To All The Children I Never Sired

Today's one of those bittersweet moments for me, not quite sweet, not quite bitter. Certainly sweeter when I’m not thinking about it, and a lot more bitter when I’m not not thinking about it, which I am now.

It could just be something that goes with the holiday season. All the little rugrats that would’ve gotten their little gifts from me over the years are once again not looking at anything under the tree. My shopping list remains unchecked, for there aren't any to list. Little Bertha, Edna, Tommy, Daniel, Wally, Florence, and Red, they’ve never seen the light of day, let alone worried about their gifts. Damn! That hits me hard, especially Red and Edna, two names I’ve always had a thing for.

I probably should leave this article for some other time, some better time. But when would that time come? That’d be just like me, shunting aside the pain and refusing to address it. But aren’t the holidays a time when you should be happy and raise hell, party, and blow party horns? That’s what I should be doing instead, not lamenting my lack of horny output, ruing my paucity of progeny. So there’s no hell-raising this year, no partying, with my party horn already blown, the opportunities all gone.

That’s something to think about. Are my opportunities really gone? This isn’t like women, you know, whose biological clock’s batttery’s shot by the time they’re 40. I’m a full fledged male person, and I’ve at least heard we’re capable of shootin’ the moon well into our 70s. But when it happens at 65-70 it’s a sad accident. Old man has sex, then a stroke, in that order, but with the last ounce of his life-force manages to squeeze out little Rodney. Who grows up always questioning ‘why Papa doesn’t live with us,’ then learns the bitter truth and ends up in a home for perplexed kids, eventually featured in TV ads for that home, begging for just 63 cents a day so other kids won’t lack a dad. What would they do with the money raised but fix old guys like me?

I’m glad I used the name Rodney. Since I hate that name and would never name a kid Rodney. That gives me some comfort, some shelter from this feeling of dread, the dread of lost opportunities. I hope it gives me not just that one step, but 10 steps toward leaving this terrible funk! Maybe I could think of what people who have kids go through. Childhood illnesses, injuries, mistakes, crimes, desires, various resentments, the whole slate of life’s misfortunes.

I was downtown the other day and saw some random beady-eyed shrimpy kid tramp looking at me, like “I’m gonna steal your wallet, mister.” Maybe it was my imagination, but I got the hell out of there, and reported him as a malevolent street urchin. He should be in jail now, and it’s a pity if he isn’t. He’s definitely some stupid dad’s kid! At least I haven’t given life to such a creature! I’m a good person...

That’s a good way to get rid of the pain, Eureka! Balance it out, the pain of nothing, no wild honyocks to worry about, and by none I mean nil ... against the pain of actual flesh and blood duplicates, who’d likely as not have deep-seated resentments of their own, and be just the kind of willful little morons who'd take it out on me mentally and physically for giving them life, and I would’ve been done in by now. The way kids are, I'd be a goner. Why would they allow me to live to a ripe old age? I’d be dead. A corpse rotting away...

Happy holidays, everyone!

A Thousand Years From Now

Here's a self-help exercise I thought of earlier tonight. Which has helped me put a few things into perspective, so now I'm not nearly as bummed out.

I was really feeling lethargic and even depressed. Everyone has "real lives," and in very short order they can become clogged up with various demands on you, this or that person holding something against you, criticizing you, and basically getting you in a corner. So every damned day seems like it's just dragging along. I'm still a bit depressed, but definitely not as much. Not as long as I'm daydreaming and singing about a thousand years from now!

This little song I started singing dirge-like to a very slow version of the tune of "You're In The Army Now." Thinking ... once again, of those glorious far-off days of a thousand years from now, when everything about me, everyone else, and every problem I either have or think I have will be so definitely forgotten ... it's basically ridiculous to even think about it now.

"A thousand years from now,
A thousand years from now,
Nobody then will even care...
A thousand years from now."

That's the basic gist of the thing, but I'm tossing in some riffing on the words, like "No one will even know my name," "No one will care and that is true," and "No one will give the faintest shit, a thousand years from now."

In addition to singing the song I'm thinking how true it is. A thousand years ago was 1016, OK? And I assume some guy like me, probably pounding out shoes for the horses of a village, was having some problems with others. Couldn't get the metal ... or his reputation had taken a hit; a horse crapped on him during a fitting and he shot it in the ass. Something harmless like that. Well, a thousand years has now passed, and we have no idea about that guy, who he was, who his friends were, what the horse's name was, whether the horse ever walked again, anything! A thousand years has passed and it's all completely forgotten.

Because a thousand years leaves zero witnesses. They've all moved on. A thousand years from now even Lee Harvey Oswald won't raise any immediate thoughts. But they'll speak his name and a computer will regurgitate something. But it's not going to be mentioning me ... with the relatively little reputation and problems I have. Even though they feel big to me right now. And even though I'm down in the mouth, going through the motions, all lethargic, yawning, etc. A thousand years from now heals everything.

"You did what???" "I don't know. Is it even gonna matter ... a thousand years from now?"

It actually won't matter -- none of it -- 30 years from now. I'm sure it won't. I'm 63, and as we all know I'm going to die when I'm 85. That's only 22 years away! Meaning, in 30 years I'll already have been dead eight whole years. And I find it hard to believe anyone's going to still be complaining about me then. The average guy dies now and you're immediately forgotten after they've scattered the ashes.

You got a problem? Put it in a larger perspective. What difference will it make a thousand years from now? It won't make any difference at all.

She's Cute ... He's Handsome ... Stop! Don't Do It!

This is just the kind of argument you want to get into ...

You caught her fair and square, bald-faced, lying, red-handed, in the act, in flagrante delicto, as it were. You had her right where you wanted, names, dates, suspicious comings and goings. This would be your big chance to be rid of her, no questions asked. No one could blame you.

Then -- you should have known -- as sure as the sun doth rise, she has the names and dates, and suspicious comings and goings of you as well. A little tit for tat, what's good for the goose is good for the gander, or vice versa. You tried to avoid that infernal lipstick! Proving to yourself once and for all, there's no fool like an old fool!

It's the same old story, times two. You're out and about, you catch an eye, an eye catches you, then there's a smile and an exciting closeness. It's a crowded room, pretty dark, you can duck through this curtain and out this door, the back door, and find a booth somewhere. No one's looking, you think. In this whole big world, surely you can duck scrutiny for a paltry hour; you've been around, you see people, they're out of sight in a flash.

But there's always some little thing. Someone crossing the street the opposite way, catching a glance, noticing something out of place, a slightly different person on your arm. But they don't say anything, don't greet you, and maybe turn their head to look the other way. Saving their kind attentions for later, the gossip mill.

She, however, was very discrete, coming up with one excuse after another for her absences. Doctor appointments, visiting a sick friend, Christmas shopping in July, having her dress mended. But you started thinking, Something's going on. And decided to call in a private detective for answers.

He tailed her, but good. She wasn't so secure she didn't look behind her and around. But she kept right on going, not noticing him. Then the assignation, a dark stairwell, a key to the door. Their meeting went well, such as it was. The detective was back with the details within the hour. Now to confront her! And be done with it!

She was ready, though, the evidence she has against you bringing out an added brazenness. This is why she had no shame!

Fortunately, friends, the above scenario is fictional. The very sad people in the illustration, just actors, helped me make a point. The point being, if you haven't yet crossed that line -- and there has to be a few of you who've thus far held back -- there's still hope for your relationship. You may seriously think you've lost the fire as a couple, but it's very likely that's just a deception. Because whatever it was a long time ago, the mutual attraction that brought you together, isn't dead. Much more likely, you've simply set it aside, by neglect, or from a lack of imagination. The old fire's still there, present somewhere, just waiting to be rekindled.

I've had friends who've crossed that line, and I've kept their confidence, only because they're my friends. But I know they're miserable. Had they only come to me before it happened -- this goes for male and female -- I would've told them, "Don't do it!" In my favor I would've brought out the old truth, "The grass always looks greener on the other side of the fence." I would've then lead them through a few questions -- delving into their thinking -- before emptying a pitcher of iced water in their lap. They'd have come up cussing me, obviously, but when they got hold of themselves, they'd have thanked me.

It's too late for them now, many of them, but that doesn't mean it's too late for you. Let's say you're getting ready to go right now. But somehow (Who knows how it happens, but thank God it does!) you found your way to this blog -- a very popular blog, yes, but still obscure enough that you basically need divine guidance to find it -- and you're reading this post, and it's hitting you like a ton of bricks. You're saying to yourself: "Yes, yes ... just the word I needed, as within the hour -- or maybe even sooner -- I was planning to throw it all away with some hot little floozy [or tall, dark, handsome paramour with a pencil-thin mustache, smoking a Swisher's Sweet, very sexy.]"

It's fantastic news to me to know now that I had some little part in changing your plans. And that you've decided to take another look at your mate, your partner over all these years. She ain't so bad, is she? He's still pretty cool, isn't he? You look up, you look at each other, there's a meaningful look, a glance, and a sly smile.

Forget everything else! Take your pill and fill the tubs in the backyard! Maybe you can make it before sundown!

I Will Never Give a Colonoscopy

I had a major flash of insight at my doctor's appointment -- I will never give a colonoscopy.

It being July, it was time for my yearly physical. This year I did things a little differently. My old doctor retired, in like May. I'm thinking he knew July was about to get here again and he got out while the gettin' was good. Which normally takes doctors a while. You're a doctor, you have a bunch of patients. They all have to be notified, then you have to get a guy to take your place. He worked fast.

All was ready and the new doctor came on board. Of course I got the notification so I knew it was going to happen. So this year, instead of working out like crazy starting in May so I'd look great in July, I decided just to forget it. The new doctor wouldn't be impressed if I was in great shape. He'll only be impressed if I'm in better shape next year.

So there I go. The day of my physical I actually felt pretty good. But it's been a year like this: Whatever cushion there's been in my knees all these years, suddenly gone, I've had a ton of muscle pain, and indigestion like you wouldn't believe. I can stand muscle pain, but indigestion like this is a bastard, unbearable. And here's why I had such freakish indigestion, because I've been taking fish oil pills for my knees, which worked. Making a terrible trade off, no knee pain, but indigestion that took away my will to live.

But a few days before my appointment I dropped the fish oil. I read on the internet there's a "non-indigestion" fish oil pill, and thought I'd ask the doctor about it. So I get there and my indigestion is virtually gone, my knees are feeling great, and I'm on top of my game. After no exercise. He reads the report from last year and I'd lost a couple pounds. I haven't done labs yet, so there was nothing to compare with last year there. But he was impressed. Meaning I'll have to really work starting next May to top it.

In our discussion, then, we got on the topic of my colonoscopy, which, according to his records, I last had in 2005. Since they're good for ten years, that means mine is due next year. And, in fact, he, the new doctor, told me he does his own colonoscopies! Making me, honestly, very lucky. I don't have to get a guy from out of town (like in 2005), nor do I have to get a guy who doesn't know me; I'm going to have my very own new doctor doing it. That's great!

The major flash of insight came at this point, when he said to me, "I just did four on Monday." Four colonoscopies on Monday, I thought, that's something I'll never be able to say. Which is a little sad, because he said it with a great deal of pride, both being an achievement and to assure me that he's quite competent at it. I can indeed rest assured that I'll be in good hands with a guy who's done it so many times it's second nature, old hat. But still it's something he concentrates on in a dedicated way in order to have the pride to announce how many he's done on particular days. I said, "That's great."

Since then I've thought it over so many times. It's made me a little philosophical, if you really want to know, to consider the finality of it. Because of my choices in life, and now being 61, the path to me is now forever closed to ever be a doctor. I will never give one single colonoscopy. This lucky guy does four on Monday, old hat, and I'll never do even one ... not one in the years remaining to me.

Looking at it in print on the screen, it doesn't look very profound, or worth considering. But you probably know how it is with thoughts. Sometimes you have one and it hits you in a profound way. That's what happened this time. It's one more regret for someone just naturally wistful. I like the new doctor. I just hope he doesn't bring me down like that again.

P.S. -- It actually is conceivable that I could yet perform a colonoscopy. If we were together in a wilderness setting, and everything was very dire, and you were going to die anyway with a polyp the size of a breadbox, it would be foolhardy to forebear the procedure and surgery, even with an amateur's hand doing it. That would be a day neither of us would forget. You'd be biting the bullet and getting drunk. And I'd be sweating blood and hoping they believed me when they found you dead.

Everyone's Cross to Bear

I was out on the prowl again today, "people-watching." They say it's in my blood, from the source of my blood, my family. I remember they mentioned it at my dad's funeral, that he liked it. I should have watched him closer, because I don't remember that.

The task I set for myself today was a deeper one than just summarizing activities. I was looking for something more "inner." I did all this very much on the sly, taking glance or two and trying to discern as much as I could. Note: If I discern a lot of personal information, like passwords, bank accounts, various trysts they're headed for, etc., I immediately forget it all. Let me repeat, no one's most confidential information was recorded.

VERY PRETTY GIRL, 18* -- Of course she has a huge cross to bear, being indisputably lovely. Good colors, too, of the clothes. She knows how to dress for maximum appeal. But her loveliness is her cross, because she knows so many who see her want her, and so many for all the wrong (superficial) reasons. I can read the minds of other guys. Both guys who have a hard time with women and those who don't. I hate the thought of some of these bastards taking her out. Thinking, 'She's on my arm, how nice for me," so selfish. The other dimension of her cross is others' envy.

YOUNG WOMAN IN COMPLICATED WHEELCHAIR, 24 -- These are tough situations. She can barely move, going in slow motion, very vulnerable, but she's out, not staying home. A lot of crosses she must bear, I can't even get to them all. She's looking to see pity, which she hates, notices the staring, people wondering what's wrong, etc. I would guess you'd have to put most of that out of your mind after a while. Life is too short for all that. But still, obviously people are wondering, even though we've all seen every extreme in life. Such moments make me wistful in philosophical musing, the crosses people bear. I'd guess she has many acquaintances who are helpers. I hope in her many struggles she's gained strength.

ME, 61 -- I'm ambivalent about what my life's meant. My so-called accomplishments, comparing them stacked up next to my regrets. Big regrets. Aging speeds up as you go, for me most recently felt in all kinds of frightening pain and changes in my knees. I believe I can honestly say, No one's suffered like me. Another cross is my worry that I look suspicious to others, like a dangerous old codger, say, to the pretty girl, 18, although in truth I'd be the best friend she ever had if some lech came swooping in. I'd go into a karate stance, and kick him firmly in the--

MAN, ABOUT 30, FIT, STEADILY EMPLOYED -- I'll call him Joe Above Average. Stickler for rules, takes a lot for him to cut loose. This cuts both ways. It keeps him steadily employed in a moderately responsible public position. But he wonders if this is all, everything he was actually cut out to do. Still, his nature isn't primarily to question but to continue in the same channel till something shifts on its own. His cross, then, is just moving over the border into malaise, to soon return to normal. Must be a queasy feeling, since he normally avoids such things. (I've had personal dealings with this guy, so I know he's a stickler for rules, even when pointless.)

LITTLE GIRL, 4 -- Cute blonde in light, loose dress, a dress tie in her mouth. Everything's reasonably new for her. I see her holding Daddy's hand. Every day's a decent-enough day. Her cross has to do with vague security issues, possibly fear of the dark. She's seen glimpses of scary movies; in this age of Netflix, it's hard to miss. But Daddy and Mommy are close enough, and there's a nightlight in every socket, so it's a still a very tiny cross.

SCRUFFY MAN, 32 -- Wearing one of those strapped undershirts as his main shirt -- my brother and I called them "goony dresses" when we were kids -- and it's tight. Also has a camouflage hat, scruffy hair, more than a tad overweight. This guy's not too worried; he knows where his next beer's coming from. He's got a decent enough hold on life and is obviously comfortable, going by a fairly slovenly look in public. His cross is a persistent nasty smoker's cough and mortality. This, however, is not directly a concern, but he worries which boy ought to get his half-restored mid-70s classic pickup. Other than that, "I'll just smoke and hack away, then die, no biggie." Let me modify his cross, half-cough, half-pickup.

LIMPING MAN, 45 -- He's lived a good life -- having an efficient nature, focused on a particular specialty. It might be air conditioning work, or some other repair job. His thinness is such he could really squeeze in there and work on things with the best of them. But there's this terrible limp, after a compressor (guessing) fell on his foot, and he's going gray. His cross is the fear of change, needing to keep up on developments in the appliance biz. He hopes things will still need fixed, since a lot of people just throw things away after a few years and buy new.

OLDER WOMAN, 72, CANE -- She has an advantage in that she doesn't need the cane all the time. As a cane, it's more or less a crutch, not literally. She's living a decent life in her retirement, likely a widow, but happy enough, reading, working an occasional crossword, watching basic cable, and working on a few safe hobbies. Sewing activities. She's well-liked by the other ladies at her church, although I'm sure the ones who are extremely cane-dependent resent certain things about her. She's traditional, but easy-going. Her cross has to do with future concerns, obviously involving the cane, but more than that, mortality. She knows the abyss is in the picture. More than the abyss, though, she fears she might become a burden to others. I should ask her ... nah! I'm sure I'm right.

* Ages estimated, but I'm sure I got the genders right.

Itching = Alt Consciousness Portals?

It's tough not to scratch itches. I've spent my life doing it. I remember some really bad itches right in the middle of my back, then having to scratch them against a tree. And my mother always bringing up that's how horses do it. I didn't like her nagging -- I always bridled -- but she usually reared her head back laughing, so I couldn't actually neigh say it.

But who knows about itches? I know I've always heard there's certain itches that aren't meant to be scratched. Like infidelity, no matter the temptation. The idea in this temptation is that scratching the itch is positive. Maybe it feels positive in the heat of the moment. But we've seen so many who've scratched to their regret. I've heard several cry out in despair: "If only -- woe is me! -- I hadn't scratched that cute little itch!"

I've been thinking lately that maybe these itches -- actual, literal itches -- are meant as portals to other realms of consciousness, if only we could survive the test and not negate them in the very process of their revelation. Ever think of that?

It makes a certain amount of sense. You'd expect portals to be in definite spots, and other realms of consciousness, if they're anywhere, to be accessible through portals. If it were all nebulous and omnipresent -- which I'm not saying it's not -- you'd be falling over backwards into it. But what if we're meant to have a definite grasp on these things, and to visualize them like this: A circumference (the zone) going into the center (the nucleus), somewhat akin to a galaxy and its black hole. That's what I'm working with. I'm theorizing "It's All Happening" at that center, exactly the spot we negate when we succumb to scratching. O! the tricky ways of reality!

I would guess advanced yogis know all this, but they've kept their tongues, likely out of a cosmic sense of humor. They know these portal points are so easy to overlook, and it's funny to them, with our first inclination always being to immediately scratch away. Funny? Sad, really, with the higher realms right there. Good god, what all might we be missing? You know those little baby heads with wings, our almost-children in glory, so prominent in Catholic artwork circa 1860-1920? They had such a work ethic in those difficult years, they didn't have a lot of time to scratch ... maybe that's what they saw!

This is good stuff, and very likely true. But things only got worse in our time. With the coming of modern conveniences -- washers, driers, food processors, radios, TVs -- we're all sitting around, tuned in to every itch and with time on our hands to spare, as it were, so our fingers are busy, scratch scratch scratch. So whatever portals were common for the working man back then are closed to us today.

OK, we might ask, Why didn't the working man reveal more to us about these things, just flat out say it? Because working men back then were slow to speak, with not enough time, and they assumed everyone knew. Everyone breathes, right? You don't tell people, "Hey, I'm breathing!" Or it could've been they were afraid; they didn't want to end up in a mental hospital, which back then were very much a total beyotch.

But, oh how difficult it is to test out these ideas! Even when I feel like I'm tuning in, I still scratch, more or less unconsciously, simply out of habit. So many times I'm that close to getting there and looking around and I scratch. Isn't that weird? The positive to it is I'm still here to write this, but honestly I think I would've maintained consciousness well enough to both experience it and write about it. (Cf. working men, above; they lived to work tomorrow.) I'm not likely to just be overwhelmed to the point of riding a major itch to glory just like that.

My intuition is working overtime. This is all very immediate. I'm not scratching while typing, therefore the insights are flowing more freely. I've also got the consciousness to forebear, and in response the revelations are presenting themselves furiously. I can't keep up, and my nose itches in a massive nuisance way. Something's trying to hold me back, something wants me to scratch, something I have to resist -- you filthy devil! also called Old Scratch (!)-- until, I relent and scratch. "Just a little touch," I tell myself, until once again I die in an orgy of itch relief. But cosmic deflation...

Yet I shall not despair; I've always got another itch coming along shortly; that's the kind of grace I experience. Thinking back, last night was a terrible night sleeping. At one point, 3:30 a.m., I had an itch in the middle of my back. Maybe I was dreaming* of horses; I don't remember, or my mom. It was bad enough that I reached as far back as I could to get it. Now I think, "That could've been it!" Because when I'm in bed, I have all the time in the world to center myself in a spiritual reverie. An itch right on the spine is very likely the gateway to the essence of a particular chakra. Meaning, what is of the greatest discomfort to us would be the very portal to our absolute greatest comfort!

I can't go on. I must break. I must seek out the worst itching I can have! I'm sorry, this is too important.

*Night before last, in a dream, one of my cousins told me her middle name was Abner.

Sudden thought: Pet dander -- Anything there? It has to itch.
Note to self:  Book possibility, the It-ching, 64 different meanings of your itch.

5 Scenarios How My Life Might've Gone

For this you gave me life? Was this your intention when you brought me into the world? Is this the life I'll always have or should I expect another? Woe is me!

Probably all of us, the frequency depending on how terrible things have gone for you, have considered our lives and whether they're all they could have been. It's just something you do, no matter how vain, no matter how fruitless, especially in those times of the greatest loneliness, heartache, and despair. I've done it many, many times, and I've got the bruises on my forehead and the damage on the drywall to prove it.

O! Could things have gone differently? Just a little tweak here or there, a road, a path not taken, a fork in the road I straddled! What would it have taken? More education, psychiatric help, lessons in elocution, or perhaps dancing? I'm as good as anyone else, right? Two arms, two legs, my only real flaw my painful game toe, but if I keep my shoes on, no one sees it.

We take stock like that, which basically comes down to comparing ourselves with others. Again, no matter how vain or fruitless it is. Because wish as you may ... the face in the mirror is always the same. Even though I still have the theory -- and I hope someone will back me up on this -- that if you sit and meditate strenuously enough that your inner essence will rise through your head and you can take possession of some other life form, be it animal, mineral, or another person. I've tried it enough. But my essence always ends up on the couch, looks around and gets scared, and immediately rushes back home.

Until I get that right, I really only have two choices: 1) Be content and even thankful that I am who I am and make the most of it, a very levelheaded approach; or, 2) Waste my life by stewing over it, always imagining, always wondering how life might've gone, if only ... Given the choice, then, and stating it clearly like that, and being fully aware that Number 1 is the only real option, I'm taking Number 2.

SCENARIO 1 - Things could've been much worse. I could've been born in an oddball place, to totally strange parents, and been a mangled physical wreck right from the start. Like some of the gator catchers, turtle catchers, cat whisperers, hog-fishers, and other assorted human vermin on current reality TV shows. Still, the advantage those folks have over me is that they do have TV shows, and they're making big money, because the weirder the better. But my advantage is long-term, because those shows will go out of favor someday, and in their despondency they'll get eaten.

SCENARIO 2 - I might've pursued a life in politics. They emphasized politics and government when I was in school, since it was a time when they were pushing for 18-year-olds to vote, and idealism was rife. We thought we could change the world; other kids thought that. Fortunately, I was one of the few who was able to look at it all askance, knowing that politics is a complete dead end. If you want to be instantly corrupted, go into politics! You're always in someone's pocket, your service is worthless to the general public, and no one likes you. Look at it this way: We've had politics forever and Republicans still exist. That's not progress.

SCENARIO 3 - I should've learned music. Seriously. I see someone playing the piano and I think, That could've been me! Or the guitar, which I can play half ass. Or the auto-harp, to me a complete mystery. Or the harmonica. I seriously think I could've been a major star, one of those guys who comes out with long tails and bows five or six times, lights his candelabra, and enthralls the people with yet another version of "Voices of Spring," which I know from the Three Stooges movie, Micro-Phonies. I often think of the Three Stooges when I hear other guys singing classical music, like arias, and how they shot grapes and bananas with their fingers into the singer's mouth. That might be why I never learned music.

SCENARIO 4 - I might've gotten a better education. As it was, I couldn't wait to get out of school. I think it was the 4th grade, after we learned arithmetic, that I figured up by addition precisely (more or less) how many days it was till I graduated. Then I stole about 130 rolls of toilet paper from the pantry and had it strung all over my room, so I could pull off one small sheet for each day of school that went by. It was OK till about the 8th grade, when my dad finally decided enough is enough. He came in and literally tore down one whole corner, and ended up wiping his ass with my whole junior year.

SCENARIO 5 - I could've run away and who knows what might've happened! It's just like in time travel movies, change one little thing and everything else changes. Let's say I had run away after my dad did that. I always had this theory that I could run very far to the north if I just set my mind to it. I sort of halfway tried it once and stepped on a thorn before I got out of town and had to go home and go to the emergency room. But my theory still stands. If I could avoid thorns, I could run far, far away.

Then I'd get a job with a carnival or circus, like Toby Tyler, and meet all sorts of interesting people. I might've charmed the Snake Woman and started a little brood of my own. Or, who knows? A wayward evangelist might've kidnapped me and taken me on the road, having me repeatedly saved and/or healed in his services. He could've performed the lengthening-the-short-leg trick on me. Then we would've sent KFC buckets through the congregation, getting enough love offerings to be rich.

At some point, no doubt he would've caught me in the embrace of a naked girl in a barn, and from there the imagination just has to assume my life would've been one happy ending after another, with her or others. Continuously rolling in the hay, all over the country, going from barn to barn. Which I'd still be doing today. Rolling in the hay and rolling over and saying, "Was it good for you?"

New Year's Eve: Judgment Of The Storm

Well, it's New Year's Eve again, a day for looking back on the old year passing as well as the promises of the new year coming. Of course you always hope when you reach it that looking back will be a happy time, and looking forward will be even happier. Alas, it doesn't always work out that way.

I woke up this morning feeling a little tired. The dog's had something wrong with her, and I heard her loudly hacking about 2 in the morning. I got up to see what was going on and there was a little yellow puddle of spit-up on the rug by my bed. I took it to the hamper, the dog following me, who then made signs like she needed to go out. We went out and she took a No. 2, the whole thing then sticking to her fur and needing to be cleaned off in the sink. I felt a little nauseous and couldn't get back to sleep.

I finally did doze off, and woke up to a winter wonderland in progress -- snow. It's snowing still, so this must be the day for it. I had breakfast, the toast burnt (need to check the dial each time) and my eggs messed up, meaning the yolk was hard. I thought, Crap, if this is how New Year's is going to go ... but I said I wouldn't be depressed. The snow is coming down, it's white and piling up like crazy, I need to see it as something of a promise, a new start.

A new start was what I would have! Wouldn't it be great to go out in the storm, there to eat a few flakes as they fell, thereby saving myself a little extra work later shoveling. And I could use the time to take personal inventory, matching beautifully, I hoped, the newness of the day to the oldness of my life. I took a look in the mirror, swallowing my morning pills. What a lot of lines. What's happening to me?

I went out and kicked a bit of snow and immediately stubbed my toe on a big rock. It didn't hurt terribly, so I walked on, thinking, thinking, ever thinking -- I can't stop, sometimes my thinking is torture. Thinking of everything I've done wrong in the course of the year, and how tomorrow's not likely to be any better. I'm the guy, you may recall, who brags about his willpower. Well, so much for willpower; I'm still eating bad, not getting enough exercise, I'm tired all the time, and my dog's sick. If I don't die, it'll be a miracle.

In my walk I thought I'd wander away from the yard, get down the street, and maybe my perspective would be different. Of course my feet and legs aren't used to lifting that much wet snow, with more coming down all the time. I'm thinking, I could just collapse here and die of exposure. There's nobody out today, they wouldn't find me for a week. Or I could test my limits and keep going, which I did.

Along the way I started thinking of all my regrets and personal failings. Here I am, almost 60, one foot in the grave, and what have I really accomplished? One day is about the same as any other, there's never any personal progress. Sure, I fill out the Sudoku in the newspaper once in a while, the easy ones. I write my blog. And the dog needs me; she's on her last legs. But that's it. My big hopes of sailing the world, winning a fortune in Monaco, owning a picturesque chalet in Switzerland, writing a bestseller, being the Fifth Beatle, and becoming the CEO of IHOP, are obviously doomed to failure. I can't even adequately convey the misery this gives me.

Having walked about as far as I physically could, I looked over. What?! The dog had gotten herself trapped in a big wet drift. I had to go over and use up 99% of my remaining strength getting her and myself out, once I'd become trapped. That meant I only had 1% strength left to make it all the way home! Which, think about it, it can't be done! I have no reserve.

But somehow I got home. I don't know how. Maybe the dog dragged me -- uphill. She seems out of breath, more so than usual. I was seeing these terrible red flashes when I blinked my eyes right before I (apparently) passed out. Then I don't remember anything else. But here I am, typing this. I have a cup of hot coffee, although I spilled the first cup and burnt my leg.

Yet, I'm still hoping for a Happy New Year -- and even if it's with my last dying breath, that's going to be my wish for you, too -- but I just don't see how it's going to happen...

I Could've Been A Pilot

Twenty minutes ago I was taking my dog Underbrush out for her final pee of the night. It's a clear night, and I always look up, hoping to see whatever stars happen to be out. Tonight, though, my eye was captured by a crystal clear plane going from one side of the sky to the other, lights blinking. He was doing it right.

Looking up at that beautiful craft, as I did, I felt a lot of emotions surging in my psyche. I had the emotion of relief, for one, that I am smart enough to realize it's just a plane and not a UFO. For had it been a UFO, that would've been awful. But the bigger emotion I had was one of wistfulness for the past, and all I could've been.

Seriously, it never occurred to me when I was a kid that I might be a pilot. Not once. And I was a kid who slept in the southeastern bedroom, the same direction of the airport here, where I saw the green and white lights flashing through the sky every night. I was always thinking of the airport, even though it was just a local airport and not anything major.

Now, though, that I'm grown up, and more naturally given to wistfulness about what might have been -- I'm rich in regrets -- I'm thinking, Why didn't I go into the piloting business? How cool it would have been to be jetting across the country with a front row seat on the destination. I'd be walking through an airport with my co-pilot, in a nice suit, with a carry-on bag, heading for the exit, ready to go cross country. And I would never have been like some of the bad eggs you hear of, guys who try to fly drunk. That's reprehensible to me in every way!

But what would it have taken? 1) Ambition to do it; 2) Applying myself to get the right education; 3) Then going for it! That's basically it. (Heck, had I been a pilot I would've been retiring right about now, since it is almost my 60th birthday. I believe I heard that pilots (jet airliner pilots) have to retire around 60.) But how great would those years have been. Instead of sitting here, basically vegetating in my grandparents' old house. Nursing along my game toe, from an accident that likely wouldn't have happened had I been a pilot.

That's not to say pilots don't have accidents. Some of the worst accidents in history have been caused by pilot error. The whole plane goes down. You crash in the mountains, or you crash at sea. Everyone dies, including you. There's a whole investigation, and very possibly your name and memory are mud. I was in a waiting room one time with an ex-pilot, true story. He told me a story of himself somehow missing the runway, or overshooting the runway, with the plane then going nose down or off to the side somehow. And with that one little accident he was out of a job. Smacking a mountain, if you survive, multiplies the penalty.

Still, I've been pretty lucky. I haven't had real bad luck. So I probably would've been a successful pilot, had I only done it. By now I would've been an expert in the various facts of aerodynamics. But now it's never going to happen, that's for sure. Too much time has slipped by. And so ... here I stand in my back yard with a pissing dog, watching other guys fly by. It's sad.

If I Had October To Do Over

Each of us has a finite number of months to live. And another one has passed.

I've had a wistful day, maybe it's the clouds and drizzle. I've been thinking back to October and wishing I'd done so much more with the time. I always have the best of intentions, but then there's this and that and the other thing that seems to hog up all the time. And before I know it, the month has passed and I haven't really accomplished anything.

On the blog I had 31 posts, and since there was 31 days in the month, that looks like I did one a day. But I didn't, because I wasn't inspired some of the days. Then when I was inspired, I was bang bang bang, with 31 being a pretty good number to end up with. But it's not enough. I'd love to have a month where I could put out, let's say 30,000 posts, a thousand a day! Good ones! Probably never happen ... not if I fritter away my time...

If only ... If only I could go back and do it again, things would be different! I swear I would have done so much more.

I can easily picturing myself in October, if I had it to do again, reading with good concentration for two solid hours a day, scholarly stuff, studies that would guide my thinking and contribute to my personal fulfillment. It didn't happen, that's for sure. But if I could do it over again, that'd be one of my highest priorities. Imagine all the stuff I could've learned in an extra 62 hours of in-depth study!

On the personal organization front: My place here is a mess. I look like someone from "Hoarders," except I'm generally happy. I'm surrounded by candy wrappers, since Halloween was just a couple days ago. I bought well over $20 worth of candy, really expecting a lot of kids. But guess what, I didn't get one single kid, leaving me with two heaping plastic bowls of candy! Certainly if I had October to do over I wouldn't have bought all that candy. And besides that, I would like to have kept myself more perfectly organized, everything in its place, everything neat and tidy. But it didn't happen, and at this point it isn't likely.

It would've been nice to have volunteered some quality time to service organizations and the church. They're constantly calling for volunteers, and I'm always thinking I should get in there and kick some serious accomplishment butt. But then I make excuses, I don't have the time, or they'd just give me busy work and tell me "Good job" to hook me into the system. November doesn't look good for it, December's always busy, then we're into the whole New Year. October would've been perfect, if only I had it back.

I would love to go back to October for something else. To avoid all conflict and recriminations. I had a few petty little arguments with people, just minor crap, nothing really. And it only took minutes. Then I wasted the rest of the day(s) stewing over it, thinking of stuff I could've said, thinking of ways to burn my bridges while also managing to avoid them in the grocery store. I hate rage and what it does to me. And if I could go back, I'd turn the heat down on the boiling pot.

I would change my diet if I could go back. I already mentioned the candy. I've been eating it like crazy. And I'm getting fat. Obese, at least by my standards. I haven't been walking much since it got colder. So the pounds go on and I'm more and more weighed down. October is key to all this, to my success at keeping the inches off, but now that it's gone, I'm losing hope. I should have taken the step to become a vegetarian, or at least a pescatarian. I remember starting October with that thought.

If I could relive October, and this minimum task is one I could have accomplished, I would memorize all the presidents and their dates as well as the continents. I keep seeing these questions on Jeopardy that I should be getting.

One other thing, I would hold my sleeping down to four quality hours a night, then spend the rest of the time striving for perfection and major accomplishments, and living completely without worry, if only I had October back again.