Hiatus Pride

Everyone's got pride these days. The football team, the speech club, the debate society, even the ladies' aid:

Of work, work we're not afraid,
For we belong to the ladies' aid.

They're proud that they're not fearful of work. Which would make them poor candidates for a prolonged hiatus, unless you called it a retreat for renewal. Then they go off to a bunch of cabins at the camp, at which a speaker flown in from some rugged place like Montana comes in and tells them they need to work harder. But be refreshed.

Ack! I wouldn't give you a dime for the whole works, and, yes, I'm proud of my ability to discern the complete sham all this is. The rest of the world -- probably you reading this -- may go right along with the whole thing, but I don't. And I don't really know, maybe you don't either.

But ... pride. That's what we have. Ethnic groups have it, so they're out there marching in the parade with their native dress and a few cliche symbols from their heritage. Sexual orientation groups are out there marching in the parade. Flaunting it for all to see, and why not? There's no big reward in keeping it to yourself. You might say you're humble so you won't have pride. Right, sit in your little room and keep telling yourself that. You'll be sitting in your room till it falls off.

The actual fact is no one cares if you flaunt it in the parade. And no one cares if you sit in your room and playing humble. A few enemies might care, but the average family is just out there for their own little drama. And to get going as soon as it's over, hoping the line won't be too long to get a pork burger and needing to change Junior's diaper.

I've got pride right here. I've withstood the many attacks of my enemies. And I feel like marching in the parade. They ought to have a parade where everyone marches. Like we've got half the people watching the parade and half the people marching in it. Then the next year the half watching would be marching and the other half watching. Or twice a year and alternate so everyone gets a chance to march each year.

Then when you're marching, you can hold up or display whatever you're most proud of this year. Like if you bought one of those commemorative coins on TV -- one where the mold is being destroyed after the first 5,000 -- you could have it in its little case, and you're holding it, and moving it back and forth so the sun can hit it occasionally. If I did that I'd hire a couple of kids to hold a big banner in front of me, with some slogan like, "Behold The Coin."

I know what I'd be marching with this year. This big sheaf of hiatus posts from my blog. I'm printing them out and keeping the papers flat. I've got close to 50, something like that. They make a tiny pile so far, but they're growing. I've had actual enemies, friends. It does something for your pride to have actual enemies.

Kentucky Fried Hiatus

I honestly wasn't paying attention to what was right before me.

Like I was writing about yesterday, I was just letting my mind wander, and again I found myself seeing things in terrycloth towels. I saw a nude woman from the waist down close to one wrinkle. But just for a few seconds. I wasn't trying to focus but let her come into view as she chose and let her vanish as modesty dictated.

I really could find someone's daily fortune in the towels. I was thinking in terms of this, probably too analytically, as to what symbols I might see that would correspond to well known symbols, such as in the Tarot deck. It could lead to a whole new thing. Next time at the beach I might examine how towels are spread by people unconsciously. Because were I to know the predominant patterns of natural layouts, I would have the key to the spreads that would correspond most closely to what the psyche is most comfortable with.

OK, and this is funny, I want to comment on the picture. That's the garbage can in the bathroom. So I'm sitting there, not really paying any conscious attention to any of this, except the bottom half of the female figure in the one towel. She disappeared and I let her. I was just lazily looking around, not really focusing. For some reason I must have glanced down and I saw what looked like random black patterns on the sack in the garbage. And in a few seconds it suggested to me Colonel Sanders, which seemed strange; why would I be thinking of him? Then I focused in, and, amazingly, it was Colonel Sanders! It was a KFC bag and not a grocery sack like usual!

In a way, that sounds like a downer, because I really thought they were just random black lines. Then it turned out to be something very commercial and obvious. But the good part of it is that my consciousness made a good connection with what was actually represented even if I seemed to be straying in an unfocused, unconscious way. Which, if logic means anything, leads me to conclude that what I'm seeing in these towels actually is there! If I'm seeing what really is there on a bag -- without expecting it -- then it has to be true that I'm seeing what really is there in the terrycloth patterns. I need to find the other half of this girl!

I'm thinking this is a terrific breakthrough. It advances my journey by light years. I'm so far ahead at this point, I could lay down in the bushes and take a long nap and still beat the tortoise. I'm really going to go places with this. Every towel I see has a story to tell and I can get some kind of vibe going with it.

And to think ... none of this would've happened had I not been on hiatus. My time would've been occupied with all kinds of normal sorrow, depression, and frustration. But I took this break -- despite my many detractors -- and now I've had this breakthrough. It's stunning.

Seriously Invested In My Hiatus

I think I've got a killer title today, huh? Huh? I'm "seriously invested" in my hiatus. Any old portfolio in a storm. When you've made an investment, you sit and wait for it to pay off. And this one has come up with three cherries every time.

I'm not much of an investor. But I've been known to buy a few scratch tickets. All without a payoff, of course, but the hope was there and that's also a reward. I've invested in myself too. Again, without much of a payoff, but occasionally I'm happy enough with life to get out of bed. If you know me, you know sometimes I just stare at the wall, but, hey, doesn't everyone?

Speaking of staring, one day I was sitting on the -- I was taking a -- I was in a particular place not doing very much, but whatever I was doing, it was a very personal thing. I was there, anyway, and some towels were hanging on the rack by the tub. And I was just looking at them for no particular reason. My eyes started going funky, crossed, and I thought I could see various shapes in the terrycloth. Like we do with clouds.

So, whether staring at the clouds, staring at the wall, or staring at towels, it's all the stuff that makes life so interesting. And that's worth all the investment we are willing to make.

But I wanted to say, the big thought I had that day, was that I could go around to country fairs and renaissance fairs, and tell fortunes based on staring at towels. Because I think I could. It's just as valid as staring into a crystal ball, obviously not as cliche. I've never heard of anyone else doing it, you can say that much for it.

I haven't really tested out the theory. Now that I'm seriously invested in my hiatus, maybe I could use some of the free time to practice a few fortunes. What might I see? I don't know. But I'm sure it could potentially be very spooky. When I was just drifting my eyes together, I was seeing actual people's faces, the outlines anyway, and filling in the blanks with my imagination. I could see some very frightening characters. Now that I look back on it, maybe all that was a premonition of some of the enemies of my blog who have been dead set against me taking a hiatus.

But it's all a blur, really. One of the weird things -- like I said, I've done this with towels, and I've also seen it in curtains, anything really -- is that you can see what you see. But then if you look away and look back it's hard to conjure it up again. I did that as a kid too, except most of that was with dust motes floating in the sunlight. I hated to lose track of the least little mote because I'd never be able to find it again. So somewhere out there, probably settled in a dark corner, are lots of dust motes that I've lost track of.

I could probably tell fortunes by looking at dust motes. I probably could. That would be wild. There'd be a story, "Local Man Reads Future In Dust Motes." Cool article. I think I just have a natural knack for telling fortunes. But to be absolutely honest I've never actually told anyone's fortune. If it didn't come true, I'd be very consternated.

The thing to do when telling fortunes is to keep it fairly non specific and indistinct and if you see anything too specific, just look away, and say, "The motes have gone silent." Or "The towel refuses to speak further." Then in your exhaustion, wipe your brow with it. Look, most dust motes are very silent anyway, so everyone would believe you. And there are very few people who believe that towels speak at all, so you're on solid ground there too.

"Seriously Invested In My Hiatus." What a killer title. That's a great one.

Any Old Hiatus In A Storm

Of course I thought being on hiatus would be the answer to all my prayers. I felt the weight of the world, like Atlas carrying it around on his shoulders all day. But at least Atlas got a book named after him. All I got -- I was going to say All I got was this crummy T-shirt, but I'm afraid souvenir stores might have a copyright on it.

Anyway, don't make me laugh, because I don't think I can. That's how down I feel. I'm going to have to reach down deep today, and I don't know what I can pull up. Have you ever gone hog fishing? I haven't either except I've been there when other guys did it. You're crawling around in the river, reaching under stumps and down in holes hoping to get hold of a fish. I've heard some guys say they can sit there and pet the fish, and that's probably true, because you want to stroke it up till you get to the gills, then gently insert your fingers and finally come yanking it up out of the water, by then a mad, thrashing mess.

As far as I'm concerned, you're stroking things sight unseen, something might bite your hand off. That's what it's like, me crawling around here today. I could become partly paraplegic. Life is dangerous. It really is true that things can mash you, fall on you, crush you from the side, or open up and you suddenly disappear in a sink hole. My other grandpa and grandma were always telling me about the factory they worked in, who all lost fingers and hands in the last year from punch press accidents. Most of the old people of that little town walked around with missing pieces, physically not there but mentally still twitching phantom limbs. And that was the Grandpa who was dead at 59 from losing a lung to emphysema, then having a car fall on him and crushing the other one. There's a sharp edge somewhere waiting to slice you up, or a big dumb bulk just waiting to make a waffle out of you.

I'm really feeling it, the blunt end of life today. Like I'm under a mallet and a big blacksmith is about to pound a square peg into a round hole. Like insects feel when they're scurrying across the floor and someone chases and steps on them. Like a martyr at the stake.

I myself am Mr. Nice Guy when it comes to some bugs. Not flies. I rescued a big bug with probably 50 to 100 legs the other day. Took him out of the sink with a tissue and took him outside to let him go. I'm thinking How can I crush something that intricate? He's got more moving parts than a punch press. It'd be wild to hook sensors up to one of these bugs and watch his thoughts register on a tape printout. Let's say you had a tiny microsensor on each foot, and he's dropping them one at a time or maybe 10 at a time. It'd make an exceptional printout. If you could read his thoughts he'd probably like to have fewer feet but still he'd be hitting on every cylinder, at least mentally with phantom limbs.

It could be that I'm protecting nature just so nature can rally its forces and get me. I no sooner rescued that bug than I went out and a mosquito bit me. I think that's the first time in like three years. I've been remarkably lucky. I think maybe I've been spared out of the power of positive thinking. Like if I believe I won't get bit, I won't. I was out there and someone else had come by, a neighbor lady. She got bit by a mosquito and said so. At that second, I utterly lost all confidence and positive thinking and started thinking I might get bit. And it happened literally within two minutes, I got bit. Let me back up on that. It was around 10 minutes. I felt the sting and my hand swatted down and I smashed a mosquito to bits.

I've lost something. I'm not at one with nature. There's no sunshine on my brow. I'm undergoing what the old saints called the Dark Afternoon of the Soul. A storm is brewing, percolating, a slow drip. Here I sit, on hiatus. At this point I feel I can do no other.

No Hiatus Like An Old Hiatus

Age before beauty. Respect your elders. Don't badmouth an old person. As you are now, I once was. As I am now, you also shall be. The more wrinkles you have the more hiding places you have for your money. We have lots of well known sayings concerning the aging process, getting old gracefully, dying young, staying pretty...

I always liked the one about being too old to cut the mustard. It brings up a great image. And of course the one that says, There's no fool like an old fool. That's probably my favorite expression when it comes to old guys. It means you're a fool, but when you're old and desperate you show it more. Why? Well, you have lots of younger guys who are constantly aided in their foolishness by willing girls and other guys. You're young, lah-de-dah, and the world is your prize. But by the time the same guy is old (and a fool), the others have died from various STDs and he's busy groping at nurses who don't care. Hence the expression.

My hiatus -- at first pictured as short, sweet, and to the point -- has officially entered the phase of being so old there's no way back. It crossed a threshold at some point, maybe a week or so ago. It's gray around the temples, it's holding in its stomach when something in a short skirt walks by. There's cragginess on the face, a wrinkled forehead, and a sinking feeling when cleaveage is exposed. At this point, it's going to be nothing but shuffleboard, razzing waitresses, and competing to see who pays for coffee.

I thought it would be a great breather, a time to recoup my strength and resolve. But something happened on the way to recuperation. I took a wrong turn and ended up at Hopehaven Manor, which has the depressing slogan, "The last stop before the last stop." The aging process has advanced. I have brown spots. I look like crap. I have become Grandpa!

A Hiatus On Top Of My Hiatus

It is the seventh day, so I must rest from my labors. That is, my labors of being on hiatus and defending it with every fiber of my being. I've been up, I've been down. I've had much strength -- at my peak I've been like Hercules. And I've experienced much weakness -- I felt like I had the backbone of a doily when my enemies came at me hardest. But what can you do? I fought back and got my second wind.

Resting from your labors is what should be done. You can work yourself into an early grave. Or you can say, Thus far and no farther!

You've probably seen some of the great rasslin' shows of the past. I know I have. You've got the guy standing there getting the tar beat out of him. The enemy is prevailing, doing these massive body chops. And the other guy stands there, wobbling. It seems like there must be an invisible rope holding him up because no man can stand so much torment.

But then the enemy takes one chop too many and it sparks a light of rebellion in the other guy. He becomes rigid, alert, and obviously about to begin a new, unexpected journey down the warpath. He's alive in his eyes, his shoulders are squared like iron, and he stomps with fury, with the worst fury a man can stomp with.

The first guy who had the offensive suddenly realizes I'm dead meat. So what's he do? He throws up his hands in a plaintive gesture of begging for mercy; he knows he can do no other. But we all know he was the last one to show mercy before, so he'll be the last one to receive it now. There will be no mercy.

His opponent has life running over the brim. Something perhaps in his muladhara has been struck, right in the sweet spot, like one of those strength things you pound at a carnival. And a beam of pure light and energy has ascended in a sensuous dance, twisting up the ida and pingala, all in a flash. And lights have gone off at the top, bells and sirens. The force of God has registered itself! No man can resist such force! It's at that moment that all mercy and pleas for the same are swept away in a tidal wave of the sternest wrath. Oh, this is going to be good!

The crowd at ringside senses it too, instantly, and they know the other guy will not live to see another morning. His children, if he has any, will ask their mother, if there is one, What happened to Daddy? if that's what he is. If they exist, and if they have an ounce of sense, they will soon realize, Daddy's not coming home, except perhaps in a body bag, with a toe tag describing the contents in the bag, because his face will have been beaten beyond any recognition and ability to identify. The gravedigger will insist on supernatural rituals of purification, lest the mourners call down judgment on themselves and him, not recognizing this was a righteous kill.

So there's the scene. The crowd at ringside takes a collective deep breath. Every eye has bugged out like a snow globe. The guy is begging for mercy, but the other guy stomps that stomp that is the last sound anyone in the area hears ... until they hear the most pulverizing cacaphony of echoing punches, gouges, bites, crowbar gongs, folding chair splats, thumb tack noises as he scatters them and gives the guy a full suplex right on them. Then he KOs the ref and borrows a can of lighter fluid, dousing the guy, who's passed out. He just happens to have a keg of gunpowder at ringside, so he hoists it in an instant and breaks it all over him. Then he strikes just one lighted match. Before he casts it down he looks around the arena, grinning, beseeching the crowd's continuing ovation.

Then there it is! The flame strikes! The guy's little beard disappear in a flash, as well as all body hair. In fact it was such a massive explosion, you couldn't even make out the beard and the body hair disappearing; that's just my conjecture. It was completely over with. Most of the crowd was killed, but not one survivor demanded his money back; it was that good of a show.

And so I have said, Thus far and no farther. I will continue this hiatus, and today, the seventh day, I will rest even from that.

The Hiatus Persecution Complex

The longer my hiatus goes the more obstinate I feel about it. At first, when I first had the overwhelming sense of yearning for a hiatus that could not be stemmed, I thought it would be quick and painless. I would disappear for a few days, no big deal. But then...

...We all remember the basic skeleton outline, framework, and scaffolding of what happened. Something went haywire in the minds and hearts and spirits of my "friends" and "followers," including a few who knew my actual address, where I live, from our real life meetings, and were there, at first solicitous and wondering, then they became cold, as though meaning to scare me straight (to return prematurely), then they became very hot when it was clear that their tricks of persuasion, including cajoling, were not going to be successful. (I don't do blue material, but I mentioned it already, that one tormented soul -- G.A. -- even went all perversion ballistic on me, or at least tried to, but I fought back and called the law on him.)

The whole thing with Garrett Al, I think, threw some of the others into a tizzy. They could see I meant business -- so that made them up the ante and boycott the blog. And when someone does that on the internet, thanks to the lightning speed of emails and hateful blog postings, it's generally successful. Because the typical internet user is someone sitting on the edge of his seat just waiting for someone to boycott. Or to bombard with hateful emails, descriptive with all sorts of filthy language as to what they picture me to be like, what my attitudes and actions have suggested about me, and what they'd like to do if they could lay their hands on me. In that regard, Garrett Al was typical, although with him his actions spoke louder than words.

Different ones suggested different things as to what Grandma and I may be doing together here in the house, which was filthy and completely out of bounds. Some of the emails mentioned her looks, accused her of Photoshopping her picture to make her look younger, of using Botox, of having a boob job, and lots of other things of this sort. It really taught me something about the internet, that everyone's minds are in the gutter. The fact is that Grandma has been entirely chaste since Grandpa's death -- and probably long before, since that's not what killed him. She's nothing but a little old lady who's biggest thrill in life is to find doilies at garage sales. She has a few thrills actually, that, and eating apricots, and sleeping.

And I made it clear in my replies that I did not appreciate their vile sentiments. I responded in kind, I will admit, turning their vile words of slander back on them. You'd be proud. Even though I don't do blue on the site, I know how to string it all together with the best of them in private, and so I strung together numerous F bombs and many words of slang for body parts, functions, solid excretions, liquid emissions, and well-known acts together with very personal attacks -- even including some geographical stereotypes where appropriate -- to let them know I can give as well as take. It's always been my firm belief that if you can't say something nice about someone ... then you may as well tell it like it is.

Of course all of this only stiffened my resistance to calls that I end my hiatus. It's the oldest truth in the book: "The persistence of resistance is equal to the insistence of existence." It's quite literally an existential crisis when you see it in those terms: The enemies insist on the existence of my blog, probably my newsletter, probably the real life meetings. But when they insist, I resist, and therefore my hiatus persists. And not only that, but whenever words rhyme so well and tell the actual truth of the matter, you can't help thinking there's some divine inspiration at play.

Being intransigent in the face of bitter persecution was what gave the martyrs their strength. They fed on it. You know, it's something that oppressive regimes have never learned -- Pol Pot, Stalin, George W. Bush -- that the best way to get rid of your enemies is to ignore them. Then they fold like origami, at least the second generation does. But instead these evil leaders plotted and schemed and worked their evil intent on the lives, bodies, and minds of their enemies. And what happened? In each case, the vile leaders were eventually swept into the dustbin of shameful history and their opponents triumphed.

So here I am! Nagh, nagh, nuh-lagh, nagh. The hiatus will go on as long as I feel I'm being persecuted, just to teach you all a well-deserved lesson.

Navel Gazing My Hiatus

I've never been accused of being a navel gazer before. Regular readers -- those who were here before the mass desertion following the start of my hiatus -- know I was always looking onward and upward. I feel I've always been a "next mountain" kind of guy, not planting flags under my feet during present conquests, but always looking ahead to the next mountain, where maybe I would plant the flag.

But with the hiatus and with being left essentially alone, in reviewing my thoughts from the last couple of weeks especially, I can see that I've degenerated into navel gazing. There's something very inward happening, even downward; I don't know if I'd call it a downward spiral quite yet, but it's close. My eyes are strictly averted downward toward the center of my stomach region and perceiving in their gaze, staring back, my own navel. Which, you know, if you put your finger in there and twist it a couple of times, quickly becomes painful. I wonder if you can get cancer of the bellybutton.

Actually, the phrase "navel gazing" isn't meant to be taken literally. It's a term that refers to one's self-preoccupation, whether physically or emotionally. It's another way of describing a person's withdrawal from outward circumstances, for whatever reason, and becoming more inwardly directed.

Checking around on the internet I found this interesting quote: "Actually, the phrase 'navel gazing' isn't meant to be taken literally. It's a term that refers to one's self-preoccupation, whether physically or emotionally. It's another way of describing a person's withdrawal from outward circumstances, for whatever reason, and becoming more inwardly directed."

Now, finding myself a navel gazer indeed, everything begins and ends with me and what I'm preoccupied with at the moment. I'm feeding on myself. I've become a parasite whose host is myself, and once I've consumed myself, I don't know what will happen. With my last braincells I'll probably have to find a way to clone myself just so I won't miss too many meals. But how can that be sustainable in the long run?

Well ... that will be the "next mountain," something to worry about and conquer when I see it.

Wrestling And Rasslin' With My Hiatus

Thank you for stopping by today. I'm amazed that you found this blog, because in the last month or so it's mostly been abandoned. When you've found yourself here you've found yourself in one of the loneliest backwashes of the internet, where there's a lot of forlorn birds standing one-legged on fence posts, looking bleak against a gray sky backdrop. One sits alone this morning, overlooking a mostly mossed in northern fork of a lake, and a lone carp does that whole thing of coming up and slowly gulping at the surface.

What's happened to make it like this -- this blog -- is that I made the decision a little over a month ago to go on hiatus. For various reasons, some of which I can't even recall -- it's been a real stew -- I felt that I needed the time off. I was heavily involved in the lives and personal clinging of some of my readers in real life. I was cranking out a newsletter for those who felt the severe hunger we get in our media-deprived world. And of course I was right here, day after day, endlessly on top of many issues. It turned out that I had some abilities to guide people spiritually and psychologically, so there for one beautiful moment in time I was cashing in on the whole self-help fad.

But for me, it turns out, the more I give, it's not necessarily the more I get. That drying, mostly abandoned lake is a picture I resonate with. The hopelessness, the fear of the future, the feeling that you're being sapped utterly and completely -- these are all feelings that make up the average day for me. And you know, below the surface of any lake dwells all kinds of bottom feeders and very funky troubles in the mud at the bottom. The bottom of a lake like this can have bubbling underwater heat pockets and it can happen that a hole will suddenly appear and suck down the lake's precious life water. You see that ... and you see a lone bird standing one-legged on a fence post ... and you know that life can be a real downer.

So I took the time off. That's the hiatus. Ya-ha. I say that facetiously. Because nothing about it has been quite right. I've been up, I've been down. I thought I'd made peace with it, that I'd come to grips with it, etc., only to realize that it's still an enormous struggle. A little while back I did a very good study on the difference between wrestling and rasslin'. Those thoughts keep coming back to me, with this strange conclusion: that I'm both wrestling and rasslin' with my hiatus. Both!

Wrestling is a gentleman's sport, sticking out your dainty finger as you minuet around the ring and eventually come to light grips and apologetically take the other guy down. Rasslin' is when you're a couple of braindead gladiators and you're sticking your finger in the other guy's eye -- what will fit of it -- and you're dull to human feelings as you despoil the other guy in a worthless heap.

Wrestling is being finicky about whether your toe brushed the out of bounds line and insisting that you be released via that technicality. Rasslin' is carrying the other guy to the line, crashing him down well beyond it, then picking him up and delivering him downward at 100 mph with his butt bearing the full impact of your positioned knee. Then killing the ref for good measure.

Wrestling is to shake hands with your opponent, or lightly bump knuckles, or touch foreheads, or give light shoulder taps, and afterward go out for a glass of milk and wish each other well for the evening. Rasslin' is to take the guy's hand off, nail it to a board, retrofit inside it the workings of one of those old Billy Bob fish plaques, then push the button and watch it flop around while singing "Take Me To The River." Meanwhile the other guy is sitting in a bar with a bloody stump plotting his revenge, which he hopes will include after the next match him nailing something else to a Billy Bob plaque of his own, specifically a center protuberance and two hanging sidekicks.

This's what my hiatus has become, both wrestling and rasslin'. The good and beautiful, wrestling. The bad and depicable -- but always more interesting -- rasslin'.

Coexisting With My Hiatus

I'm a child of the Cold War. I'm terrified of all enemies. But I also know that Mutual Assured Destruction is not the answer. Because look, it's destruction, it's mutual, and it's assured. Assured means it's going to happen. So something's gotta give. Either we figure out a way to destroy the other guy without destroying ourselves or we have to take the next best option, find a way to coexist. I hate coexisting, like anyone, but that's what you have to do if you didn't nip the other guy in the bud when you had the chance.

All that to say that sometimes I've viewed my hiatus -- the time off I've been taking -- as an enemy that might lead to my destruction. Already I have seen "friends" and "followers" desert me in droves. That made a real dent in my pride, and I don't know that I've yet experienced the full, terrible psychic price there is in such an experience. I was riding high there for a while, surrounded by readers, well-wishers, and hangers-on. I was bringing in a hefty income from Google Ads. Until it all went away, like Girl Scout cookies.

Now, just because I wanted to take some time off -- you'd think I killed their dog -- all of it is a fading memory, leaving me full of bittersweet longing and plenty of salty tears. I don't like crying. I've always felt it was unbecoming for a man to shed tears, and I know that most psychologists back me up on that. Some things are best kept in or repressed. But I'm able to admit it's happened to me a few times, and even now I feel choked up, like there's a knot in my throat the size of a ping pong ball, but heavier, like a pinball marble, only bigger.

So if you've been ignorantly saying, Take time off if you want it, or What's the big deal anyway?, now you can see what the big deal is. It hasn't been an easy experience for many reasons.

But still I've insisted on taking this hiatus, and that's where the need for coexistence comes in. If it, my hiatus, wants to exist, it has to meet me halfway; don't be cutting deals with enemies of the blog, such as striving to drive me into the ground, further in the hole. This hiatus, after all, depends on me for its continued existence. One could argue that I have the upper hand in this whole "arms race," because I am a living thing with a will, and the hiatus is only a term for the time off that I, the living thing, am taking. In a very real sense, then, I'm at loggerheads with a concept.

The concept, however, becomes more than conceptual when I, the living thing, set it apart, or, rather, when I divide time -- my own living space -- into hiatus and non-hiatus time/space. That's where it becomes a part of my life essentially, because it is now the environment in which I move and breathe. To terminate it out of pride, let's say, is to change my environment in a rash way and thereby to affect myself and not just the concept. If I'm driven by the money I've lost, simply, or the influence I've lost over my readers, then I'm pursuing vanity, because it takes away my choice of a hiatus, of future concepts. So it's a real struggle. If you lose your concepts there's nothing left.

What I need to do is to realize that I am this conglomerate of concepts -- made up of all my physical parts and mental parts -- my self-image itself is a concept. And realizing that, I need to find a way to coexist with all the parts, including this present hiatus, which has thrust itself to the fore over and above all other parts. (It might be more accurate to say that I have done the thrusting and the concept has remained stationary. It's tough to understand, like math class.)

IN OTHER NEWS -- I visited another guy's blog yesterday and was stunned to see that he was on hiatus too, and had blogged about it! His situation is this, that he is a gamer. I'm thinking a gamer is someone who plays a lot of online games. I can see how something so obviously empty and fraught with vanity would be very unfulfilling.

The way he mentioned his hiatus -- as I'm recalling, having only skimmed it in a few seconds -- was that he needed the time off from such a vain pursuit (my words) and that having taken the hiatus, he might be ready very soon to come back to his friends online to play more games with them.

So, however he did it, I don't know, but somehow he went on hiatus and still managed to keep friends. That's a first.

Coming To Terms With My Hiatus

Finally, after what can only be described as a very tumultuous, gut-wrenching, agonizing, and unenjoyable time, I feel like I am finally coming to terms with being on hiatus. It's been tough.

I know that sounds weird to just about everyone. Why would anyone feel themselves so drastically at odds over having time off? You might say, You want time off, take it. Or you might wonder, He's taking time off? Big deal. Why is this something we should concern ourselves with?

Those are all good points, I will admit. I do share the power of normal reasoning and can see that people take time off in life all the time, like a vacation, a couple of sick days, a morning and afternoon break, maternity leave, not to mention various expulsions, time out in the corner, and even prolonged imprisonment.

Little Johnny taking time out in the corner and Big Johnny taking time out in the penitentiary are two sides of the same coin. You're hoping that Little Johnny learns his lessons early and doesn't grow up to be Big Johnny. And you're hoping that Big Johnny will be set straight, steered right, get his ducks in order, learn to fly right, and eventually get out and save the taxpayers a lot of wasted money.

I'm not adverse to taking time off. I agree. You want a break, take one. If you work yourself to an early grave, someone else will be doing your work then, thus proving you weren't irreplaceable. Life went on without you before you were born, chances are it won't come to a screeching halt just because you worked yourself to death and were buried at 35.

But there's a whole different dynamic at play here in the world of ideas, teachings, the wisdom that is shared in my blog, and formerly in the newsletters and real life meetings. I've been putting forth things at a higher plane, let's say, things that you can't get anywhere else. I feel responsible for that, as though I'm like the Mama Bird and the rest of you are the hatchlings. If I simply kick you out of the next, where will you feed? See?

Were I to make my hiatus permanent retirement, that would be something major. As it is it's still a hiatus, designed to be temporary. And I'm hoping that's the way it will stay, and that I will be back in the full swing of things sooner rather than later. But just so you know, I'm pulling away a little bit at least, and am feeling better about it. I'm not so nervous, antsy, or as strung out as I was. I am definitely coming to terms with my hiatus and the idea of being on it.

Again, I'm hoping to be back one of these days, and at least to get the blog going again in full force. I'm not sure about the newsletter. And I'm very pessimistic about restarting real life meetings -- in fact those will not be happening again. A certain act of perversion attempted against my person left a mental scar that time has thus far been unable to heal. (For this we have Garrett Al to thank.)

Perhaps I shall be back. I feel like I should. But not at this time.

Making Peace With My Hiatus

I finally feel like I'm getting acculturated to being on hiatus, and am settling in.

This might sound weird to you -- like, Why would anyone need to adjust to time off? Or, We thought you were already so into your hiatus that there would be very little acculturation necessary, in our opinion, if any.

Oh, my friends, you still do not know me? I have had your interests perpetually before my mind's eye. The idea that tending my little flock here was (1) a responsibility, and, (2) an opportunity. It would be an opportunity because of the many valuable teachings about life I can pass on, wisdom, that sort of thing; and a responsibility because I set my mind to write this blog one time, and I don't like to give up easily.

You should know that it's been rough for me to be on hiatus. A quick scanning of my posts over the last month ought to prove that. I've been up, I've been down. My spirits have soared but more often they've been in the toilet. Right now I feel like I'm choked up, gasping for the breath just to get me through the next few minutes of breathing. There's perpetually a dagger in my heart, and that gets old.

But as time goes on, it's getting easier. This of course moves me closer and closer to out and out permanent retirement, I should warn you of that. But I'm still not saying it's a done deal. Because I could come back at any point. We're not there yet. What's getting easier, though, is the sense that I can't (and probably shouldn't) see this blog as such a terrific responsibility. Just as I dropped the newsletter and the real-life meetings I should be able to drop the blog as well without too many qualms.

I know a few of you still check in to see how things are going. For some of you, those who still view me in a positive way, you probably want me to end the hiatus all together, as well as all talk about permanent retirement. The vast majority of my former visitors -- those I would call enemies at this time -- would probably taunt me to my face. Stay or go, it makes no difference to us. I sense your apathy. But it's not strictly apathy, because you're still emotionally involved in seeing me fall. That's not apathy, that's spite. Or wishing someone trouble. It hurts, but that's your way.

As for my own feelings -- I won't deny it, there are still some very raw moments. But over all, like I said, I'm starting to make peace with the whole thing. The time off, the time I'm killing, there are some satisfactory moments. It's not all fretting and being consumed by the sense of responsibility. For the most part each day is a blessing. Putting my feet up, scratching when and where I need to, and just taking it easy. I don't know that I was made to be a public person. I'm just me.

Well, that's where we stand. This may not be welcome news to you -- whether you like me or not -- but I am definitely making peace with the idea of being on hiatus.

Theme From "Hiatus!"

I've got time to kill now that I'm on hiatus. Serious time. And when you've got time to kill, you don't care how you kill it.

I was killing a little time listening to music. I'm sure we all agree on the obvious, that anything involving the arts is a massive waste of time. And music is right up there on the top of the list of massive time wasters. It's in the air, then it's gone. It's like smelling a strange gas odor but your ears do the picking up, not your nose. It's in, it's out, it's gone.

I'm bothered by the serious finite qualities of music. A song is over with very soon, the notes they use are always the same. The same old rhymes. With some music, though, like classical music, they thicken it up a bit -- like putting a lot more flour than you need in the bread -- with a lot more instruments squawking back and forth at each other, and they make it more mysterious by having everyone do his own thing once in a while. Then they throw in a lone kettle drum. But even with that it's so obscure you lose interest.

None of this is to say that I don't like music. I obviously do or I wouldn't be going to garage sales all the time picking up everyone else's castoffs. That might be part of the problem. It's hard to treasure the music I have when I'm getting it for a dime apiece. Usually it's more. So I have big stacks of CDs occasionally falling over and getting stepped on.

But one huge problem for me is the way they act like the music in the CD is so precious that they're going to have the FBI on you for playing it. It's sound in the air. Anyone can hear it. I was just reading the fine print on a CD and it explicitly states that "Any performance of the music herein" will have the FBI on you. There's enough warnings there that each CD ought to come with a small chunk of barbed wire, just to make sure you stay away. Then the FBI could hang out at doctor's offices, and anyone in for a tetanus shot they could immediately arrest.

One of the ones I got yesterday was a collection of Henry Mancini songs. Easy listening. Grandma even likes easy listening. It's pabulum fun. I also got a couple Guy Lombardo collections, and some others from the Guy Lombardo family of music, like Benny Goodman and Glenn Miller. So you can see I scored big time. Next thing you know some of Grandma's friends might start coming around to see me! And as far as I'm concerned, Any Old Port.

I probably shouldn't admit it, because of the weird laws we have, but somehow I did accidentally hear some of it ... a few of Guy's tracks, a few from a collection of old singles (Dooley Wilson, Larry Clinton, The Ink Spots), and some by Mancini. He has a few tracks there that knock me out, familiar stuff to all. Is he still alive? If not, he really knew his stuff. If so, he really knows his stuff. But like most stuff like this, it's over in a flash. I'm thinking Is the FBI here yet? How much hard time could I get for listening to a three minute song?

The FBI did visit me one time and it was enough to scare me straight. I myself hadn't done anything wrong, but they were interviewing everyone in the neighborhood as to what they knew or didn't know about a particular individual. And when they knew or didn't know whatever it was. I gave them only the facts, hoping none of it would come back to haunt me on the witness stand in months to come, that I in fact didn't know anything about the person or the matters involved in whatever case it was they were investigating, which I still don't know. Maybe he had a big record collection and they put 2 and 2 together.

It was a valuable experience for me, because it gave me a definite fear of the FBI (1), and additionally it taught me to keep my curtains closed and to try not to know anything about anyone. To this day if I'm anywhere and I hear people talking about anything, I put my fingers in my ears and loudly go, "La la la!" And now here I sit with all these cheap CDs warning me about the FBI, whose agents might actually be able to hear them playing even through the thick curtains. They do have one of those "Big Ears" that you see at football games.

DISCLAIMER: Everything written in this blog post is for entertainment purposes only. I don't actually have any CDs nor do I listen to them.

A Hiatus Kind Of Numb

I'm barely stirring this morning, let alone up and at 'em.

It might be a chemical imbalance kind of day. Or maybe the synapses are misfiring. I've got nothing, no Zoloft, No Doz, Loadoff, Crank, Horny Goat Weed to deaden the pain or dull the senses. In fact I took my very last children's aspirin this morning, so now the little clacking plastic container has fallen silent. It's very zen to shake an empty pill container. But science tells the reason it's silent, no compressed molecules within to make contact with another body. It's like a pair of maracas if an enemy came in the middle of the night and drained out the beads. The beads inside are the musician's slaves. He shakes it and gets the applause but the beads are the ones sweating out a very jarring experience.

I do have a cup of coffee. I stood looking at my dwindling supplies. Milk that expires today. I thought maybe I'd have nothing. Just enjoy the experience. But I went for the coffee, then some milk, since we still have today, then a little orange juice, then three pieces of bacon, then some Grape Nuts, a tiny bowl. That was a turn around for someone who wasn't going to have anything. So at least I have the desire to make an upward swing, assuming this helps. The coffee will probably help more than anything, although, you know, coffee has this one curious side effect, which means going to the bathroom a lot more.

I should have kept Old Faithful around to receive the drainings of another Old Faithful. (It was installed at the south end of our property back in March.) There's really nothing like urinating in Old Faithful, as a couple of guys have discovered, according to the news. It doesn't really hurt the geyser, of course, and it brightens your own life. Maybe that's what I need. But you really do need to time it just right, because once that whoosh of scalding water comes against you you'll wish you'd just gone against a tree.

I like that one album by The Who that shows them taking a leak against an old concrete coal bunker or something. It'd be great to be together, let's say, the two guys in Wyoming, me, and The Who, all having a pee party at Old Faithful. But if we timed it wrong, it'd never happen again. Because The Who won't be fooled again, and once they saw the water ascending they'd definitely be going mobile, peeing as they ran over the hills, maybe singing, "I Can Pee For Miles."

That lifted my spirits a little, but now that paragraph's over and I'm feeling my old numb, sinking feeling starting in again. Maybe I need to do something. Some days the hiatus is a great thing. Today it's not so great.

But the hiatus lives on...