanation while another peered in the windows, first at my angelic bride, then at the tubs. To this day I wonder why they let us drive through, but we sure as hell didn’t pause to ask.

The drive home across western Texas was hot, barren, and sobering. We followed a tornado most of the way. Apparently it was a few miles ahead of us, snapping power poles and leaving town after town without power. We tried more than once to stop for food or lodging, but no one had electricity. So we pushed through, as if we were eager to get home, as if home were the consummate attraction on our honeymoon trail.

For me, the moon had already begun to turn blue. What went up so gloriously was now coming down.

Yab Yum

2006-03-29T17:26:00.000-08:00

Back to Now

2006-03-22T17:20:00.000-08:00

I'm tired of seeing my manic self every time I pull up my blog, so here's something from the here and now.

*******************

"Zen," she said. J and I were talking about our relationship, about how far we've risen on the marriage gyre and how much more luminous our love is now, 12 years after we first fell into it. The thing about marriage gyres is this: as they circle wider and wider, higher and higher, you revisit the same basic issues but with a better vantage point. That's good, since the two of you should have learned much about yourself since the last cycle.

Unfortunately, the better vantage point also allows you to look back (down) on the past and critique that couple who was rising on their way to being who you are now:

"Remember that? I made a pretty bad decision back there, didn't I?"

"Bad!? It was horrible! Why do you always make such stupid choices, anyway?"

"You mean like choosing to marry you?"

And so on.

The past isn't negotiable. It is what it is/was/forever will be. The only thing about the past that changes is how we see it. When I was married to X3, I used to say that if I could change my life, I would erase everything and start over. A few years ago I found myself saying that I would never change a thing about the past--including the pain and the loss--for fear of losing what I suddenly realized I had been blessed with. Same past; new perspective. Hell, if you peer too long into the past--allow yourself to lean too far out from your perch way up there--to consider "what ifs," you just might fall off the gyre. No telling what that would be like. Not good, I suspect.

So why Zen? Because when J and I met, we discovered that we shared a fondness for Winnie the Pooh. (Pooh, as you may know, is secretly a Zen master who lives simply, tranquilly, and in the moment. Most of his moments involve hunny, as it happens. There are worse role models.) So when either of us begins to let the past intrude upon our present tranquility, we try to remember the gyre, Pooh, and the futility of trying to change what can never be changed.

For such a simple philosophy, it requires a lot of patience. But the reward is a more peaceful and pleasurable now. And who doesn't want a lifetime of peace and pleasure?

From Our Wedding Album

2006-03-18T12:32:00.000-08:00

Working on my vows the afternoon of the wedding

***********

The doves, Teedledum and Tweedledee

***********

Passionate overflow

Bipolar Disorder 101

2006-03-17T17:36:00.000-08:00

I thought it might help put things in perspective if I provided some general information about my condition. If you aren't familiar with the disorder, it might help you understand how surreal and beguiling it is to be manic, especially since you don't realize it. It might also help you understand how traumatic it was for J to have fallen in love with a man who was madly in love with her.

The information here is from a very long, surprisingly scholarly Wikipedia article.

Bipolar disorder (also called manic-depression) is a mood disorder that causes a person to cycle between depression and mania (or hypomania) and interferes with his or her ability to function on a daily basis. Like many disorders involving brain chemistry, symptoms may differ significantly from person to person. As with nearly all psychiatric or psychological phenomena, bipolar disorder is thought to be caused by environmental stimuli (stressful life events, drug use, etc.) and genetic vulnerability. Typically, symptoms include periods of euphoria, which alternate with periods of profound depression. In most cases, periods of mood stability complement these periods of instability.

Bipolar disorder typically develops in late adolescence and early adulthood, but can occur at any age. People often suffer with the illness for years before it is detected and diagnosed. Some undiagnosed sufferers turn to alcohol and drugs in an attempt to stabilize their mood swings, which masks their true disorder and hinders diagnosis.

The degree to which one is affected by the illness varies from person to person, but certain symptomatic behaviors are common, depending on the type of episode---full-blown mania and depression (Bipolar 1), hypomania and depression (Bipolar 2), or cyclothymia (Bipolar 3).

Symptoms of mania include irritability, hypersexuality, hyper-religiosity, hyperactivity, talkativeness, flight-of-ideas, and grandiose ideas and plans. The afflicted person may engage in out-of-character behavior such as questionable business transactions, wasteful expenditures of money, risky liaisons, or highly vocal arguments uncharacteristic of previous behaviors. Mania frequently encourages high energy and decreased perception of need or ability to sleep, which can lead to sleep-deprived psychosis, further complicating the ability to think clearly. Racing thoughts and misperceptions lead to frustration and decreased ability to communicate with others.

Hypomania is a less severe form of mania that stops short of psychosis. Many of the symptoms of full-blown mania are present, but to a lesser degree. People with hypomania are generally energetic, euphoric, overflowing with new ideas, and sometimes highly confident and charismatic. They are capable of coherent thought and able to participate in everyday life.

Cyclothymia is a chronic bipolar disorder that consists of short periods of mild depression alternating with short periods of hypomania. It is considered to be a chronic, low-level form of bipolar disorder. The onset of each phase is separated by short periods of normal mood.

In general, manic-depression distorts moods and thoughts, incites dreadful behaviors, destroys the basis of rational thought, and too often erodes the desire and will to live. It is an illness that is biological in its origins, yet one that feels psychological in the experience of it; an illness that is unique in conferring advantage and pleasure, yet one that brings in its wake almost unendurable suffering and, not infrequently, suicide.

A combination of medication and psychotherapy is often used to suppress the symptoms of bipolar disorder. But even on medication, some people can experience weaker episodes or have a complete manic or depressive episode. Factors that can cause a relapse include failure to take medications as prescribed, use of non-prescribed or recreational drugs, sleep deprivation, excessive caffiene, and emotional stress.

Here are a few well-known people diagnosed with, or thought to have had, bipolar disorder. Not surprisingly, many are artists. Check here and here to see additional names. You’ll be surprised.

Abraham Lincoln, president
Carrie Fisher, actress
Charles Dickens, writer
Ernest Hemingway, writer
Honore de Balzac, writer
Jimi Hendrix, musician
Johann Goethe, writer
Kitty Dukakis, wife of prominent politician
Kurt Cobain, musician
Leo Tolstoy, writer
Ludwig van Beethoven, composer
Margot Kidder, actor
Marilyn Monroe, actress
Mark Twain, writer
Patty Duke, actress
Robin Williams, actor
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Romantic poet
Theodore Roosevelt, president
Tracy Ullman, actor
Vincent Van Gogh, painter
Virginia Woolf, poet
William Faulkner, writer
Winston Churchill, statesman

Retrospective, Part 9: The Pearl

2006-03-14T12:38:00.000-08:00

J hadn’t heard me come in nor did she sense my presence as I stood at the foot of the bed watching her sleep. She was curled onto her side, the blanket gathered under her chin. Her face was turned away from me, her chocolate hair spread lightly upon the sheet. The loft, dappled in light and shadows, was so still that I could hear her soft, steady breathing.

“Pretty?” Pause. “Pretty. We need to talk.”

J stirred and rolled onto her back; she peered at me sleepily and smiled. “Hi, Baby. What time is it? Are you okay?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere around two, I guess. I need to talk to you about something.”

J sat up and patted the mattress, but I didn’t move. I began my oration bluntly, trying to be plain and direct. Had I the presence of mind, I might have been more artful.

“I’ve told you more than once that I will never marry you. After three divorces, I have no desire to go through all that pain and guilt again. But tonight when your mom called, you lied about my being here.”

“But I didn’t want . . . .”

“Baby, the point is that you shouldn’t have to lie to your folks or to anyone else about us. Neither should I. We both know that they would shit bricks if they found out we were living together, but keeping it from them doesn’t fix the problem. If we continue this relationship, they will inevitably find out anyway, one way or another.

J’s eyes were fixed in space; she silently nodded.

“Hiding our relationship because of guilt and fear dishonors this beautiful thing that we’ve been blessed with; lying about it to your parents dishonors them. We have to do the honorable thing, and there are only two ways to do that: break up or get married.”

J’s eyes were now fixed on mine. I felt as if I were an oracle channeling truths directly from God—which made me one with God.

J’s voice quavered as she quietly asked, “Are we breaking up?”

“Oh no, my love. Never! You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me in this life. You are my pearl of great price, and I will happily sacrifice everything else to have you. What I’m saying is that I think we should get married. Soon. It’s the right thing to do. J, will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

J threw back the covers and ran to me. In the faint light, tears glistened on her cheek as she wrapped her arms around my neck. “I was terrified that you were going to leave me. Oh, God! I was so afraid!”

I pulled back and raised her chin so that I could see her face. “I will never leave you, little one. Now . . . will you marry me or not?”

J’s voice trembled. “But you said you would never get married again.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve thought long and hard about it. It’s not the marrying I fear; I’ve always been a married kind of guy. It's the thought of another divorce that scares me. If you agree to marry me, you must promise me that it will be forever. Can you do that?”

J’s gaze held mine as she spoke. “I can’t answer you now, PB. I never expected this.” Seeing a shadow cross my face, she quickly continued. “I love you so much, but I need time to think about what you’ve said. Do you mind if I sleep on it and answer you in the morning?”

I agreed to her terms, and we clutched each other tightly for several minutes. Then we slipped together beneath the blankets. I immediately fell into a black sleep, my manic brain exhausted. J, however, was visited by a dream vision. In it, she was slowly walking up a sidewalk that led to small frame house. She climbed the steps and crossed the porch to the front door. I stood in the doorway, smiling warmly, and welcomed her inside. In a sense, our marriage began in that dream. The next morning, she gave me the answer I'd hoped for, and we made love to celebrate.

We went to the courthouse later that day to apply for a marriage license. It was tax day, April 15th. Since the license was only valid for 30 days, we decided to get married in exactly one month. We talked about the implications of what we were doing and imagined what certain people would say or do. We giggled and intertwined fingers nervously, and we silently considered our future together. I didn’t think to buy an engagement ring, and J (bless her heart) didn’t mention it. Oblivious to decorum, we left the courthouse trailing clouds of glory, legally betrothed.

The parents of J’s closest friend, who had supported us from the beginning of our relationship, invited us to have the ceremony at their home. J’s parents, however, didn't take the news well at all. We called together to share our joy and invite them to the wedding; they were stunned, speechless--but only temporarily. J soon began to receive letters laced with Bible verses that condemned adultery. On the phone, J’s dad said terrible, hurtful things to her and accused me of manipulating J and stealing her virginity; he didn’t really know his daughter at all. I countered each of his claims in a letter that J carefully penned; I had spent eight years married to a woman who was married to the church, and I understood the two-edged power of the Word. Plus, I was now God’s homeboy.

J’s mom eventually called and requested a meeting. They would drive to town and meet us at a restaurant where we would break bread together and, hopefully, make peace. Being delusional, I expected it to go swimmingly. But J’s dad was so furious all through dinner that he spilled two glasses of iced tea, didn’t eat at all, and sat away from the table with his arms crossed, scowling. J’s mom spoke for both of them, saying they simply could not bless our union. The détente was a disaster, but had her parents known that their daughter was marrying not just an adulterer, a fornicator, and a long-haired hippy freak but a code-red, tree-hugging manic-depressive who talked with aliens, it would have undoubtedly gone worse.

Our plans for the wedding and honeymoon came together quickly. We were married at our friends’ house in the early evening of May 15th; J had turned 23 the day before. Our attire was custom-made, and we exchanged our handwritten vows before a justice of the peace and a handful of friends. A mix tape of Enya, Enigma, and Pink Floyd played in the background. J’s brother E was there, as was my 17-year-old daughter from my second marriage, but J’s parents refused to come. They missed a truly splendid affair.

After our vows, J and I released two white doves into the night, shared a glass of champagne with our friends, and drove to a nearby B&B for our pre-honeymoon celebration.

On Her Throne

2006-03-12T14:17:00.000-08:00

Retrospective, Part 8: The Red Period Begins

2006-03-06T18:49:00.000-08:00

Once J and I were reunited, my focus quickly shifted from the emotional crises of my mother’s death and my sister’s madness to the emotional euphoria of being crazy in love. While I was away, part of me feared that the joy and happiness I had discovered with J was a self-delusion, that I would return and find that it had all vanished like a dream. But the dream was just as I’d left it; only I had changed.

When people fall in love, their best hopes and most cherished dreams surface, seeking to be fulfilled in their waking lives. The impossible seems suddenly within reach; lovers believe that if they reach far enough and true, they can snare the proverbial keys to paradise. Love makes one giddy, expands our boundaries and amplifies our senses. It also evokes fear--fear that our dreams will not withstand the often-harsh realities of life and will be vanquished, stripped of their holy purity. From a psychological point of view, love is a formidable stressor--as is the death of a parent, the madness of a sibling, or sudden wealth. Life-altering occurrences, whether bad or good, disrupt our sense of self and heighten our emotional state.

For whatever reason, bipolars are particularly vulnerable to such disruptions. Once triggered, the dormant gene awakes, rises, soars, and disregards all established limits. Imagine the happiest you’ve ever been; now take that high point and move it exponentially higher. Strip away all limits to your potential, creativity, insight, spiritual awareness, analytic skills, and your ability to commune with God and Nature. You would find yourself somewhere near the Red Limit, that theoretical boundary that defines the outwardly expanding edge of the universe, beyond which lies nothing, which by definition is something. Yeah, it’s like that to be manic, which is why some bipolars refuse to be medicated.

Because I had skirted poverty for many years, the money my mom left me seemed like a fortune that promised security, freedom, and respect. As a graduate student, I was well versed in the fine art of survival; I was also aware that J’s socio-economic status was well above my own. With $18,000 in the bank, I felt empowered and socially unashamed for the first time in my life. I later learned that delusions of economic grandeur, common during the manic phase, plunge many bipolars into debt.

I quickly traded my piece-of-shit Toyota for a nearly new Ford Explorer; I wrote a check for the balance, which made me feel like a fucking god. Freedom Too, as I called it, was a vehicle more befitting my true nature and the favor of a princess. When J and I drove it off the lot, I was exhilarated. High above the traffic, I felt the eyes of the less fortunate upon me, each wishing they could be me.

Memories of the following weeks are scattered and fragmented; my mania increasingly redefined me and my world, and my mind raced faster with each new day. My brain became filled with abstract notions, bizarre associations, conspiracies, and realizations of the symbolic truth at work behind all things seen and heard. My head was always on: illogical thoughts flooded in and flitted about, blending with others and forming original ideas that seemed to have monumental implications. Nothing was simple, for everything contained a message that must be deciphered if I were to unravel the mysteries of the universe. This is the great deception of the disease: all knowledge is suddenly yours, but it makes sense only to you. Those who can’t understand your superior insight simply lack enlightenment. Pity flows both directions.

I started a business, which amounted to picking up cigarette butts in convenience store parking lots for free. I can’t remember why it seemed so important at the time. Too wired to sleep, I began cruising the city throughout the night, giving money to strangers and seeking out the angels who walk among us. I had been given the gift of recognizing angels, and I mounted a one-man campaign to rally them against the forces of evil. At J’s apartment, the distant sound of train whistles signaled another load of sinners who were being shipped out of the city of purity and light that I was helping to create. I built an altar out of an old chest of drawers, an electric heater, and select marbles, rocks, and feathers. It was the spiritual center of the battle against good and evil, you see.

I got a call one day while I was at my trailer from a female who identified herself as Astare. She said she was from the planet Venusia and wanted me to write her memoirs. We talked several times, but she was summoned back to the stars before we were able to meet. She left me a farewell poem on my answering machine. J wrote down the words and later pasted the note into our wedding album.*

J was, of course, growing concerned about my activities, associations, and bizarre philosophies, although she will say even today that my “reasoning” was not entirely unsound. Somewhere at the heart of my madness was a dim logic, and many of my ramblings had the ring of truth. I frequently elevated the mundane to sublime heights, as if I were plugged into an interface that gave me access to the higher-level truths behind all of creation. I was tuned in, turned on, and flying at the speed of light. I was also burning myself up. I was mentally ill, but it all seemed so perfectly normal to me.

While I have always had a strong sex drive, I become sexually insatiable during this time, which we later dubbed “The Red Period.” Before my mom’s funeral, J and I had made love every night and frequently during breaks between classes. Now I just wanted to fuck--sometimes madly and usually for hours. I could maintain an erection interminably, and I ravaged J three or four times a day. I felt super-human, and my orgasms were great roaring things that rattled the neighbors’ windows. After I came, I felt energized and, once J had fallen asleep exhausted, I would stay up until dawn, going to all-night stores to pick up cigarette butts or walking in the fields behind the apartment complex creating elaborate theories about the movement of heavenly bodies.

We were asleep one night at J’s loft apartment when her mom called. J's parents didn’t know about our relationship and wouldn’t approve if they found out. While J took the call, I went downstairs to have a smoke and give them some privacy. I didn’t try to stifle the yawn. I was nowhere near the phone. But her mom heard and asked who was there. J lied. She said it was the television. Whether her mom believed her or not, she didn’t press. But the significance of the situation didn’t escape me.

I slipped out the front door and wandered into the night. Sometimes a man must face his responsibilities in solitude, with only the stars as his guide. I woke J several hours later and told her what we must do if we were to stay together. Like the Red Period itself, it was the beginning of an adventure that neither of us had anticipated.

****************************************

* J keyed Astare’s poem into this entry while I read it aloud. It had been a long time since we’d considered it:

The light of sugar ships
My golden voyage
Hour on high
The earth reaching to the sky
Not alone—
Guided on the wings of an angel
Going home

We’ll never know who Astare was or why she sought me out during my mania; perhaps the sound of my voice was a catalyst for her own madness. Perhaps she was a grad student who knew I was unstable and just wanted to fuck with my head. I’ll never know what the whole thing was all about, but at the time it only affirmed that I was, to my thinking, sane. After all, I had a witness that I was communicating with aliens. As you can imagine, the “proof” added significant fuel to my mania.

Melon Belly

2006-03-02T11:16:00.000-08:00

Yeah, I know. Foreshortening and the fact that his body was growing faster than his head make the boy look a bit like Jabba the Hut here.

He was, however, a lump of pure joy.

Benjamin Sighting

2006-02-28T13:06:00.000-08:00

I'm feeling a little nostalgic today, so I thought I'd post a photo of Benjamin. We called him Lumpy because he liked to run across the room and position himself right behind you when you least expected it. Like a lump.

Benjamin was the only cat I ever saw eat with his paws. He'd scoop out a piece of catfood, eat it out of his "palm," and then get another. He was a pretty pudgy for somebody with such meticulous eating habits. His natural markings made his swollen baby belly look like a melon.

Before he was a year old, Benjamin developed liver problems and had to be put to sleep. J and I wept for days. He came back, of course. "Benjamin sightings," we called them. For years we would catch a glimpse of him dashing through the house and appearing out of the shadows; he'd let us know that he was close by, still enjoying the love that we shared when he was alive.

The sightings are rare, now. But you never know when Benjamin might suddenly lump under your feet.

Now What?

2006-02-26T19:49:00.000-08:00

I finished the floor project a couple of days before my deadline. Here's a shot of the bedroom after I applied the second coat of polyurethane.

Pretty, eh? I'd show you more "after" photos, but I broke my camera. No worries, though. HP is sending a free replacement. Seems it's easier to just give me a new one than fix the old. I wonder what Ben Franklin would say.

After four weeks of constant work to prepare for the party, I've been uninterested in doing much of anything. I got another writing gig last week, so I had no choice but to hammer out drivle for the past few days. Now that the draft has been sent off, I have nothing before me but a field of possibilities.

And what will I do with myself? Probably not floors, probably not writing, probably not blogging. Maybe I'll go trout fishing in America, or learn how to hang glide, or visit a day spa, or take up needlepoint. I always wanted to do a life-size nude of J with needle and thread. I'll probably just putter in the yard, smoke too many clove cigarettes, and contemplate the diminishing number of days I have left to live.

BTW, my sister had another manic episode and spent some time in a padded room before they adjusted her meds. I think I'll spend a little of my remaining time being grateful that it wasn't me.

What Lies Beneath

2006-02-06T12:56:00.000-08:00

I miss blogging! I miss you!

I've connected the computer in the livingroom temporarily so that I can have contact with the outside world. It's a bit claustrophobic here, since we had to move all the office and bedroom furniture into the livingroom during the floor project. We put the mattress down in the office; with some candles and incense, it's actually rather romantic.

Things took an unexpected turn once I'd ripped up the bedroom carpet. The present closet area was once part of the original kitchen. Between water damage and (as I discovered) a fire somewhere in the past, that expanse of floor had been replaced with plywood. When I pulled up the plywood, there was no subfloor. What I had was an 4 x 8 hole with a view of dirt and debris 2 feet below. Fun.

This weekend I repaired the substructure and framed the hole for new subflooring, which I'm putting down today. Unless something else unexpected happens, I'll lay new hardwood flooring tomorrow. Then I can start sanding the rest of the room. It's pretty to think that I might start staining and applying polyurethane this weekend. I'd really like everything to be back to normal, ya know?

So would Two Socks, who's pretty stressed by all the dishevelment. I'm going to post a shot I took of her in the hallway just before I started the bedroom.

"You missed a spot"

Well, I'd better get back to work; the hell mouth is calling.

Like Painting Oneself Into a Corner

2006-01-25T10:13:00.000-08:00

The hall is stripped and ready for the finesse work, so I'm dragging my new 15-pound belt sander and all my boy toys into the office today to make an even bigger mess.

Yesterday I blanketed all my electronica with sawdust before I realized just how invasive airborne wood powder can be. So I have no choice but to tear down my workstation and pile everything in the living room.

Computers are addictive. I have an addictive personality. The withdrawal will be hard on me, but the break will do me good. I forget sometimes that the computer is a side dish, not the entree. On the upside, I still get to have J for dessert every night during my two-week electro-fast. Delicious, filling, and fat-free.

So, you guys . . . keep on bloggin' about life's mysteries, joys, and frustrations. I'll be back in a couple of weeks to see what I missed.

Go ahead and miss me if you want to.

Honeydew

2006-01-23T22:54:00.000-08:00

J is hosting her book club meeting here in mid-February, so this past Sunday we discussed what we need to do in advance. We rarely entertain: we're Tauruses and like our privacy. We did have an informal open house right after we moved in, but everyone who came understood that it was all just a vision at that point. The book club members---who are all women and all in advertising---will undoubtedly expect some dramatic flourishes.

So we decided to pull up the carpet and refinish the hardwood floors. Actually, the idea assumed a life of its own. We mapped out the plan Sunday morning and then talked about it all day and into the evening. At about ten o’clock, we agreed that we simply had to pull up some carpet. We were itching to know, and neither of us wanted the weekend to end anyway. We tugged and ripped and scraped and cleaned into the wee hours.

The hall after we removed the carpet

Old linoleum and adhesive---fun

After initial cleaning

What’s a handyman without tools?

I'll keep you posted on the project, if you're interested.

“Know Thyself"

2006-01-20T11:11:00.000-08:00

I began this as a comment to Morgan’s latest post, but I decided it might fit better here.

I think it's not only common for people to review their past, I think it’s beneficial. As Santayana said, Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. I’d never chronicled a large span of my life before I began doing so here. Like most people, I've reflected on specific events, reminisced with family and friends about the “good ol’ days,” shared anecdotes via letters and e-mail. But until recently, I’d never felt compelled to gather the fragments of my past (à la Pink in The Wall) and shape them into “the story of me.” Maybe it’s just a natural by-product of blogging.

The process of trying to connect one vivid memory (like when dad brought a bum home for dinner and my mom went ballistic) with another (teaching that same man after his injury how to read on the front porch) requires spanning inevitable memory gaps. Abundant self-analysis and some necessary creative license are unavoidable. To my surprise and delight, long-submerged pieces of the puzzle have surfaced while I wrote.

Following each autobiographical posting, I find myself reliving the events I have described and pondering their impact on my identity. Since posting part one of my retrospective in early December, I’ve become more aware of who I am and why--- knowledge that I hope will help me understand the ongoing mystery of my life.

He who knows others is learned; he who knows himself is wise.

--- Lao-tzu, Tao te Ching

For Jane, Who Asked So Nicely

2006-01-19T11:59:00.000-08:00

Two Socks the Ten-Thousand Dollar Cat

Miss Thing is 14, has feline diabetes, and is worth every penny it cost us to nurse her back from the brink of death. She's bossy and a bit too judgmental of those who were not born cats. She tolerates the dog, commands me, loves her momma.

*********************

Sadie the Sadsack

Sadie is a foundling, although who found whom is still uncertain. She's a 12-year-old Springer Spaniel, rather lethargic unless food or loving is involved. Her hearing has become either bad or selective recently, we haven't figured out which. But she has an incredible sense of smell and tunes out everything, including her parents, when she's tracking a scent.

Retrospective, Part 7: The Center Will Not Hold

2006-01-19T09:46:00.000-08:00

Tom, the oldest of my siblings, met me at the airport. I was to stay with him and his wife---since they had such a spacious and commodious house. He was 14 when I was born, married by the time I was five. We had never been close, and Mom’s death only made me feel more distant from him, less connected to the family and to this city. Tom had that air of self-importance peculiar to big fish in small ponds. I often had the urge to either laugh at him or slap the smug look off his face. It was going to be a long three days.

We drove straight to the funeral home, where my sisters were holding vigil. Samantha, who was 10 years older than I, was the more composed of the two and greeted me with a smile of gentle concern. Of my siblings, she was most like me in temperament, disposition, and physical features. We had inherited---for better or worse---our father’s gregarious and free-spirited nature and were inclined, like him, toward impulsiveness. Sam, who had always defended and supported my life choices, would forever be my soul-sister.

Marlene, who was seven when I was born and continued to refer to me, think of me as “baby brother,” was disconsolate. Her damp sobs became unrestrained wails when she saw me---as if my presence somehow intensified the impossibility of the situation: she had maintained for years that Mom would never die, could never die. Growing up, Marlene had been my self-appointed little mother. She pushed me in the baby carriage, dressed me up, cut my hair (badly and without permission), told me scary stories, and fed me so much misinformation about life that it took me years to sort it all out. She and Tom shared my mother’s personality and convictions; both were well intentioned in an overbearing, opinionated, and judgmental sort of way.

My Mom’s funeral the following morning was unspectacular, but then she was never big on ceremony and disliked being fussed over. Sensing the need for some light melodrama, Sam insisted that all the kids file up before the congregants and offer personal eulogies. It was a well-intentioned but ill-conceived homage; nevertheless, we acquiesced since she was insistent. I have no memory of the memorial I delivered that day. I offer instead a glimpse into the family I grew up with.

My Mom was indomitable---strong and resilient, protective of her family and loyal to her friends. She was raised in poverty, survived the Great Depression by catching and eating pigeons, and reared three children while my dad fought overseas during WWII. He returned from the Philippines with a twinkle in his eye, and Mom acquiesced, giving birth to me nine months later. She was 40. Dad spent most of my first 10 years drunk. When I was about five, I remember Mom leaving me and Mar in front of the TV and walking through the snow to drag him and what was left of his paycheck from the neighborhood bar. The trauma his brain suffered five years later when its protective outer shell was smashed by a pool cue left him enfeebled for the remaining nine years of his life. My cousin now owns the bar where it happened.

By the time I was seven, all my siblings had moved out of the house, so Mom was effectively a single mother and I an only child. Well . . . with dad, we were two. It was she who walked me to my first day of school; she who taught me how to cook, clean, iron, and sew; she who encouraged me to join the cub scouts; she who praised my academic successes and encouraged my art; she who gave me dating advice; she who taught me how to tie a full Windsor; she who bought me my first car. She was the one who cried rivers of tears when I moved far, far away from home after my divorce from X1. She also proudly announced to all her friends that I was an English professor, when in fact I was not.

My Mom was loud and opinionated, critical of acquaintances and strangers alike, and unabashedly racist. She loved All in the Family, but for the wrong reasons. At age 84, she had continued to drink beer, smoke cigarettes, mow her own lawn, loudly criticize the neighbors, and eat greasy fried foods---in spite of her doctor’s cautions. She hated doctors. The stoke that killed her came quickly and without warning. Ah, Mom! The world lost a splash of color with your passing.

After the funeral, everyone gathered “down home.” It was a typical post-mortem affair: friends and family, food, drink, reminiscing. I was sitting alone on the front porch where, as a kid, I had read Dick and Jane to my dad, who had lost the ability to read and speak. As a teenager, I was embarrassed when my friends came around, afraid he would say or do something childish. I made jokes about him to hide my shame, which only compounded it. It occurred to me that for much of my childhood I had been ashamed of my parents, my family, my neighborhood---myself. Perhaps that’s why I spent 44 years feeling incapable of success, undeserving of sustained happiness.

My reflections were interrupted by a commotion inside the house. Before I could rise, Samantha and my aunt burst through the front door, grappling and arguing incoherently. I stepped between them, and Sam hurried back into the house. My aunt was in tears, saying that Samantha was behaving erratically, irrationally. She had gone to the next-door neighbors---the “dirty-neck Mexicans,” as my Mom had always called them---to apologize for the epithets my Mom had hurled at them over the years and for all the times she had called the police when they parked where she thought they shouldn’t. It was a kind gesture, but for some reason, my sister felt compelled to kiss the man long and hard on the mouth. Sam didn’t drink, so her behavior wasn’t alcohol related. When I caught up with her, she was flitting about the living room, hugging guests and passing out Mom’s possessions as gifts. My brother was clearly angry; he was the one who decided who got what. Marlene was aghast by this new unthinkable terror. I touched Sam’s arm and asked her to walk with me.

We left the house and crossed the street to the empty schoolyard where we had played as kids. We talked quietly about the building’s architecture, the teachers we liked best, and how the playground equipment now seemed so small. As the conversation turned to Mom, I could tell Sam was not in her right mind. She was talking rapidly, calling me “my brother” as if I were a fellow disciple---of what I didn’t know. She then began to expound on life and death, the creation, the immortality of the soul. These were understandable topics, particularly under the circumstances, but her logic often gave way to nonsensical hypotheses. Logic was counterbalanced with illogic, but Sam's rhetoric was so insistent and compelling that I began to wonder if it my understanding was simply flawed.

But it wasn’t. Her eyes were too wide and darting too rapidly, the pitch of her voice was elevated, her hands were moving erractically, and she wouldn't shut up. On top of that, she kept calling me "my brother," which quite frankly was creeping me out. I took her back to the house, where everyone decided she was suffering from stress. I had never witnessed a manic episode, so I didn't argue. A friend drove her home to rest and recover. Later I would tell J that I had looked into the eyes of madness and walked away. I just didn’t walk fast enough.

The following day, Sam was worse. She had called Tom’s wife and was jabbering incoherently. So, with only six hours remaining before my flight home, Tom and I drove to her apartment. We agreed that Samantha needed medical care, so I called for an ambulance on the way and we met them at her apartment. I told everyone to wait five minutes, and I went in. Sam was naked, pacing up and down the hallway and declaring that she was the messiah. I wrapped my jacket around her shoulders and we walked to the front door where Tom and the medics waited. She cried and protested when they strapped her to the gurney. We followed the ambulance to the hospital, and I signed the commitment papers. Tom, usually so cool and imperious, was having trouble processing all this.

That afternoon, Mar, Tom and I hastily assembled to discuss the estate. Mom had a few small insurance policies and a modest sum of money in the bank. Tom, who had prepared forms and columns of handwritten computations, explained that, while everything was in his name, he would nevertheless divide the inheritance equally among us, less expenses. His magnanimous attitude was appalling; he seemed to think that it was his money and that we should thank him for sharing. As usual, I felt like laughing at him or slapping the smug look off his face. I left my hometown with one less mother, with one sister in a mental ward and another in the throes of an emotional crisis, with a brother who apparently thought he was the king of every damned thing, and with $18,000 in my pocket.

At the airport terminal, J kissed me hello, we cried into each other, and I flew into the clouds.

Picture Perfect

2006-01-12T15:18:00.000-08:00

J bought me a digital camera for Christmas. We had agreed to a $50.00 limit this year, since I’m not making a fortune as a freelancer. I’ve never made a fortune at anything, as far as that goes, although I consider myself to be quite fortunate. Anyway, when I opened the gift, I was first delighted, then incredulous, then embarrassed, then angry. I’ve always wanted a digital, but I wasn’t expecting to have one anytime soon. I was absolutely thrilled to suddenly own one, and then embarrassed because I hadn’t gotten J anything comparable. I felt foolish, which of course made me angry. I had, after all, honored the limit and made smart, thoughtful purchases. But now, the nicest of the three gifts I had bought for her was suddenly inferior.

She was, of course, tickled silly to have surprised me. She said that she hoped I would use it to take pictures at her parents’ upcoming 50th wedding anniversary party. Pride was bitch-slapping me, telling me defend my bruised ego. I wanted to snatch up her presents, drive to the mall, and buy her a digital camera’s worth of jewelry or something.

But it was Christmas, and it was, after all, a digital-damn-camera! She bought it out of love, because she wanted me to have something nice. Hmmmm, doesn't the Bible say that selfless giving is the reason for the season? Maybe not.

As for the pride, to quote Marcellus (Ving Rhames) in Pulp Fiction: “Fuck pride. Pride only hurts, it never helps.” So I swallowed hard, thanked her genuinely, and kissed her beaming angel face. Now I have a cool new point-and-shoot, download-and-edit, attach-and-send camera for those times when my high-maintenance Nikon 35-mm is impractical.

If I could just get J to pose nude for me. . . . (-;

The Nikon through the lens of the new HP

Mea Culpa

2006-01-12T12:41:00.000-08:00

The previous post was a killer. I think it took longer to describe the events than it did to live them. Each day during that period in my life blurred into the next, and time itself seemed frenzied and chaotic---except when I was with J, and then it stopped altogether. Had I been focused and stable, I might have filed away certain details and have access to them today. But I can’t recollect that which I never committed to memory. Had it not all happened so long ago, I might now precisely recall each action, each conversation. But time chips away at the minutiae of our lives and leaves only worn artifacts. Like archeologists, we fill in the blanks as faithfully as we can to reconstruct the general truth of things.

I just recently finished reading A Million Little Pieces by James Frey. He describes in some detail his life as an addict, including run-ins with the law. The other day, some critics with too much time on their hands accused him of fabricating some of the book’s details, concluding that he was therefore a fraud. Sort of like tossing out the baby with the bathwater, in my opinion.

While reading the book, I did feel that Frey often exaggerated his tough-guy image, but don’t we general polish our own image, tarnish others’ when we share our anecdotes---especially those that we tell over and over? Don’t we amplify the drama and delete the boring parts to hold our listeners’ attention? I think it’s just the nature of storytelling, whether it’s autobiography or not. I mean, who can recall, word-for-word, a conversation that took place 20 years ago? Yet, direct quotes (which English majors consider to be sacred and unalterable) appear throughout autobiographies. Do these people tape record every conversation, have photographic memories, or simply recreate what might have been said under the circumstances? If it weren’t for artistic license, many autobiographies would never get written.

That said, I offer this disclaimer: my retrospective is based on actual events in my life; artistic license was used shamelessly to improve the flow and advance my agenda, which is to chronicle this time in my life lest I one day forget it altogether.

Retrospective, Part 6: Things Fall Apart . . .

2006-01-11T14:54:00.000-08:00

J dropped me off at campus later that afternoon. When I walked into the small office I shared with X3, she glanced up from the papers she was grading and we exchanged uncertain greetings. As I absently shuffled through my mail, the silence became increasingly oppressive. After a few minutes I asked if she was about ready to go. She leaned back in her chair, ran her fingers through her hair, and replied with a wry smile, “Sure. Why not.”

The drive to the house might have been unbearable had Pink Floyd’s “Momentary Lapse of Reason” not been playing the entire way. We had seen them perform the album live on our first date. We used to sing along to every song. Now we just listened quietly, absorbed in the irony. At the house, we sat on the couch facing each other. X3 rolled a joint while she waited for me to speak. I’m not sure what she expected, but I didn’t hedge, didn’t apologize, didn’t try to justify my actions. I simply told her that our marriage had run its course, and that it was time for me to fly. She accepted, handed me the joint, and walked to the kitchen for a beer.

I sat there thinking about our 6 years together. Our relationship began at the end of my marriage to X2. I had just begun grad school, and X3 was in a couple of my classes. She was leaning against the wall near the exit one day, and as I passed by, she said to no one in particular, "J'ai un mal de tête à mon coeur," presumably because she didn’t know how to say “I’m brokenhearted” in French. Contrived? Manipulative? Totally. But she succeeded in getting my attention.

X3 was not pretty, exactly, but she had beautiful olive skin. At the time, her auburn hair was shag-cut with ashen highlights; she hadn’t cut it in the six years we'd been together, and it was now long and straight. As I said, she had nice breasts, although she hid them under baggy shirts. She was a bit awkward and graceless when she moved, but when she talked, her long and slender hands moved artfully, which conveyed a sense of inner elegance. And yet, she was also quite mannish, which might account for her blurred sexuality.

What X3 lacked in physical poise and fashion sense she made up for in intellectual flamboyance. She held court in most social situations, though people who knew her long found her to be overbearing and pretentious. For whatever the reason, she stated her opinions as fact. I remember the first time she mentioned to me that I tied my shoes wrong. She said that to most people with lace-up shoes. Perhaps she liked the sense of superiority it gave her; perhaps she just thought she was doing them a favor. She was, to most people, an enigma: she hated sports of all kinds, refused to own a telephone, never watched television, corrected people’s diction, and enjoyed picking up aluminum cans along the side of the road. She liked to say that she was “well-versed in the fine art of survival,” but I believed life was about more than just surviving. We did have some things in common: sex and marijuana.

The real deal-breaker was her inability/refusal to discuss her feelings, fears, and motivations. Should I ask, she would clam up, and nothing I could say or do would move her to speak. As I have mentioned before, I hate being ignored.

The qualities that I once had found so attractive---her affectations, her flair for melodrama, her unjustified self-confidence, and her sense of superiority---now simply pissed me off. Somewhere along the way, the dream had become a nightmare. For 6 years I had compromised my own values, done things I was ashamed of to make her happy, sacrificed my identity, and alienated the friends who hated her as much as they had once loved me. Yes, it was time for this life to end, and I was dying for a new one. But redemption always comes at a price.

At some point, the phoenix realizes that its life has run its course. It understands that it must plunge into the cleansing flames and be reborn, but somewhere in those flames, the old life and the new must coalesce. For a time, the phoenix must be simultaneously dead and alive, simultaneously neither alive nor dead. Is there a name for that point where both are one? If the phoenix retains any awareness in that state, that moment, does it realize that within it lies the potential for life or oblivion? Might it choose to remain in that state of eternal potential and thus escape the endless cycle of living and dying? And what about me? I was nearing the flames, that point of pure potential, and would have to choose my own fate. But now yet; I wasn’t quite dead yet.

That night, X3 and I slept together for the last time, and I rose and fell until we and the marriage and everything that had once bound us were exhausted.

The next morning I packed a suitcase and gathered some personal items while X3 paced and smoked and rattled dishes in the kitchen. She had consented to give me a ride to J’s, where I would stay until I found a place of my own. I carried out several boxes of my belongings and loaded them into the back of the pickup her father had given her. X3 had always distinguished our possessions as “mine” and “yours,” so as long as we agreed to split things along those lines, I didn’t anticipate that we’d have any hassles; I was content to let her have the “ours” stuff. Once I had a place of my own, I would return for my stereo, my album collection, my books, and the vintage figurines that had belonged to my mother’s mother. Nothing else in the house had any real value to me.

I was quietly excited on the way to town. I hadn’t been “single” for 16 years (I had gone straight from living with X2 to living with X3), and freedom was just 15-miles down the road. While I had always called myself a “married kind of guy,” three failed marriages suggested otherwise. Soon I would be unencumbered, autonomous . . . reborn as a wiser and happier me. A field of possibilities lay before me; the entire world was mine for the taking---but marriage would not be a part of my new life. I vowed to myself that would never take another wife. As we neared J’s apartment complex, I gently touched X3’s shoulder and told her that I was sorry. She took a hit from her Winston. “Yeah, me too.”

I stowed my stuff under a tarp in J’s carport, and she and I resumed our lovefest. Rumors, half-truths, innuendoes, and lies soon spread through the English department. I’ve always found it curious the way friends and colleagues align themselves when a couple splits. J and I were well-received by the faculty crowd, probably because several professors had left their wives for much-younger students. The office staff, mostly older unmarried women, took X3’s side. The many friends and acquaintances who tried to maintain a balancing act inevitably hedged one way or the other. MF surprised me slightly by aligning himself with X3, but then, he was a player; male loyalties can get in the way when you think you’re God’s gift to women.

My first act of independence was to buy a car. I walked to my credit union, borrowed as much as my signature would allow, and bought a motley ragtag Toyota that ran surprisingly well. It wasn’t exactly the ’72 Corvette I had always promised myself, but it suited the name I gave it: Freedom. For my sanctuary, I chose a trailer. It didn’t deserve the polite “mobile home” euphemism; it was little more than a beat-up tin box mounted on tires. My sanctuary, which was located in a park filled with potholes, other run-down trailers, and an assortment of punkass riffraff, provided scant security---but then, I had little worth stealing. What it did provide was solitude and isolation, a space to think and be myself, a place where my friends could visit without having to endure X3’s superior airs. J, my very special friend, was supportive and brought little treasures to brighten up the place.

For the next two weeks, J and I alternated between sleeping at her place and at mine. Her place had all the creature comforts; mine had a used couch, a second-hand desk, and a hand-me-down bed. We smoked lots of dope, made love whenever and wherever the mood struck, developed a fondness for post-coital Snickers Ice Cream Bars, and missed too many classes. One night at the trailer we put glow-in-the-dark stars on the bedroom ceiling and, wrapped in each other’s arms, gazed up into the pseudo-heavens, imagining ourselves soaring through the fictional galaxies free of ex-wives, gossips, grad classes, and her conservative Christian parents who hadn’t yet discovered our “sin.” It was an indescribably beautiful time in my life, and I felt like I was a meteor reflected in the eyes of God.

The phone rang while we were in the shower one morning. It was my sister. “Mom had a stroke, brother. She’s dead.”

Just like that, my mom was dead. Dead. Forever and always dead. Unlike the phoenix, she would never rise again. Not in this life. My sister wired money for the plane ticket.

At the airport terminal, J kissed me goodbye, we cried into each other, and I flew into the clouds.

Pieces of Me

2006-01-03T10:01:00.000-08:00

I was born in the Midwest, in April, during a snowstorm. My siblings still live in the city where we were born. I miss the snow sometimes.

I lost my Dad when I was 10; he died nine years later.

Just after my 18th birthday, I quit college, married the girl who took my virginity, and enlisted in the military---all within a month. Why? Mainly because I didn’t have anyone to kick my ass. Everyone needs someone who cares enough to kick their ass when they’re fucking up.

One day my wife picked me up after work and said she wanted a divorce. I obliged, then abandoned that city, that life forever.

Like John Denver, I was born in the summer of my 27th year.

Shortly thereafter I fractured my pelvis and broke my arm and foot by slamming into a tree while riding a device my friends and I called the Slide for Life. Good times, good times.

I married a simple girl who nursed my wounds, who loved Jesus and other gentle creatures.

I returned to college at 33, got my doctorate in English 17 years later. I spent my prime wage-earning years reading books, writing papers, taking exams as well as getting divorced, getting married, getting divorced, getting married. I still needed that ass kicking.

At 44, I was diagnosed as bipolar. J was with me. I was deep in the depressive mode at the time, and it was rather like getting my ass kicked, but not in the way I expected. As terrified as I was to learn that I was genetically flawed, mentally ill, and fated to 1200 mg of lithium carbonate each day for the rest of my life, I was also relieved. J told me later that she could see my eyes flash as I scanned one memory after another, identifying and cataloging the bits and pieces of mania that were strewn throughout my life. Things I could never understand about myself became clearer, and the impulsive---sometimes catstrophic---choices I'd made started to make sense. But that clarity also deconstructed my self-concept. I would never be who I thought I was again.

Today, I’m delighted with the aspects of my reality that matter most: an incredible wife (who loves me so much that she invites me into her secret places), a happy and secure marriage that we earned through hard work and dedication, the love and support of the God/dess (whether I recognize it or not, ask for it or not), a funky-cool house, critters who delight and challenge me (as children should), and the hope for more amazing gifts to come.

Tongue-Tied and Twisted

2005-12-28T18:06:00.000-08:00

I want to blog, goddamit! I've started two or three posts over the past few days, felt myself forcing the words, and bailed each time.

The holidays have turned my skull into a vaccuum from which not even a fragment of creativity can escape. I want to say stuff, but sharing my life with so many people I barely know has dulled my senses. {wink}

I guess I should heed the signs and just wait until my muse returns from vacation before I post again. No sense forcing it.

If, by January 1st, I still can't write anything clever, have a happy new year!

Retrospective, Part 5: Dancing on the Edge

2005-12-24T19:15:00.000-08:00

What I said to X3 should have made her furious. I’d just announced that I was packing a bag to spend the night with J---whether she liked it or not. I intended to walk the 15 miles into town if necessary, but I was going.

I expected her to scream, to claw my face, to throw things, to cry. She was a prima donna with a flair for melodrama, especially when she wanted to attract attention to herself. Still, in the 6 years we'd been married, I'd only seen her cry once---over a B she received on a seminar paper. In truth, nothing she might have said or done could have dissuaded me that night. Divorce? So be it. I’d crawled down that tunnel before. Blindfolded. Over glass. Twice.

But X3 remained eerily unmoved by my announcement. She calmly asked if I'd already made arrangements with J, which I hadn’t. She handed me the phone and suggested that I call first, which I did. She then drove me into town . . . drove me to J’s apartment.

Surreal? It was incomprehensible! Maybe she thought I was kidding. Maybe she thought that this would lead to another of our sordid threesomes. Maybe she saw something in my eyes that frightened her. Maybe she simply realized it was her time to die.

I remember little of our conversation during the ride, except her asking if I loved J. I said I honestly couldn’t name the white heat raging inside me. It was more powerful than the feeling I'd always called love. The closest I could come to describing it was lust. I lusted J. X3 said she understood; she had lusted someone once herself . . . “a past amour {{sigh}}.” I looked over at her; she was hunched over the wheel, peering into the darkness of the road ahead---or perhaps the one she’d left behind. Her faint validation was enough to placate my conscience, although quite frankly it had quit giving a shit the night J kissed me in MF’s driveway.

When we pulled into the parking lot of J’s apartment building, the car died. It had a habit of doing that at the most inconvenient moments. Like this one. I popped the hood, jiggled the battery cable, and the engine finally fired. I closed the hood, picked up my bag, and walked resolutely toward the building without looking back.

Heartless? Cold? Not to a man compelled by lust, a man seeking his destiny. Salvation lay in front of me, desolation behind; had I looked back, I might have turned to salt.

J answered the door and invited me in with a coquettish smile. She was dressed in gray Calvin Klein lounging pants and a black halter-top; her long black-brown hair was loosely draped over her naked shoulders. The loft apartment was small and modest, but with tasteful flourishes. Passion, by Peter Gabriel, was playing softly, and the scent of nag champa hung in the air. Votives glowed and flickered, tossing living shadows about the room. From her perch on the kitchen counter, J’s familiar---an adolescent tabby---was peering into my soul, scanning my motives through slitted green eyes.

As J closed and locked the door, I tossed my bag on the couch. We met in the middle of the room, and I began circling her like a starving predator. In the dim light, J’s Cleopatra eyes were masked and seductive; her freshly glossed lips glistened in the candlelight. I didn’t touch her out of fear that I might spontaneously combust. I simply circled and looked, circled and smelled, circled and hungered. Finally she reached out and took my hand and led me upstairs.

in her bedroom/her bed/whispering/kissing/sweet soft lips/removing her top/staring/perfect/caressing/swooning/tearing off my clothes/easing her CKs over her hips/legs/feet/slipping off her black thongs/naked/incredible!/young/perfect/bending/spreading her thighs/delirious/soft/pink/wet/tasting/moaning/god/drinking her/sweet/slick/lapping/nibbling/pliant/oh-god-oh-god/so sweet/so fucking unbelievably sweet

STOP!

I was too much my head. My senses were glutted and my mind was racing, trying desperately to process the moment and comprehend why this beauty had stretched herself out naked for me. For ME! I didn’t deserve this! And yet, this was my dream, my longing. I wanted her so much that it transcended mortal desire, but my mind was frantically trying to understand how such a thing could be. I was too much in my fucking head!

My cock was oblivious. The brain’s activation center hadn’t even issued an alert yet, and the moment for action had arrived. I feared the implications, as you can imagine. Would she laugh at the foolish old man who couldn’t get it up? Be furious? Insulted? How could I possibly say “But this never happens to me?” when it’s become such a cliché? Insecurity had joined forces with Incredulity, and the two of them were kicking my libido's ass. I was mortified, terrified that she might be thinking of all the young studs she could have chosen instead of me, boys whose perpetually hard dicks and artless stamina never faltered in the face of perfumed opportunity.

And then . . . .

J began to whisper softly into my ear---about how long she had waited to lie naked in my arms, how soft my lips felt on her skin, how erotic it had been to watch me going down on her. “Worshipping her sex,” I think she said. The warm liquid words she poured into my ear flowed gently through me, calming the tempest inside my head and soothing my manic heart. She trailed whisper-kisses down my neck, across my chest, my abdomen, and then rested her cheek lightly on my upper thigh. My now painfully rigid cock slipped contentedly between her supple lips.

We didn’t sleep much that night and skipped classes the following day. Mid-afternoon, after making love for the nth time, I was lying next to her and thinking about how ineffably happy I was. It suddenly dawned on me that I'd never in my entire life felt so happy, which just as suddenly made me ineffably sad. Tears began running down my face and onto the pillow. For the first time in 44 years, I knew how it felt to cry tears of joy.

White Lights: Redux

2005-12-23T06:18:00.000-08:00

She's b-a-a-a-c-k. . . . (-:

Thanks for sending positive, protective energy this way.

Now I can relax and turn my attention back to blogging.

White Lights

2005-12-20T13:17:00.000-08:00

J flew to New York on business this morning. Barely three weeks at the new job, and already she's traveling. I know, I know. . . . I coached and encouraged and supported her throughout the interview process. It was her vision, and together we made it reality.

Honestly, though, can anyone say that their reality is flawless? We can only hope for more good than bad in the long run. Having to sleep alone, without her butt in my lap. . . that's not at all good.

I guess I'll just have to cowboy up and trust the God/dess to bring her butt home safely. Still, I've evoked a troop of white lights to surround and protect her while she's away from me. If you have Friends in High Places, please ask them to keep a watchful eye on her as well. The more divine intervention the merrier, I say.

Thanks.

Retrospective, Part 4: Time Passages

2005-12-20T12:19:00.000-08:00

A couple of days after the backyard spectacular, J dropped by a Mutual Friend’s apartment. X3 and I were there, as usual, playing computer games, tolerating MF’s mind-numbing hip-hop, smoking out, and being the decadently irresponsible grad students we were. J looked like she’d stepped out of an Anne Rice novel: raven hair, dark eyes, black attire, fair skin. I was once again captivated, enthralled, enslaved.

She was sitting in an overstuffed chair, which made her petite body seem all the more child-like. I hovered about, wishing I were the cushion. I made small talk, wishing we were making love. J’s eyes were as amazing then as they are now. In those days of new beginnings, they were simply hypnotic.

Maybe it was MF’s strobe lights or the hip-hop or the dope, but when J locked those eyes on me deliberately, I just lost it. I vaulted into the chair, trying madly to conform my body to hers but knowing all the while that my behavior was inappropriate. X3 and MF were 10 feet away, although neither said a word. With sheer will, I backed away from the lunatic fringe and stood up.

Later J excused herself to call her answering machine. X3, who was sitting nearby, heard J say to no one in particular: “No messages. Guess nobody loves me.” X3 replied, “I think my husband does.”

She was wrong, of course. What I felt was more raw and maddening than love.

*************************

We were all back at MF’s a night or two later, taking advantage of his hot tub and pool. J came by, wearing a dress. She had been on a date with L, her long-time intermittent boyfriend. I had to admire L’s loyalty---or was it his naive optimism? It was he who picked up the pieces whenever J’s heart was broken. He had not been THE man in J’s life for a long time, but he seemed content just to be in her life at all. I knew the feeling.

MF heckled J until she consented to drive home and change into her bikini. Perhaps to foster good will between them, J invited X3 to ride along. Later, when X3 described watching J change, she practically drooled. I shuddered.

I remember J floating on her back while I supported her head and shoulders. I touched her wet skin with my fingertips, pressed my face into her hair, and gazed down at her perfect young breasts, her sculpted tummy, and her arched sex. Beneath the water, something else arched. Painfully.

*************************

A night or two later, while J and I were standing outside MF’s apartment alone, she kissed me. We still differ in our interpretation of events, but the fact is that I was standing two feet from her and she simply launched herself lips-first and landed on my mouth. I have ALWAYS made the first move, kissing a woman when, where, and how I think it best. The parking lot outside of MF’s apartment---with him, X3, and other friends moving past the facing window---would never have been my when, where, and how of choice. Not with one so rare, so fine as this mesmerizing siren. But I have to admit that it was very flattering, quite affirming, and extremely erotic.

*************************

Time eventually blurs into one continuous memory. Days or years later, having discovered that J and I shared a fondness for Winnie ther Pooh, I gave her a copy of The World of Pooh. This led to her suggesting that we go on a picnic and read it. An Expotition, if you will. Quite honestly, I have no idea where X3 was. By this time, I really didn't care.

We drove to a small park, found a secluded spot, and spread the blanket. I remember having wine, bread, and cheese. I remember reading several stories and affecting the voices of Pooh, Piglet, Owl, and Eeyore. I remember children playing nearby. Beyond that, all I can remember is pushing J onto her back and kissing her gently, feverishly, deeply, roughly, and long. For years. Or minutes.

It was our when, where, and how of choice. No X3, no MF, no taboos. It recast J and I a couple, of sorts; but it wasn’t enough. There was a fire roaring in my phoenix gut, and I simply had to plunge in. Nothing could stop me, not even X3---had she tried, that is.

Right Eye, Left Eye

2005-12-18T10:42:00.000-08:00

I’ve spent the past few days giving my professional identity a face-lift. My goal is to step boldly, confidently into the marketplace after the holidays and declare: “Ich bin ein freelancer!” I’ve never formally promoted my business, solicited writing gigs from strangers, made cold calls, took a stand. The risks intimidate me. But unless I take risks, how can I hope for success? It’s time to stand tall and see how long a shadow I can cast.

While reorganizing the office closet, I came upon a rag-tag assortment of writings stuffed haphazardly into a transparent blue plastic folder. My journal. I hadn’t seen it in two years. It was like bumping into an old friend, someone you once poured your soul into, who knew your secret wounds; someone you discarded once the wounds began to heal. I was pleased to see it again, but I also felt a tinge of melancholy, a hint of musky sorrow.

I carried the journal into the kitchen, spread it out on the bar, and lit a cigarette. Before me was a mish-mash of dog-eared binders, loose papers, stapled sets of pages, and printouts of e-mail conversations. It’s daunting to revisit past lives---not unlike visiting your own grave.

As I flipped through the pages---the words trembling and breathless and plaintive---I flinched. Old wounds began to throb as I recalled myself back then, dying and desperate to restore order to the chaos my life had become. I began to arrange the notes chronologically: death one took far more pages than death two, even though the second death held more meaning. Maybe I’d just learned to grieve better.

I placed everything neatly back in the folder and returned it to the closet. I would revisit these ghosts again in due time, reliving each death as a retrospective, as part of the story I have begun here. For now, the journal is just a dark reminder of how much one can endure and still find bliss.

It’s all a question of perspective, then. Like looking at an object with one eye and then the other. Same, but different. Still, I hope my journal never again becomes my confidante. I’ve died enough for one lifetime.

Retrospective, Part 3: Shadows and Lights

2005-12-14T14:33:00.000-08:00

The sky was jet black and moonless, but the glimmering stars cast enough light to discern vague shapes. As people arranged themselves around the yard in small groups to watch the meteors zipping overhead, X3 held court at the picnic table. J and I wandered off alone to a field behind the house.

We gazed overhead, then at each other. I wanted so badly to believe that she wanted me---an irrational yearning, given that I was married, that I was twice her age, that her family was white collar and mine faded blue, that she could have any man she wanted.

We were shrouded in night shadows, talking quietly, when I saw the reflection of a meteor flash across her eyes. The vision was so symbolic, so poignant, so transcendent that I was overwhelmed by a sudden euphoria, stronger even than my desire to kiss her. I was certain that there, in the depths of J’s hazel eyes, the gods had given me a fiery sign: this 22-year-old goddess was my destiny. It was a transcendent moment, one of many that I would have in the days and weeks to come.

Later, after everyone else had left, J rubbed my shoulders as we watched a movie on TV. X3 sat beside her on the sofa and stroked her hair.

First Lesson

2005-12-13T08:54:00.000-08:00

After reading Morgan's latest post, I thought I'd share a favorite poem:

Lie back, daughter, let your head
be tipped back in the cup of my hand.
Gently, and I will hold you. Spread
your arms wide, lie out on the stream
and look high at the gulls. A dead-
man's-float is face down. You will dive
and swim soon enough where this tidewater
ebbs to the sea. Daughter, believe
me, when you tire on the long thrash
to your island, lie up, and survive.
As you float now, where I held you
and let go, remember when fear
cramps your heart what I told you:
lie gently and wide to the light-year
stars, lie back, and the sea will hold you.

---Philip Booth

Wake Up and Smell the Anxiety

2005-12-12T10:45:00.001-08:00

It’s not that I don’t have dreams; I just rarely remember them. When I do remember one, I can only assume that it’s important somehow.

Last night I dreamt that I was in a Middle Eastern city; I was the only non-Arab there, as far as I could tell. An older man, who was a respected leader or teacher, was apparently my tutor. He introduced me to two young Muslim men in the foyer of an apartment building and told one of them, “You will be the next messiah.” He used a different word, but I inferred that he meant “savior.”

The scene changed and I was in an old part of the city, looking up at a brick apartment building. People were bustling all around me---on the sidewalks, in the stores, in the streets---but no one paid any attention to me. I glimpsed my mentor just as he moved away from a window two or three stories above me. Then I heard someone call my name. As I looked around, I heard it again. But no one was looking at me or approaching me. I wandered away past a group of men who were doing something similar to Tai Chi in the street. One was dressed in black with a silk scarf across his face. Then I woke up.

I got out of bed feeling fearful and guilty. The feelings were similar to free-floating anxiety but deep and pronounced, as if the dream awakened a slumbering sin that I now had to atone for. I felt an overpowering need to correct something, to make something right. But what?

I inventoried all the familiar inner doubts and insecurities: my lackluster success at getting a lasting corporate job over the past few years, my shaky attempts to establish myself as a freelance writer/editor in a town already glutted with them, my struggles with the old archetype of husband as breadwinner, my fear that J will lose respect for me if I don’t start pulling in a regular and respectable income again---or at least contributing a more balanced share. I can’t recall ever being so troubled by a dream that technically wasn’t a nightmare.

I looked for clues at Swoon.com and found this interpretation of the dream’s setting:

To dream of a foreign place or country indicates that the realization of your heart's desire is closer than you imagine; persevere and have patience. A foreigner in your dream, whatever the nationality, is an auspicious omen if he or she was friendly.

I’m a skeptic when it comes to dream interpretations. I mean, how do they gather and catalogue dream symbols and then determine their correspondence with reality? How can any symbol be universal, have the same meaning for every dreamer on the planet? Would a desert-dweller even dream of a mountain? If so, would it mean the same thing that it does to a mountain dweller? And so on.

Blargh! While I prefer Swoon’s interpretation of my dreamscape, I still must deal with what the dream has stirred up in me: the need to overcome my feelings of guilt. Guess I’d better get to it; my heart’s desire apparently hangs in the balance.

Retrospective, Part 2: Beauty and the Beast

2005-12-09T12:34:00.000-08:00

J was new to the department, but her reputation as a gifted writer had preceded her. X3, who was co-editor of the department’s student journal, liked to think that she “discovered her,” which somehow made J her property.

When I first met X3, her arrogance and largely unjustified self-confidence were compelling and disarming---a welcome change from X2’s close-mindedness and fear of adventure. But after eight years of listening to X3 drone on about how much better her taste was, how superior her family was, how the sun rose and set in her ass, I had become disenchanted with her charms. I had also lost all of my friends, who disliked her, had been offended and/or appalled by her, and who believed she held some dark power over me.

But that’s another story.

In the days that followed the party, I made a point of bumping into J whenever possible. So did X3. It had become a rivalry between us, to see which one of us could woo her into bed. From the beginning of the marriage, X3 had made everything that was mine, hers. She slowly stripped me of my individuality, assimilated my hobbies and interests, elbowed her way into my relationships and memories, and made herself the caretaker of my music, my books, and my art. We had shared lovers from the beginning, and she saw J as another notch on the bed post. I saw only J, lovely and bright and pure. She was a rare and priceless treasure. I simply couldn't sacrifice her to the beast.

Although X3 was bisexual, she wasn’t particularly good at seducing females. Men liked her because she was intelligent and bawdy, smoked Winstons and drank beer like one of the guys, always had weed and didn’t mind sharing, and never hid her perfectly shaped breasts beneath a bra. She liked to flash them now and then, just to see a guy’s eyes bug out of his head. She could seduce guys---and did on occasion---but females didn’t know quite what to make of her bawdy flirtations. So I did what any considerate husband would; I became her pimp.

Don’t get me wrong. Seducing young women and enticing them to our bed wasn’t purely altruistic. Like most hetero guys, I enjoy watching two women make love. Frankly, my standards of beauty and sexuality were higher than hers, so she ended up fucking women that were out of her league. But maybe that’s my ego talking.

When I realized that she had designs on J, I experienced a moral crisis. I hadn’t been impassioned by the playthings that I’d obtained for X3 in the past. I was only mildly attracted to two of them, and I engaged in those ménages only half-heartedly. Mostly I just watched quietly from the shadows. The idea of wooing J, this tender young innocent, and then tossing her to X3 like a piece of meat was appalling. I had never in my life felt such a powerful attraction for any woman like I did for J. But X3 was my wife, and I had never cheated on her. Ever. The threesomes? Consensual and within the parameters of our unique marital guidelines. So, I had a choice. Maintain my allegiance to X3 and bring her J on a platter, or follow my heart and try to win J for myself.

My decision came a few nights later. X3 and I had invited a few friends to our house in the country to watch a meteor shower. I had asked J, who said she would try to make it. The party was in full swing when someone knocked lightly on the front door. There she stood, holding a platter of strawberries and chocolate and smiling that equine smile. I hugged her---longer than I probably should have---and whispered in her ear.

The stars were about fall.

Radar Love and Psychic Sex

2005-12-08T07:49:00.000-08:00

Last night J and I had one of those delight-filled evenings where everything falls into place effortlessly. We’d ordered our favorite pizza, rented Napolean Dynamite, opened a bottle of Merlot, filled the pipe. In short, we were feeling light-hearted and content. ND, though we’d seen it before, was cracking our shit up.

At one point J exclaimed: “I’m having a wonderful evening!” So was I. I really like being with her. A moment passed, and then we blurted out together: “You’re fun!” It always tickles us when we share the same thought or say the same thing simulataneously.

I knew what prompted my remark: I was thinking how our psychic connection always makes sex spectacular. Hey! I’m a guy. We’re just wired that way. So I asked her why she had said it. She replied, “I was thinking about sex, actually. How ‘bout you?” I shuddered. J likes to HAVE sex, but she rarely likes to TALK about it. Hey! She’s a girl. They’re just wired that way.

Since we discovered Tantra several years ago, we have developed what I consider to be an unusually strong psychic connection. We regularly speak in tandem, anticipate when the other is about to call, sense that the other is troubled, and so on. Our telepathic communication seems to work best when it’s spontaneous and unforced. We have little luck with Zener cards or guess-which-number games. Like the Sundance Kid, we don’t do well when we aim; we’re most accurate when we shoot from the hip.

So, sex last night was insanely good. We shared that common space where our thoughts and fantasies become one, and we frolicked with mindless abandon. What can I tell ya? We’re fun!

Retrospective, Part I: How I Met J

2005-12-06T20:20:00.002-08:00

From the moment we met, I knew my life was forever changed.

It was at an impromptu grad student party in 1994. I was sitting on the sofa with X3, my wife of 6 years, when through the window I saw this stunningly beautiful young woman talking to some people in the front yard. I don’t recall what excuse I made for getting up and walking out of the house; it’s quite possible that I said nothing. All memory of that night began the moment I passed through the doorway and recast my destiny.

I walked directly to her, my eyes locked on hers, and introduced myself. Formalities quickly faded into polite conversation, which then eased into effortless dialogue. For reasons I couldn’t fathom, this bright and sexy nymph showered me with smiles, laughed at my jokes, made me think in ways I never had, and brazenly flirted with me—despite (or maybe because of) my having mentioned that I was married.

As we eagerly offered insights into our identities, neither of us could quit grinning. We communicated easily on every level, every topic. With each laugh, each casual brush, it seemed obvious that we were having that rare lust-at-first-sight experience that many hope for but few know. I never had. I became so filled with desire that I had to force myself not to gather her in my arms and kiss her there in front of every fucking one.

Perhaps it was the intensity of my emotions that night that germinated the manic seed. I was, at the very least, euphoric. J sensed it, of course, and wisely broke the spell: “So, is your wife here with you?” she asked with a demure smile.

I instantly regained my composure, shocked by the power this slender and sensual goddess had over my senses. But the playful look she gave me as she turned and sashayed away assured me that this was just the beginning of a long, luxurious enchantment.

I didn't have to find my wife; she found me.

Your Lips Move, But I Can't Hear What You Say

2005-12-04T10:52:00.000-08:00

Do you have a pet peeve? Mine is being ignored. I don't mean forgotten or overlooked. I can understand someone forgetting to call or not noticing me standing over in the corner. I actually enjoy being on the sidelines at parties and family functions. You can learn a lot by watching people interact.

What I'm talking about is when another human being simply denies your existence. You speak, but you might as well have just thought the words for all the impact they have.

I was at J's going-away party last Thursday evening. I know several of her co-workers, of course, though only superficially. The conversations at such events are usually polite but awkward, phatic and work-related (which is why I prefer people watching.) I can deal with all the mindless blathering for a couple hours, but I just can't stand being ignored. Ever.

J and I were at a table with two of her colleagues, a smart and friendly young woman and a guy that I'd never really spoken to since he joined the agency. The conversation, which was about work (of course) bounced among the three of them. I finally felt inspired to contribute and addressed my remark to the guy, who was on my left.

Now, I have a big voice, and this dude was less than three feet from me. Yet, he didn't turn his head, didn't acknowledge my words, didn't even arch an eyebrow. Instead, he kept his eyes glued on J (who was sitting across from him) and directed his remarks to her.

Yeah, it was weird on several layers. But that's not today's rant. He fucking ignored me! And it pissed me off! Like it always does. . . .

I exist damn it! And I need to know that you do.

Comment. Say something. Let me know you've heard my words.

I promise that I won't ignore you.

A Christmas Bauble

2005-12-02T11:52:00.002-08:00

J just sent me a clip that's so cool I thought I'd share. You'll need Windows Media Player with sound for the full effect. (-:

If I don't see you before, Merry Christmas.

A Voice Crying in the Wilderness

2005-12-01T08:17:00.000-08:00

As you may have figured out, I’m new to blogging. I’ve earned a few English degrees, taught university-level writing courses, worked as an editor, published some articles. I’m presently a freelance writer. In other words, I have a pretty good understanding of what makes writing “work.”

As I used to tell my students, the most important aspect of writing is audience awareness. You can’t communicate effectively unless you understand your readers: their age, gender, language skills, needs, interests, and so on. You can be an expert in your field, a master rhetorician, and a grammatical guru, but if you don’t put your audience first, you’re only writing to yourself. Onanistic self-indulgence, if you will.

I’ve been struggling, then, to figure out who reads what I’m blogging. Who drops by and why? How did they find me? What were they hoping for? Did they approve or take one look and surf away? Am I communicating, or am I just talking to myself? I suppose every new blogger hopes for validation, acceptance.

Which makes me wonder why bloggers blog in the first place. So many voices clamoring to be heard. Are blogs the twenty-first century's version of the timeless quest for purpose and identity? Over 6 billion humans currently inhabit this speck of cosmic dust. It’s hard to be heard over the din of so much humanity.

Maybe, then, blogs have an ontological purpose: “I blog, therefore I am.” Is cyberspace the new heaven? Is God logged on? If so, is she reading my blog?

I hope she leaves a comment. That would be cool.

Finding the Right Balance

2005-12-01T06:55:00.000-08:00

I never thought I’d grow up to be a househusband.

I was raised in the heartland, during the post-war 50’s. (Yeah, I’m that old.) My dad worked at a factory making tires---as did all the men in my nuclear family. The women stayed home and made other things, like meals, beds, budgets, and babies.

Even though the scales have been radically recalibrated during the past five decades of social and sexual evolution, couples back then established a balance that was practical and functional, under the circumstances. There was an awesome symmetry about it, really. The men hunted and gathered; the women dusted furniture and changed diapers. On Saturday night, the men drank too many beers, and the wives faked another orgasm. Good times, good times.

Like most adults, then, my paradigm about marriage and relationships was informed by my parents. Maybe that’s why I still find it hard to get completely comfortable being a househusband, even though J and I have achieved a healthy balance that works for us. Parents establish idols for their children to worship, and children spend the rest of their lives trying to tear them down.

I wonder sometimes what my father, had he lived to meet her, would have thought of my “trophy wife,” whose professional success has surpassed both his and mine. Would he admire our lust-laced love, still steamy and mind-blowing after 12 years of marriage? Would he envy our home and approve of the way I maintain it, inside and out? Could he possibly appreciate the balance we have found? Or would he find the fact that I cook and do laundry while my wife busts balls at the office a travesty? No matter; our paradigm works for us.

As J likes to say, balance isn’t always 50-50.

Boys Do Cry

2005-11-28T20:05:00.001-08:00

Yeah, well. . . .

I cried this afternoon. I really hate to cry.

But what’re you gonna do? Some days you're up; some days you're down. Even when medicated, bipolars become depressed.

The inevitable had been building for hours. Then J came home from work and asked me an innocent, helpful-on-another-day, born-of-love question. And I simply cried.

It helped, of course. Catharsis and all that. I got emotional closure AND the hug I'd needed all day.

I guess it's really not the crying that I hate; it's the sense of emptiness that usually precedes it.

We Live, We Learn

2005-11-27T08:06:00.000-08:00

I've been married for most of my adult life. Not always to the same person, however. If marriage is like climbing a mountain, it took me four attempts to make it to the summit. But in spite of the failures---or maybe because of them---I finally succeeded.

My wife and I have a truly amazing marriage. Really. Not surprisingly, we had to fight and claw and stumble and bleed before we found the path to bliss. I used to run away when my past relationships got rocky and difficult; I've since learned that gifts come wrapped in adversity.

I also believed that marriages just happened, shaped and maintained solely by the wisdom and common sense of two people in love. No manuals, no instructions, no assembly required. My present success (this is my longest, happiest marriage,by the way) has been informed by the wisdom and common sense of others, like Deepak Chopra, Don Miguel Ruiz, David Schnarch, Brian Tracy, Charles and Caroline Muir.

J, my amazing and magical Shakti-bride, has been the best teacher of all.

Having finally made it to the top of the mountain, I can look back in awe and pain and embarrassment and triumph at the road that got me here. So many bad choices, moments of doubt, selfish decisions, emotional injuries to myself and others. I used to say that if I could go back and relive my life I would change EVERYTHING.

But now I wouldn't change a single step. How could I? Everything that went before led me to here. And here is very, very good.

Do You Take Time Outs?

2005-11-26T10:55:00.001-08:00

Like many of you, I spent Thanksgiving with out-of-town relatives. My wife and I are happily self-contained, so social events such as family gatherings and office parties tend to put us on both on edge. But sometimes you just have to cowboy up.

My wife and I began our traditional hour-and-a-half trek in good spirits, all things considered. We passed the first half hour with our usual banter and small talk. We have learned from experience to reserve controversial topics for our weekly couple’s meeting. But even innocent banter can become controversial under the right circumstances.

Halfway there, I asked my wife a casual sex-related question that ordinarily would have yielded a few miles of interesting discussion. But context is everything, my friend.

She said she wasn’t interested in talking about oral sex just before seeing her parents. I didn’t see why it was such a big deal. She said; I said. . . . In a matter of seconds, the atmosphere went from warm and cummy to frigid and barren. Mile after mile, neither of us spoke. Not aloud, anyway.

At home, we could have taken a time out. This tactic, which we learned in Fighting For Your Marriage, has helped us back away from the edge many times when a disagreement begins to escalate out of control. But here we were, hurtling down the highway at 70 miles per hour with no place to go, no way to separate and lick our own wounds.

Thank God for Denzel Washington! After 15 minutes of searching for an escape, I thought of Fallen, which we’d watched the night before. While not a bad movie, it makes certain assumptions and leaves many questions unanswered. It was the perfect scapegoat. Not only did it break the ice, it allowed us to do so with dignity.

Thanksgiving turned out as well as it could, considering I was surrounded by inlaws and miles from the comforts of home. Tomorrow, we'll revisit the topic of oral sex, but this time within the peaceful atmosphere of our couple's meeting.

Why Don’t All Marriages Work?

2005-11-20T06:18:00.000-08:00

Marriage Go Round is an autobiographical look at the dynamics and subtleties that make marriage a wild and unpredictable, mellow and delightful ride. I look forward to sharing, learning, and growing with you. That said....

Have you ever wondered why so many people fail at marriage? According to the National Center for Health Statistics, America’s current divorce rate is 38%. That means that roughly 4 of every 10 married couples---on your block, at your office, among your friends, in your family---are liable to split this year. Eight people out of every 20 will become divorced. For many, it won’t be their first failed attempt at marriage---or their last. Some folks need several tries to get it right.

Why do some marital relationships crumble at the first challenge and others grow stronger with every new one? Is wedded bliss a myth, or is it a prize that must be earned? And how do we obtain the prize if we don’t understand the rules of the game? I don’t know about you, but none of my marriages came with a manual.

So, why do marriages fail so frequently these days? Has the concept outlived its usefulness? Have the social and cultural institutions that once valued and supported the sanctity of marriage become blasé? I would guess that most couples believe when they get married that they will sail happily, magically, endlessly upon the River of Love. But what happens when the water gets rough, as it does from time to time? Why do some immediately jump ship and others cling together? Is there such a thing as “the right way” to be married?

If there’s a secret to marital success, 4 out of every 10 couples in America apparently need to know about it.

Thanks for Dropping By

2005-11-19T22:01:00.000-08:00

As you can see, I'm not quite ready to receive guests. I anticipate posting something compelling (or at least interesting) by November 21st. In the meantime, feel free to say hello, post a comment, request a thread . . . whatever. The whole point of this or any blog is to communicate and share ideas, yes?

I'm looking forward to our conversations.