Nature's Buddy Rubbers

 

Paranoia

Part 9 of 30

This is one of those especially bad days. I hate to admit it gets this way once in a while, but, hey, life obviously runs the gamut in its greater and more despicable extremes. You want to be happy all the time, then the slightest thing -- the winds of change blow in -- and you’re at your wit's end.

Being oppressed like this is an occasional thing, so I'm not trying to drive anyone away as though I’m an escapee from a clinic. Good news for the system, I haven’t escaped yet, but if I could just clasp the key in my hot little hand really hard for three or four hours, I’d have a good enough impression for Dirk -- one of the more resourceful inmates -- to make a working key. Then with enough of a diversion on the south side of the clinic, we’d be out again. Now, if we could only coordinate the escape with the time the train goes by, it’d be a piece of cake. Speaking of which, we might just hide the key in the cake.

Anyway, who among us doesn’t have bad days, whether you’re free to come and go (which must be nice) or you find your permanent residence a little more permanent than living creatures typically relish? And how about this for a sign of the institution’s failure: They know we’re all down and they still make us paint the walls gray! You probably know my theory on this stuff; it’s purely job security for them. So the crazier we are, the less we can see straight -- and with the paranoia and shaking I invented four new dances in the last week alone -- the better off they are.

Actually, I have so many problems that I don’t mind the institution as much as you’d think. Because if I weren’t here, I’d still be bothered with the same problems, only more on my own without the free medicine. On the other hand -- and I won’t get too graphic and thereby reduce my readership beyond the last three or four of you -- the sex is terrible. Although hope springs eternal -- Amen? -- so I’m still packing this condom. Because that’s the kind of guy I am, always wanting the best for all parties, happiness for me, yet being able to deprive the world of my offspring. Who’d be such mental giants, supermen, superwomen, my bloodline no doubt would take over the world! We’d pick up where my Dad left off, and big respect for Dad in Heaven. Hope he’s proud of his old sonny boy.

But maybe he's not that proud. Realizing this is the Creme de la Crap for me. Why do I exist, only to suffer this paranoia, the whole bitter landscape, one problem after another? Because of one stinking guy, my aforementioned Dad in heaven! He should not have gone all the way back when he had a chance, so here I am. Or if he planned to go all the way, he could’ve planned on protection. How hard is it to put a Nature's Buddy on? Then everyone's happy. Next time, step up your game, Dude! Give me a damned break!

Alas In Paranoialand

Paranoia

Part 1 of 30

Alas, I've died and gone to the land where paranoia reigns supreme, everyday one pitfall after another. I’ve ventured these parts before, the sights and the whole spectacle. But really, I'm likely not really dead, but this is my sad lot in life. It happens a lot, these universal shoves into the mud, the bony cosmological knee to the metaphorical crotch, a seemingly beautiful conch at my ear but no reassuring sound of the sea. Just a far off voice from the past -- traveling light years to arrive and just in time to say, “Your party's not available. Hang up and try again later, loser.”

I slam the phone to the table and the murmuring voice goes dead. The vastness of space then reminds me, I'm a slug. So how’s that for luck? It sums up my life experiences, sour from day one. And now I’m out of trust, out of hope, my optimism's shot, and I am, above all, paranoid. A strain of paranoia for every occasion. From “Woe is me” to “What’s a guy gotta do to catch a break?” Plus, it might sound trivial and I should leave it out, but I'm also out of Pepsi.

I hesitate to go on -- I have big plans for the blog but I'm reluctant. And yet, when there's grief for one, there’s joy for the rest. I could help so many other people just by plummeting through all the usual supports and landing with a thud. Just my luck, the role of the redeemer. All this time with the huge grief and now you're cheered up. The same thing used to happen to me. I'd hear of someone with a terrible life and I'd thank my lucky stars it wasn't me. I'd even get giddy, call a few friends, they'd come over and we'd jump on the bed and throw bags of confetti into the air. When we were real happy we'd open the bags.

But, please, don't worry about me. Whatever you might've done for me, that time is long past. Please, not one pathetic syllable. But there are other worthless sufferers out there moaning and groaning, turning over in their bed, falling out occasionally, crying like babies, shrieking at their window, raising a ruckus and driving everyone crazy. Possibly say a little prayer for them. I'm still able to talk in sentences, so I'm actually doing pretty well. My blog helps me. Ten years ago a reader told me "Attaboy" about something, my good spelling. So when I'm real down I find his friendly word and reread it. I also emit forth a cleansing shriek now and then. Let me see if I'm in good voice: "Shriek!" I bet they heard that across the street!

Anyway, what's a constant 24/7 paranoia really like? First, possibly to shake up your assumptions, it’s not sooo terrible. It’s not great, but there are worse things. This is mostly mental, which is still painful. But no one’s twisting my arm behind my back, no one’s depriving me of meals, and despite the constant fears, no one's broken down the front door and made off with my TV. It helps that I pay for security, an alarm. But I do have the paranoia that it might be false security, just an empty box that'll do nothing in my time of need.

Come by this month and I’ll let you know if things get any better. Spoiler alert: I already know you won't show up. Who would? But maybe by the end of the month I’ll somehow be magically reconciled to life even with this horrendous burden. It's hard to picture. This ain't flag football, it ain't beanbag. It's real life with real life consequences, one cruddy thing after another. And I’m very aware of what I’m up against. I know how life turns out, in wretched bloody shambles, the main beam of the house crushing me.

Oh well. As Aunt Alice used to say, “Cheers dears!”

Big City, Twilight State

The Big City

Part 18 of 28

Let’s establish a hypothetical situation. You’ve read this far enduring my many pleas for caution; I’m on my knees, listen to me now. Be cautious not to make the same mistakes I made and move to the Big City. My situation was very specific, I didn’t do anything rashly. The city fathers of my little town wanted me out. They led me to the city limits by gunpoint. They were vigilant, blocking every path back. Grandma’s house went down the drain after a few years of bad income and brutal weather. She herself was deceased, old and dead, her eyes wouldn’t open, her heart was shot. It barely worked when she was alive, imagine the rot after her passing...

Yes, it’s true -- setting aside her carcass -- weather can really take a toll on a house. You start thinking, How can I ever overcome these terrible conditions and feel better? What can I do to change my pathetic circumstances? A guy could, of course, learn building skills. Which is hard and not as foolproof as they think. Or I could've changed my outlook on things, mind over matter. No matter how things rot away to nothing, it doesn't have to affect you quite as much. My path was to train my mind to go into what is called The Twilight State. Crossing your eyes, locking your arms at the chest, nodding quickly, and briefly holding your breath. Goodbye cruel world, hello Twilight State!

However -- and this is important, the basic key to failure -- not everyone takes to alt consciousness quite as easily. And the techniques, like most secret techniques, come with strict rules about sharing them. That's an ironclad thing a guy vows to uphold. I took that vow. But, you know, what the hell… They didn't give me a choice, so to hell with them.

I will say, though, that everything here is “For Entertainment Purposes Only,” and any materializing and de-materializing that may happen around or to you is at your own risk. If you become a vapor and evaporate before your time, I cannot be held responsible. This is precisely the point where a friend of mine, Maha Raymond, gave up the ghost in the Himalayas and became an immortal. To give you some idea of such an achievement, it’s like winning a third place ribbon when showing cattle. It’s huge.

And with that, with only two more days of semi-strenuous practice -- grunting is encouraged -- you may encounter the deadliest, most dangerous passages. If that happens, the directions are essentially, “Feel your way.” Anyone incapable of feeling their way is immediately terminated, which is always hard for loved ones. The few who manage to feel their way -- and I saw a family of 12 halfwits make it so don’t tell me it can’t be done -- are deemed immortal with all the advantages pertaining thereunto, including gold merit badges up the yin yang and a ceremonial kiss from the only blonde in them thar hills.

But remember this truth: Mountains aren’t just there, they grow incrementally through extremely slow tectonic movement. Similarly, we advance quickly to the heights, by leaps and bounds, so be patient, stick with it because it’s definitely worth it. Breathe in, breathe out, let it happen. And there you have it, the Twilight State is now yours, and now you can spend the rest of your life mastering it.

For mastery, your purpose must be righteous. Your purpose cannot be to enter the Twilight State willy-nilly or for trivial purposes. If it’s not something righteous and something massive -- a purpose for the ages -- then most of your hopes, however sincere, will be for naught. You seriously need a righteous purpose. One such purpose, completely good, is merely because you moved to the Big City and need something more to help you cope. You’ve heard of the devil? The devil is a metaphor for Big City life, so it takes something bigger and bigger yet to transcend such an obstacle. Try your damnedest, on your word of honor, and see how it goes.

New Year: Circle The Wagons

Friends, I've taken a big step for myself. After all these years of being at everyone's mercy, being tugged and pulled, rather relentlessly, and being all things to all people, I've resolved at long last to "Circle the Wagons." From this point forward, everything changes. I'm going to make soul progress, find my perfect place.

This is a rather personal, spiritual statement, I realize. But having spilled my guts so often on the blog as to my dissatisfaction and dissolution, I feel it helpful also to note my progress, the things that will make for satisfaction and perhaps even healing. Maybe it will be of benefit to others also deciding to Circle the Wagons. I feel I owe everyone that chance.

The Wagons is my term for That Realm above. According to sources, you can profitably visualize it directly at the top of your head proper, or, as I've chosen, between two and four inches above the head. The connector, as it were, is said not to be merely imaginary, but an actual (unseen with the eyes) channel of the subtle currents of the body. Being seen in artwork as a circle made up of petals, and everything in wonderful order, containing currents/energy, those are my "Wagons," not just unconsciously but consciously Circled. Protecting and providing.

Sounds weird, I know. But, seriously, you wouldn't expect me to carry on the way I've been, not if I can make things better, whether it's weird or not. I look at it this way: Either you've got the tail wagon the dog or the dog wagon the tail. It's not just a case of six-of-one half-dozen-of-the-other; it makes a difference to the dog who's wagon who. If the tail's wagon the dog, the dog could end up permanently propped against a tree, the elimination instinct never satisfied. Whereas if the dog's wagon the tail, he'll pee and get on with his day. My dad used to say, "Piss or get off the pot," and that's good enough for me.

There is, however, a time for everything. Who knows the adjustments we go through? When it's mid-year, I might be mired down with the tail wagon the dog. But New Year is a time for a new start, and hopefully with a determined follow-through it will be so. And so, let it be stated: From hence forth, from this day, this dog's wagon the tail, the Wagons being decidedly Circled! I believe it shall be done.

I started it this morning, visualizing a thousand (alternately 10,000) Wagons in a perfect circular arrangement, a lot like in old westerns, holding off the slings and arrows -- mostly arrows -- of the enemy. "I am impervious behind my Circle of Wagons! No man -- regular guy or savage -- can pierce this line, this Circle!" (If you remember one of my earlier resolutions -- I believe it was 2009 -- I had much the same scenario, except it was based on the Gingerbread Man ("Can't touch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"), but this time I hope to keep it. And, frankly, I like a Circle of Wagons more than 10,000 Gingerbread Men; that daily suggestion led to substantial weight gain.)

There are wonderful truths at work here, much like Horatio or someone said in Shakespeare, "Something something something dreamed of in heaven and earth." Right there's the validation, all the validation I need, to press on, Circling the Wagons, and having all the defense/offense I need ... for January 1, January 2, January 3, and beyond.

How To Be A Local Character

I've been a collector of local characters, like forever. Of course I don't bring them home; they're not butterflies to pin to the curtain. I only make note of them and observe them as much as is polite. And since they never seem to notice observation, you could stare all day and still be polite.

They're always out and about, the basic thing of the local character being the need for a public. You could stay home and be a local character -- depending on your mentality -- but you'd soon find there's little point in it. Let's say you're a wild guy waving all the time. It might be fun to prance around in the mirror waving for a while, but it'd have to wear off.

I think I could be a local character, except my mentality, alas, is still way too far on this side of the line. Try as I might, my normal brain power will not release its damned grip. So I'm doomed, it seems, only to watch from the sidelines and never know their full joy.

In researching the subject, I found an obscure book downtown, "How To Be A Local Character." It makes interesting reading. And makes me wonder, maybe these guys aren't all mental, just acting out the advice of the how-to author. ["How To Be A Local Character," Corky McDermott, Vantage Press, 1977.] But surely they haven't all had access to this book. So the only other possible alternative is they're mental. Or just doing it on their own initiative. There could be something to that. Instead of being mental in the negative sense, maybe they're mental positively, "with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men" (The Adventures of Superman.)

I remember a couple of the local characters downtown on the square from when I was a kid. One guy was called Paulie, and I'm not going to make any jokes about him, because I'm merciful. I'll just say his coordination was totally gone, and that's not meant as a joke. Then there was Hoyt, the guy who always stood on the edge of town, not putting his thumb up, but waiting till someone gave him a ride back to his own town. Talking to Hoyt, as I did many times, was an experience. There were actual words in what he said, but most of it sounded like bluster and babble. He was friendly, and I even saw his apartment once when I took him home, with waterlogged ceiling tiles hanging everywhere. Very memorable.

Anyway, our author, McDermott, sketches it out much like I would were I to write it. Which is to do a brief survey of local characters, then sketch what it takes to be one. I'll list just four of his points:

1) Something to make you stand out -- What you do as a local guy has to be unusual enough that people notice. I saw one local guy whose thing was to walk around in a white sheet, nothing underneath. He'd often lay on the sidewalk. And I still have retina burn from seeing his entire business while crossing the road one evening. His legs were up under the sheet in full childbirth pose. But the problem with indecent exposure is the police get involved, as they did that night. Interestingly, McDermott doesn't mention this as a possibility.

2) Something you'll be bold enough to do -- McDermott's book presupposes that you're doing these things by choice, not from a mental problem. This is a point I'd have a hard time with. I'm not really that bold. I can think of plenty of oddball things a guy could do -- carrying a toilet seat everywhere would be a fantastic one -- but where to get the boldness, I just couldn't. You have to find your boldness (or comfort) level. Maybe start with the flush handle and work your way up.

3) Something constant -- I see this as an important point. You might carry a big ugly doll one time and think it was funny, but you have to do it all the time. You need to settle on it. That's it. You can't be carrying a dead guinea pig tomorrow. It's got to be the doll. We have a guy downtown who's always got a doll with him. And he definitely turns heads and keeps us wondering. But so far I've never seen anyone ask him what he's doing it for. As for me, with my mental state being what it is, I would want more variety than that, and that'd be my downfall. They'd all know I was faking.

4) Something no one else is doing -- You need to study your environment. See what's going on and what's missing. Cross off your list what you see already being done. If there's already a guy who looks like a freak from R. Crumb comics waving at everyone, there's no room for two! You're going to have to do something different. I think it'd be cool to have a megaphone and walk around shouting things. I've never seen anyone do that, even though I've definitely seen local characters walking around shouting. Why they never thought of the megaphone, it could just be they don't know where to get one. Where do they sell megaphones?