How many times can I randomly write that I'm feeling overwhelmed on some scrap of paper which I leave stuffed in an unread book or on an untouched pile for my later self to find?

Evidently a lot. My past self is my current self's most consistent correspondent. The bitch is I can't write back. But, if I could I'd just keep sending this postcard:

A Veteran (With the War Paint to Prove It)

I don't know how she does it.How she gets me to do things. Well, I do know. It's her. One of my oldest and dearest friends. The woman who once slammed my hand with my own locker door, who I impersonated Miss Piggy for in Latin class, who never approved of the girls I dated, who got me to get a pedicure nine years ago and again last week.


This time was not as dramatic as the last. I was experienced now. I'd had a pedicure before, so I had a clue. There were some things that were different from then till now. The first time I was the only male in the salon and it was cause for comment among a few of the other non-males in the room. This time it was no deal (big or otherwise) at all. The first time, I got an extra foot rub instead of the nail polish. This time I got both.
 

And this 'ittle pitty got all tarted up.

It's been a week living with technicolor toes and I've noticed a few things:

• Every time (I mean, every. time.) I see my feet now I wonder whose feet are attached to my legs.
• I don't feel the polish has polished my podiatric presentation that much (next time I'm getting the "Dressed to Kilt" red instead of the "Dating a Royal" blue)
• There's no small glee in being at work and knowing that I'm the only one who knows my toes are painted. It's like when I wore the novelty underpants to a funeral.
• That glee is often momentary, because I readily forget about the polish. Which hasn't been an issue, except when I went to change into my sneakers in the locker room and my naked toes reminded me they were painted before my brain did. I'm somebody's story now.
• I did not, repeat NOT, feel like less of a man with nail polish on. It made no difference to my self-perception. Which means, it's the kind of thing I can do or not because I want to, not because someone else expects it.

Thanks to Mei-Mei for taking such thoughtful care of me these last 26 years.

Same Cloth, Different Color

Dead. You're not supposed to be dead. You were supposed to live forever. Or so you thought. You lived like there was no tomorrow and now, suddenly, there isn't.

But tomorrow isn't what I'm thinking about. It's yesterday. Twenty-two years of yesterdays ago. In the course of one weekend, which started standing at the open trunk of your car, you added so much to my life. Things I still treasure. Things that make me laugh and feel stronger and remind me to keep going. Things I have passed on to others, sometimes without giving credit where it was due. Friends now think of these things as mine, but I know they're yours on loan to me.

How did you die so quickly? Weren't you getting better? You were supposed to get better.

The last time we spent together was Bethlehem in 1999. Has it really been that long? Friends for six years and silence for much of the rest? I know why.

That last time it was you and Ann Marie and that girl I picked up who I never should have. Like the smiling devil you were, you sat on my shoulder encouraging the sin. It scared me less that I listened to you than that your voice effortlessly made all the angst seem so pointless. It was too much power for someone to have over me, so I walked away before it was too late. But first, I spent the night with that girl. I'm still not sure who was more pleased about that, me or you.

But it wasn't only that. As we once said, we were cut of the same cloth, but dyed different colors. Yours was a world of wenches and fantasy and bravado. Mine was a world of guilt and history and insecurity. Over time I felt our colors weren't as complementary as I once thought. I drifted away, but not without taking swatches of you with me.

Above all the rest, I still carry a little you-shaped devil with me. He's on my shoulder whenever I want to be puckish or bawdy. And if I say my mind at those times, he's behind the Cheshire cat smile on my lips. It's never as broad as yours, but it's there just the same.

Thank you for everything. All the Harpo handshakes (and knowing what they are), the sword-play, the aimless drives that went somewhere, the Dark Side, and Tom Lehrer. Mostly, thanks for making me a fuller person.

You have done well. But it'll take time. You are generations being born and dying. You are at one with all living things.... You have power beyond imagination. Use it well, my friend.

No Thanks, I've Seen This One Before

It’s one A.M. and I’m dead alive. One or both of those anyway.

It’s a nightmare. And not just any nightmare. It’s a rerun, written by the evil offspring of O. Henry and Hitchcock. It goes like this:

I find a man in a darkened room. He’s almost dead. He’s got a long, thin, curved face, like a lobster claw on a neck. At first, I think he’s dead. There’s no motion, no breath, so I leave.

After this, things get a bit hazy. What’s certain is that there are a series of suspicious deaths which look increasingly, to me anyway, like murder. Each of the numberless deaths appear to be a severe test of their physical limits. Ultimately, as my sanity strains with each death (over the course of a single day!) I wind up back at claw face’s to sleep. Because that’s restful.

I’m in a back room on a couch. Someone is in the room with me (I think). Finally, as the intensity of each death hits me, breaking down my sanity, I run through the house to claw face’s room. I was wrong. He is still alive, but barely. I start to wake him, fighting off the urge to rouse him so frantically that I kill him and almost burst my own heart.

As  he wakes, I realize that I’ve become another guinea pig for the test. I don’t solve the mystery of the person behind the curtain, because the realization of my situation pushes me over the edge, exploding my heart, and I die - waking up in the real world, totally disoriented and scared. I’m dead, right? Dead and gone. My mind shattered…

I want to run, but there are warm covers over me and my wife sleeping next to me. Is she dead? Did she fail the test? Did I do anything to stop it? Anything to encourage it?

As my eyes adjust to the darkness, my mind adjusts to the reality. I realize two things: I’m in my bedroom, safe, and I’ve been with claw face and the rest before. In the bright light of the back room, I wish that this is my last visit and that I’ll never go back.

And now, almost twenty four hours later, I’m too blood-shy to fall asleep.

Sing, Sing, Sing

Anger is a brief madness. HORACE

Lately, in an effort to slay my latent and expressed anger, I've been writing and raving and singing. Yes, singing. My life requires a soundtrack, always. Particularly one I can sing to. Even my anger. Especially my anger.

When I'm angry there are dozens of potentially suitable songs which could be played. But I've noticed over the years there are four that play during every outburst. These are them.

"All Apologies" - Nirvana

"Behind Blue Eyes" - The Who

"Basket Case" - Green Day

"Destroyer" - The Kinks

It's all further evidence that I'm trapped in Stuart Smalley's hell and it makes me angry.

I should say no matter my mood I will belt these out if I hear them. Like right now. I'm singing while I write this.

Why Do I Smell Smoke?

An old girlfriend of mine once told me that had I lived during the Reformation I would have been burned at the stake.

On the bright side, I do prefer to be hot rather than cold.

At the time I thought she said it because of my theological outlook. Over the last twenty years, though, I've come to think that she meant something much more intrinsic.

This all comes on the heels of a day where I was perhaps too zealous in my approach. Though in some cases, I knew what I was doing and wanted to provoke the moment so we could have a conversation. I did that because, despite claims to the contrary, we don't actually talk about necessary things.

What happened was a typical conversation which included altered histories, insecurities masked beneath authority, and a general expression of victimhood.

Perhaps the most disappointing part of a disappointing day is the realization that, for the most part, I work with and for children. Public tantrums are permitted under the guise of compassion, all constructive criticism is taken as condemnation, and an absence of any plan or direction is considered freeing. In almost every way it's the opposite of how I want to be. And just to add to these joys, it's been explained to me that all change only comes from the top down, but there's currently no need for change because we. are. perfect.

The hardest part of all is knowing I'm complicit in this too. I add to the crazy, but with the best of intentions. Which is just like them. They only have good intentions. They may not see the whole board the way I do, but they're still well-intentioned. Besides, none of them are smart or talented enough to be Machiavellian.

Still, I'm not always easiest person to work with. I expect an awful lot. Mostly, I expect people to bring their brains and use them, actively find ways to be better today then yesterday, and be open to the new. That list sounds benign, but it's not. It's about change and power and effort. Dangerous things that, if you're the one being read the list, can leave anyone feeling judged ineffectual and wanting.

I guess it all comes down to this: I'm clearly worshiping in the wrong church and I'd better get out before they lash me to the stake and toss the torches.

Old Hopes For a New Year

My hopes (and needs) for 2015 are the same as they were for 2014. They include:

Hack away at the unessential.

Spend time on creativity.

Nurture connections.

Take better mental & physical care of myself.

Present myself in best possible way.

Ignore repetition and try the new.

Don’t wait, do it now.

Having lived with these directives to myself for a year I realize two things. These are exactly what I need to spend time doing. Secondly, I should remember that not waiting makes achieving the others much easier.