Stagnating In Hiatus

Maybe there's something to be said for working like a dog. For me it might be the thing to do.

A hiatus is nice for a while, but after a while, like now, I feel like I'm stagnating. Something stagnates when it just sits around for a while without any kind of flow, like a pond or Coke in a glass. It loses its fizz. It goes flat. All the fish come to the top and are gasping for air.

Grandma used to tell us kids not to go in that pond because it was stagnant. Then we'd go in anyway, kicking, playing, splashing each other. Somebody would get an open sore and be sidelined for a month, because bacteria apparently like these bacteria traps. Yet they're always trying to escape, like into someone's open sore, so whether they like it or not is an open question.

I myself was always fairly lucky. Either I didn't have an open sore or I just had a natural immunity to flat Coke, I was barely ever sick and also usually felt refreshed. But still, given a choice, I would've preferred a nice, pristine pond and an ice cold Coke. I feel for nature -- that's part of it -- so if I see fish gasping for air, I know that can't be good.

But now, I guess those years of avoiding stagnation are coming back to get me in full force. I wanted this time off to do whatever, just take it easy, get rid of some of my duties, responsibilities, and work. And it's been a blessing for much of it, but there have been plenty of times I've felt down, at odds with myself, flat, no fizz, and stagnant. Those times tend to pass, but then they're right back the next day. At least when I was working like a dog I was still more or less content.

What to do about it, I don't know. I was thinking about moving into full retirement, but I'm not so sure now. And I hate to leave my hiatus at this point, because I have so much time invested in it, it'd be a shame to have such a great streak going and to lose it without knowing how much longer it would've lasted.

I know everything comes to an end. And perhaps it is better to end things that have become unpleasant sooner rather than later. Since it's going to happen anyway! Alternate realities can be fun as well.

We don't swim in the old pond anymore. We've grown up and never make it out there anymore. The land was sold anyway. So that came to an end. And any Cokes that have gone flat, of course someone's emptied them out by now. And whatever fish there were gasping for air, they're dead.

As for now I'm still on hiatus. But we shall see.

Cosmic Mind On Hiatus

I've come down, reluctantly, from the higher planes. Of course anytime you start messing around with the file cabinets and ways of heaven, someone gets the word and you're expelled.

It's a hard fall, but in my case it was made much easier by the fact that I completely expected it. That's the main thing, let's say if you're a fallen angel: Get a clue. Expect it that you're not going to prevail. Get tossed down and be happy. I know I am.

Of course someone up there's always looking. They're a paranoid bunch. But there's a lot for them to keep track of. That's when you slip back in and have another heyday. Just blend in as best as you can and enjoy it while it lasts. Then go willingly with a laugh and it's not so bad.

Dwelling on a higher plane, as I have been doing the last couple days, thanks to the time off this hiatus has given me, I've checked out some of the various mysteries, riddles, and conundrums of the cosmic mind at play. It's very wild.

Not that I'm personally immersed, mind you. I've gotten just the edge of a single molecule of one big toenail wet. Intuition says none of this can be snatched, and my normal way is that of an old lady at a rummage sale. But existence at those levels is like a wilting violet. It withdraws 100% of the time, receding some completely that it's not even worth talking about. Like I said, you get tossed out.

Fasting doesn't help. Nor any kind of asceticism. Eat all the pork you want. The thing is to be mindful, attentive, while living and enjoying your normal life. There's no essence that needs to be conserved to get you closer. It's in the files! I saw it!

The best way to live is on hiatus.

A Higher Hiatus

Being on hiatus, if not quite yet permanent retirement, I find that I dwell on a higher plane than this world.

Up here, on this higher plane, I'm not worried, bothered, or disturbed by the day to day affairs of the world. This would include all concerns about whether famous people are sick, whether they've died, or what their legacy is. It's not my mission, while on hiatus, to strew flowers in their paths, to lionize them, or really even to care all that much.

On the higher plane, up here, for me it's a matter of taking time off, of being unconcerned about the spinning and shifting of the earth, whether we're speaking globally, as of tectonic plates, or locally, as in the affairs of every celebrity who ever hit it big, then was stricken and perhaps surprised by mortality.

I'm not mentioning names, because up here, on this higher plane, such things are almost meaningless. A higher plane gives you a terrific perspective. I can look down and see everyone scurrying along like rats, or, smaller yet, ants. It's quite a sight! Someone dies, then someone else. I glance down and see it, then I may turn away. Or I glance down and see it, then I look to see the crowds gathered. Then I sit back in a chair and gently tap my fingers together, shaking my head.

The biggest thing I wonder about is how high can I go? Because I'm way up here now. Looking down. If I go higher I don't know what might happen. Someone dies, I might see the powers of the heavens pulling their 3 x 5 card and checking it. For them, I'm imagining, there's no shaking of the head, not even a thought of seeing any of this philosophically. For them it's simply another day on the job. A few rats, ants, and people died. The cards are pulled, they're already forgotten.

But going higher yet -- this is almost as high as a person can possibly go, I'm guessing -- there are things up here that man may not speak. But I believe I can hint around about it. Up here, in the highest place you can possibly go, everyone is remembered. Every ant, rat, and person. Quite a thing, huh?

Yesterday I had an ant on my desk, oblivious to me sitting there. From a higher plane, I observed his ability to run very fast. And I could see ahead to what his likely path and destination would be. Then he was on my computer mouse. Then down and across behind the keyboard. Now over here on the left side. I thought I should probably catch him and release him outside, because what if he is a she, and she's looking for a maternity ward? There was the tiniest little puddle over by my mouse, so possibly her water broke.

It being a nice day out, I felt I could safely catch and release her without any injury to her young. But she was way too fast and small for me. Dodging under papers, around books, wires, other junk, and finally over the back of the desk, where it's too dark and hard to get to. So I let her go.

Perspective. It's very much a function of life. And with a hiatus, I've got it good! I'm way up here. So that whether it's you -- or the latest famous person to experience passing into the heavens -- I'm observing, watching, scouring the countryside for your slightest movement and purpose.

Hiatus By The Numbers

There's no perfect hiatus, it's starting to seem. It's all very irregular. It could very well be one of those zero sum games, like where you have a whole column of numbers but at the bottom line they're all canceled out.

Just saying I have joy one day and sadness the second at this point is to repeat myself endlessly. And it's like checking your oil every five minutes; you can chart it exactly but it's hard to enjoy the trip. For me, what I should do is just accept it as an axiom that additions and subtractions are the normal arc of life and quit worrying about it.

But you'd think that being on hiatus, having all this time off, would multiply my happiness quotient, and that whatever fractional division there normally is in the give and take would see some borrowing from the bad and some addition to the good's column. Why can't I come out on the plus side? I've checked my work and can easily calculate how things ought to come out.

I try to reconcile myself with comparisons, such as a baseball player can be hitting .200 and still be considered an asset to the team. Which, at least in that area of his game, is failing 80% of the time (I know there are other factors at play). Right now, for me, it's at least half and half, and that's not really such a bad average. But the way I figure, and I've been through this a number of times, is that having extra time off should more generally be a plus, yet somehow my mind is still borrowing trouble and that's a problem I can't solve.

At this point, it's six of one and half a dozen of the other as to what to do. No matter how it adds up, everyday has this common denominator, that I'm the product of my makeup, equal to what I've become, a composite, a divergent sequence. So I must learn to reckon with the pluses and minuses, or I just might put a zero vector to my circle and become a negative number.

The Deadliest Hiatus

Maybe you've seen the popular show "The Deadliest Catch." You probably have since it's the only thing on TV. We have 100 channels and nothing but this one show.

As is well known, the various "Deadliest Catch" crews take their boats and weapons out every year, for eight months of the year, and compete to see who can bring in the Great White Whale. It's out there lurking somewhere, and you never know when his spout may appear and his huge, hulking form may capsize one of the boats and devour the crew. He's evil, rotten to his rotten core, a very very bad whale, really a monster.

One day we had the exciting footage of him finally taking the bait. A gigantic hook the size of a couch was tied to an enormous rope as thick as a maple tree, then strung on a huge pulley with a hydraulics system, baited with the shark from Jaws. It was quite tense on the boat, to say the least, as the sea became very calm, as still as death, no breathing, no motion at all. There wasn't a ripple on the water for 4,000 miles. The boat was literally dead in the water. The only movement was by one of the very nervous crew, a single guy sitting over by the door who scratched his nose.

Then suddenly, as if from the depths of hell itself! ... They heard a light tapping at the hull. Just a light tapping. Tap, tap, tap. Charlie the Tuna was just stopping by to say hello. He has good taste, so he loves the show. Then as soon as he'd come, he left. That broke some of the tension and the guys laughed. There was a great sense of relief.

When ... suddenly, again as if from the depths of hell itself! ... They heard what sounded like a sloshing of the water ... What could it be? One of the crew looked overboard and it was the Old Man from "Old Man and the Sea," with a big fish strapped to the side of his boat. Check that, it was by now half fish, half skeleton, and he had a fork and was presently eating. He called up to the captain who sent down a greeting ... and a warning: If you want to live to be an Older Man, you better get a'movin'! So he made quickly for the horizon, with a putt putt motor and a zigzagging path. Again, the tension was relieved, but it would not be for long...

Because suddenly, and for the final time, as if from the depths of hell itself! ... the Great White Whale had taken the bait! They saw him leap into the air in all of his righteous fury. His crashing back to the sea raised a wave so high the guy in the crow's nest was able to grab a handful of sand from the ocean's floor. Up and down, the mighty beast soared and crashed back again. He was the size of the Empire State Building if he was an inch! The boat was a bobber in comparison, the crew like matchstick men.

At this point the show went to a commercial and I lost interest. Billy Mays came on selling some kind of orange scented chamois so I went outside to cut weeds.

But looking back on the show, sometimes that's exactly how I feel about my hiatus. All is calm for a while. A few friends, like Charlie the Tuna and the Old Man and the Sea might show up and say hi. The tension is broken. I'm feeling pretty good about my time off. Then suddenly, as if from the depths of hell itself, I'm carried right into the gaping maw of the Great White Whale, or, worse, the gaping maw of Billy Mays -- such tension -- and I don't know what to do. It threatens my very existence.

So I need to do something, anything, like go outside and cut weeds. It makes me feel useful. One of these days I'm going to find him, the Great White Weed! And when I do, oh! that'll be something!

A Hiatus Is Strange

I'm on hiatus. I hope that's no secret.

Sometimes it's happy, sometimes it's sad. I never really know what to make of it. I've been thinking maybe I should've never gone on hiatus, because for quite a lot of it that's been all I can think of. Guarding my hiatus, keeping it real, making the most of it, trying to commemorate it in tangible ways so that someday I'll be able to look back on it more vividly.

You can tell it's really turned my world upside down. Before, I was just a normal workaday kind of guy. I came up with projects, or projects were given to me. I worked with the responsibilities that fall to the lives of most people. I tended the hours of the day, scheduling and accomplishing things. I tried to fit in some leisure time and treasured it.

I got involved in this blog, which took off in ways I didn't imagine. It attracted a lot of readers there for a while, with quite a few of them being very hungry for every scrap or morsel of wisdom and truth I was able to serve up. At first that was gratifying; I thought they were half kidding, to be honest with you, but I didn't let on; if it all turned out to be a joke, I thought, the joke would ultimately be on them. And if I had to I could show you from my private diaries where I noted some of my skepticism about the readers' sincerity.

Now looking back, it's apparent they weren't joking, because the interest in the blog became an interest in me personally, leading to me launching the private newsletter that was very popular, and then we had some real life visits, including highlights like tours of the half acre and house, meetings at the bedside of Grandma, going through the family photo albums, viewing my baptism certificate and my first clippings of hair as a baby, and on and on. The visits started off normal enough, but then they were camping on the half acre, seeking personal favors, and, in one rather unfortunate incident, with Garrett Al, the personal favors went more toward the favors of the flesh, if you know what I mean. Guns and knives were involved and finally the police subdued and took him away.

I don't know what exactly the breaking point was. But in there somewhere, in the stress of keeping it all going, I decided I'd finally had enough, and I called for this present hiatus.

But a hiatus is a very strange thing. It's almost like another of these artificial friends seeking personal favors! I hate to say it, but it's true. It's always there with its little hand out. It's staring at me like What are you going to do for me next? On the worst days, a hiatus is like school probation, study hall, or expulsion. It's like a ball and chain. It's like the difference between wrestling and rasslin'. You signed up for a pleasant minuet with a nun and you got kicked in the crotch by Big Bad Mama from the Gorgeous Ladies Of Wrestling (sic).

It's always strange when you have something you think you really love, then it turns out to have a hidden side, a terrible, devouring side. Like five minutes of pleasure, then a lifetime with an STD.

The Pressure Of A Good Hiatus

Just before I came to my computer, here in Hiatus Central, I made the mistake of listening to the Billy Joel song, "Pressure." And it really reminded me of a lot of things.

It reminded me of the pressure I was experiencing in the heyday of this blog, the get-togethers, the newsletters. I felt like producing in volume in those days -- and of course it was never enough for the voracious readers and those who made it their business to hang around me. I was suffering some major out of pocket expenses for refreshments and some accommodations, but of course this was never enough, because people always have different preferences than what you just happen to give them. It's the old saying come to life, that no good deed goes unpunished.

Plus, listening to that song, brought to mind the mounting pressure I'm feeling even now that I'm on hiatus, to really make it count. It's like going on vacation but not enjoying yourself (sometime), like if you have a set list of places you need to go and people you need to see. If you have a lot of far flung relatives, they better never hear you were within 100 miles and didn't stop! It's that kind of pressure. And in addition, maybe at a smaller scale, there's the pressure of getting just the right souvenir of your visit, which usually is easily dealt with, since the best souvenir is either a commemorative plate or coin.

I have pressure today, because I know the lawn needs mowed, some sticks need picked up out of the yard, and other various domestic duties are barking for a minute of my time. I hear ya!

Pressure is a mental thing. It's a build-up, maybe of brain fluids that have no where to seep out, which means an extra hole in your head is probably precisely what you need. It's like hermetically sealed up there at times, with your thoughts colliding like bumper cars. The little sparks at the ceiling, though, generate enough heat and smoke and accumulate, and having no natural place to vent, bring about that feeling of pressure. I believe this accounts for perspiration on your forehead nine times out of 10.

But still I'm pressing on. I'm hoping to enjoy my hiatus. Some of the sweet days of the last week have gone away, and I feel like a few negative vibes are on the ascendancy. It's a matter of venting somehow, hoping for the best.

A Hiatus Keepsake

Going along with "Hiatus on Parade" from a couple days ago could've been and should've been some reference to a keepsake to wear or proudly display. My own preference would be a keepsake to display.

It's long been one of the themes of my life that there ought to be a keepsake for it. Even if it's just a bug in a jar to commemorate the picnic you went on, you need something to show it happened. It could be something as simple as a jar of rainwater, which would be more humane when it comes to bugs. Then if the jar is labeled and put on a shelf, you will know what it means. Somewhere around here -- maybe in the cellar -- there's my first jar of rainwater from over 40 years ago, unless someone threw it out.

Anyway, whose spirit doesn't thrill to the idea of a keepsake, a souvenir, a memento of some historic occasion? When the new president was about to come to office, souvenir dealers were having a field day trying to mark the significance of the event. And while I didn't get any of those souvenirs, I did keep some of the literature, including a rather handsome laminated bookmark (still unused) as a reminder that I alone am not the crazy one.

When I see one of these mementos, like when they're advertised on TV, it gives me a profound chill to see the glint of light off the edges as they're being rotated on display. You see the front and the reverse, the head and the tail, and you know it's necessary to have both. When the artist or sculptor conceives the one, perhaps he or she has conceived all that is possible at that moment. That can be a wrenching experience, not to be able to conceive the reverse (since usually the front is the first to be conceived.) With hard work, diligence, sweating it out, maybe in a sweat lodge, maybe a lot of late nights pacing the floor, drinking coffee way after hours, he or she will conceive of the B side.

Let's say I were to march in a parade. That is, I'm not the Grand Marshall. And I have one of these souvenirs or mementos. I would love to march with it so that it could be displayed to the folks gathered on both sides of the road. They could see it and know it was there. And any who happened to bring a magnifying glass or a jeweler's loupe magnifier, could stop the parade long enough to run up to examine the object. If there happened to be an actual souvenir official there, he or she could also examine my certificate of authenticity and attest to the genuineness of the object, or, in case I didn't have the certificate, could pronounce its authenticity in lieu of more formal certification.

Now, my thought here is of a keepsake to recognize, honor, and commemorate my current hiatus. At this point we don't know how long it will be till it's over, so there can be no finality in dating. But that only makes the preliminary object, struck in the flow of the hiatus, more likely to achieve a high value over time, because it clearly was from the time of the event, with all the aura of the first flush of those days. These are always rarer, especially if they seem to be more or less unconscious of their eventual collectibility, which is very hard to fake, these days especially.

The design of the front I can conceive in my mind's eye. A guy seated, his back to the viewer, and a computer monitor in front of him. Around the top, if it's circular like a coin, the name of the blog. Around the bottom a reference to my hiatus. I might have to go somewhere, to one of those heat hutches, and really sweat it out what the reverse would show. Those are always harder.

My Hiatus Halo

I've never been a big fan of the halo. No, I seriously haven't.

I don't like to see religious artwork where the halos are so pronounced. I don't like halo jokes, like "His halo is rusty" or "Her halo seems to have slipped," etc. I don't like to see wired halos on angel costumes, coming up behind the neck with a vertical piece. There's nothing charming about it. Just go without.

Maybe I'm too literal minded when it comes to religious artwork. I expect that what I'm seeing as the observer here is an angle of what the subjects of the artwork would see in the same setting. And if a guy, one of the apostles, let's say, is standing there with a halo about a foot deep (connected to his head, not just hovering), everyone else would be staring at it. Like, What is that, a big toe nail? It's like a big Easter bonnet of light! C'mon!

Now, they do have smaller more delicate halos. I've seen those. They're a perfect circle up there, like they're made of a piece of fiber optic, then infused with the most delicate fluorescent light bulb imaginable. If the light is not burning as brightly as a typical fluorescent light bulb, like half strength or less, it's much more of a subtle thing and nothing to be overly ashamed of.

If I were saddled with a halo, I'm thinking it'd be like your shadow; you wouldn't be able to outrun it. But since it's obviously detachable, whereas a shadow connects directly to your feet, it seems like you'd be able to run under an underpass with low clearance and knock it off. We really don't have enough animated religious artwork with a guy running under underpasses to know what would happen. It might be that it would dodge and weave and slip down behind just long enough to miss being clunked.

The halo is supposed to represent the intrinsic glory of the subject. It's a cue to the viewer that this person has arrived. There's such worth and quality within the person that it radiates out. Everyone can see that you're beaming, like Madame Curie after a long day at the lab. You've got a very healthy, heavenly glow, like farm animals at Chernobyl. The sun is up in the sky, representing the highest heavenly light. And you're down here on earth, a gleam off the old block.

To that extent, then, I guess I have a halo! I'm beaming as I contemplate the glories of my life, made more lustrous by my blessed hiatus. To have this time off has given me a brand new enlightenment that radiates from me like special effects. The light bulb in the fridge is burnt out, but it doesn't even bother me when I check leftovers.

Hiatus On Parade

I'm hoping this will be my year!

Every year the local moguls, do-gooders, and civic clubs choose someone to be the Grand Marshall for the July 4 parade. They go for local folks who have achieved some level of respect in the community, including firefighters, retired sheriffs, a returning military hero, or whoever.

I may not fit perfectly into any of those categories, but I have certain other things going for me. I've lived in this town pretty much all my life. I've kept my nose clean. The weeds on our half acre, I trim them from time to time. And I believe I've shown more average literary ability, representing the community well, the creative writing class I took at the local high school being an inspiration, in the daily conceiving and producing of this blog on the worldwide web.

Right now I'm very down in "friends" and "followers" on the blog, which may be a mitigating factor against my selection -- as though popularity with fawning, needy, anonymous sets of eyes out there is really any major selling point. But still it doesn't look good when they come check out the site and they see this guy seems to be declaiming to an empty room, like in a warehouse, with my words echoing meaninglessly off of big abandoned barrels and cobweb-fraught rafters.

Plus -- and I'm actually very proud of this fact, but I know it will not look good to the superficial Chamber of Commerce member -- since I'm on hiatus and have made much ado about that fact, perhaps that is not a subject that they would think represents literary ability or a goal worthy to be emulated. And being the Grand Marshall usually goes to those heroes and worthies who can also set a moral example for the community, particularly the young. But try it -- just try what I do here everyday -- and see how easy it is! You'll wish you'd simply gone to war!

Anyway, however it works out, I know I would look good sitting on the upper seat of a convertible, a big sash in the appropriate place, from my shoulder down to my waist, waving to the people, pointing to the occasional friend, and passing by in the kind of style that announces I have arrived.

Now we come to the inevitable But then what? ... Yes, then what -- It always comes to that.

I'm halfway through the parade and thinking my Grand Marshall gig is just about up, and they never get the same guy twice.

Three-quarters of the way through, there's barely any crowd left because any normal person who goes to the parade will be there on the first half of the route. Because everyone knows the performers and participants are hot, tired, and cranky by the three-quarters mark and don't feel like waving anymore. And anyone who had candy to throw out is now down to about nothing, meaning the pickings are very slim indeed. Any free popsicles or bottles of cold water are long gone. The horses are hot and tired and without warning might stampede

A few of the floats will have turned off now, being too proud to display before parade route stragglers, known in the business as "The Dregs." What you have after the three-quarters mark are registered sex offenders who aren't allowed up route, or guys just out of jail who are too ashamed to be up route lest they run into curious relatives, or drug dealers looking to score off the worthless and forlorn who populate the last quarter of the route. I'm in this section as Grand Marshall and I'm ashamed to be a part of it. The glory of the first three-quarters is over and finished. The folks up route have already forgotten me.

By the end they're stripping the sign off the convertible, the owner is checking out the place I sat for any accidents I might have made, plus he's mad that I had the slightest bit of dirt on my shoes and now it's on his seat. The sash rental place is there to get their sash back, then they deny me my deposit because of all the criminals standing around on that last stretch. I've got a severe sunburn and have to hoof it home.

A Torrential Hiatus

It's been another period of strange, terrible weather, much like that torrential outpouring with lightning and other assorted phenomena a few weeks ago that struck houses in my neighborhood.

When we get such awesome, terrifying, extreme weather, it comes with its inconveniences of course, but for the most part I like it. It depends on what it is. Even I hate the extremes when it comes to the possibility of freezing to death or losing limbs from frostbite or being sucked up into a screaming vortex of wind, rain, and the debris from people's houses.

But, you know, you have to look at it philosophically, you need to take the bad with the good. Plus, if a few people are sucked up now and then, it points out even more clearly the benevolent side of life for the rest of us when it's nice. My advice to those folks is, Quit being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It's better to have the sense that where you are is where you're meant to be. Then you can have a certain calm assurance no matter what the day may bring. That's the way I faced this most recent bout of weather, with a kind of glib cockiness that it would not affect me in any personal way. And I guess it's not too much to say what all this encompasses, that this shield of safety, this penumbra of protection, this guarantee of good extends all the way down to my garbage cans. It's my full expectation that even they won't blow over. And I just looked outside and they're still standing there!

Every time the good comes my way, I take it as vindication for whatever choice I've made theretofore. Now, with my hiatus being such a big deal to so many people, of course I've had moments of self doubt, second guessing, reservation, and qualms. But then something comes along -- like all those houses being destroyed and yet my own garbage cans being unaffected -- and I know that all is well, that the hiatus was destined, is blessed, and shall forever be affirmed.

Tips For A Great Hiatus

I remember one of the guidance counselors we had in high school who tried his best to steer kids right but was basically a failure. I don't remember him doing me a bit of good. He wasn't any good at guiding or counseling. He got a good paycheck from the school district, but I'm still waiting for his advice to kick in: Go home and think over your future. OK, I've been home thinking now for close to 40 years! What's next?

It turns out, now that I see it in black and white there, that I used up my future thinking about it. And now I'm a lonely old man, left to look at my depressing visage in the shards of a broken mirror. I could've been a teenage idol. I had good hair, teeth, and skin. Let's say I were to bound up on a stage. I could've waved with all the enthusiasm of a natural born star. But he said performers often face years of struggle and only a meager few make it to the big time. So that was discouraging.

But, hey, I'm not that unhappy with the way things turned out. I'm still here. I still have some hair, some of these teeth are still halfway decent, and this is definitely skin. It's skin toned anyway, appropriate for the race I happen to be. And I'm very proud of my race, since it's what I was born and I had absolutely nothing to do with it. That's the best kind of pride. All in all, I think I did all right. I've had a roof over my head all these years and a bathroom.

And now that I'm on hiatus, I have all the free time in the world. I can get up and do what I want. If I feel like working I do. And if not, hey. The fact is I was overworking there for a while, with all the responsibilities of this blog, plus the newsletter, plus some of the getting together with real life visits. It was like I had a mini empire going there, reminding me that when "friends" and "followers" start clamoring to have their needs fulfilled, there's no end to it. And some of the needs were great. Most of the folks you meet on the internet are voracious. Nothing is good enough but more, more more.

But were I to be a guidance counselor for some of these sad souls, I might recommend, take a hiatus of your own. Just pull back from whatever you're doing and don't do it. Claim your space, stake your claim, and insist on it. Some days you'll feel like giving up and going back to your labors, but resist.

Then when you've got your hiatus cinched up good and tight, continue to be firm: I will not work. I will take time off. Soon you'll find that whoever it was who was making demands on you, they're nowhere to be found anymore. It's just you, stripped to nothing. At that point you'll feel a mixture of sadness and of joy. But the joy will be in the background, very miniscule.

The sadness will come to the fore. You will struggle with it, a titanic struggle. You will think you've hit an iceberg, that you're about to split open, and that you're about to flip up on one end, and go down with just a few bubbles to show for it. Don't worry about it, it's really not that bad. At least you'll realize it wasn't so bad after the joy starts breaking through. Then there's a good balance of joy and sadness, and finally the joy kicks in in full.

At this point I have so much joy that ... [I can't describe it.]

The thing is you will have joy if you stake out a hiatus and follow through on it. Find your own personal space, retreat there, and look to see what all lies out in front of you for the years ahead.

A Laughing Hiatus

If laughter is the best medicine, I hope my medicine cabinet is always well stocked. I need to check some of my prescriptions, and maybe tell the doctor I need some funnier pills because I'm not laughing near enough. Plus make sure they're all up to date. I can't be taking old pills, ones whose expiration dates expired when Red Buttons was big.

Laughter is very good medicine and I think I need a fix. There's a house in one of the neighborhoods of my town, somewhere out there. And they say people are coming and going all the time, all hours of the day and night. But they can't shut it down. Some very funny guy must live there, giving the people their laughs. They walk through the door, through a bunch of curtains, past some guys with caps on backwards and their pants slumped low, through a smoky, hazy room, then finally to the room where the guy holds court.

I started off this day laughing at something. And I found it very good medicine indeed. Good medicine is ... you know it's good when ... there's a quality that medicine has ... the doctor knows.

You see a twisted up situation, a human drama or comedy, or a comedian says something that tickles your funny bone, or you see yourself in the mirror and feel like crying, but it hurts too much to cry, so you look again ... I just came from the bathroom ... I was looking at my craggy old face in the mirror, with a few stray hairs coming out of my nose, and the hair on my head looking like I'd spent the last five years in bed ... and I noticed a few blemishes, small ones on my nose ... I see the wrinkles around my eyes getting worse ... There I stand. I could cry but I try to laugh. It's hard to do when it's not that funny. But it's absurd, to look at yourself and worry about it. And I'd rather crack a smile than the mirror. Wouldn't you?

Finally I burst out in laughter, and could picture myself like in an old black and white absurdist movie, with the mirror indeed cracked and the view of myself coming from a dozen assorted, very disturbing angles. Then when I close the medicine cabinet, who's standing there but ... the Devil! Or let me walk that back a bit, the mirror isn't cracked at all and I'm looking at myself dead on in the starkest frame. Finally I pick up a hairbrush, destroy the mirror, there's a piercing scream, and the next thing you know there's a siren.

Did any of that make you laugh? It did me, just a little. Especially the surprise appearance of the Devil. I get sick of thinking in cliches but, you know, any old port. I'd rather think in cliches than not think at all. Although if you didn't think at all, there'd be some benefit in that. One, it'd be like sleeping. You'd wake up 40 years later and say that was a perfect night's sleep, but I seriously need to pee.

My concept today, which I'm not going to get to, thanks to this laughing jag, was the fact that I'm far up in my hiatus citadel, laughing at the world below, all my supposed "friends" and "followers" who have deserted me for taking and prolonging this hiatus. That would have been funny.

My Hiatus - Like It Or Lump It

I will descend from my perch of complete happiness and fulfillment today -- up where the blue skies are -- for a few minutes of housekeeping duties in regards to any lingering malingerers who still have their nose tied up in knots about the personal choice I made concerning the direction of this blog and my life.

I'm so often up in my citadel of happiness these days, absorbing and reflecting the rays of contentment and peace, that I sometimes forget that down here still dwells a whole people perceiving and expressing various needs, who also have become stuck in a certain level of immaturity and have failed to advance beyond to the point that they could take some responsibility for their own happiness and sense of personal well being. I'm up there on a completely different plane, but unfortunately you're still down here, barely risen from the primeval muck, and as far as abilities to rise above, you're not just physically a bottom feeder but also one mentally.

How does this make me feel? Like I said, sometimes I forget. Because my hiatus is paying handsome dividends, which I collect and enjoy ... up there somewhere.

If you can stand back and picture a plain, the earth, and lots of people clawing at each other in the mud out of envy and lust, you'll get a sense of what I see. Now take a look at the wider landscape. There's a mountain rising from the earth. Now pull back and see it in context. Midway up the mountain there's an encircling cloud, very thick, but it doesn't go on forever. For at the top of the cloud it becomes wispy and the mountain from that point stands out in stark majesty. Now zero in on it, focus just slightly down, and you'll see a little citadel there next to a big pole with red blinking lights to warn airplanes. See that? That's where I dwell, far above everyone else. The happy airplanes occasionally drop supplies to me, whatever I order.

And occasionally I get word that all is not well down in Mudland, Clawsville, Lustburg, Envydale, and Sadvale and every slough of depond in between. We want you down here, they seem to say, so we can grasp and claw and pull and make demands. In short, they want me to be as miserable as they are. Which I was, once upon a time. But I have ascended, dear friends. I have gone aloft. I have found the secret for which long I had sought. And I don't see myself giving that up just to go another 10 rounds with the likes of you. To my faithless readership, my former "friends" and "followers," just let me say this as kindly as I possibly can, Get a life.

Your contorted facial features, I don't recognize those anymore (outside a funhouse mirror). Your big pleading sad cow eyes, those aren't signs I respond to now. Your outstretched hands, put together with your big pleading sad cow eyes and your contorted facial features -- including your overactive ooga-looling tongue movements -- it's simply another language to me, the language of desperation that only seeks to take, never to give. It's pathetic and I meet it all with the harshest of disdains. No sympathy. Away! Vamoose!

This hiatus -- you may be sad to hear -- will continue! Now, if I may pry your muddy hands from my doorknob -- thank you -- I need to catch the next plane up.