Revelation Blues

What happens when you learn something about yourself?  Is discovery always supposed to be worth celebrating?  Or is it possible that sometimes, what you learn could make everything else that already exists, more complicated.  
What if what you have learned is an inconvenient revelation?
What if what you've learned doesn't actually go with your existing life?   Like learning that the fresh fruit you've been feeding your children since they were wee, is actually a genetically modified organism laden with pesticides and chlorine and the risks of mass consumption of those "strawberries" outweigh the benefits.  
I know, I know, buy organic.
 
But that's not really what I'm talking about.

Is it a violation of your own conscience to ignore your newfound knowledge?

Of course.

So what if your epiphany is worse than strawberries?

What if you have to continue to live your external life unchanged despite the change within?
What happens to the soul when it has learned that it can sing again, it has remembered how to sing, but it's not supposed to sing.  It's supposed to stay hushed and not make a sound.
What happens to the soul then?

Slowly I Turn

One might say the first press of any finger on any given key, is the hardest.

Like the first penguin on the edge of an ice flow, despite the others in the waddle, huddling close, none will make that first plunge into the Leopard Seal - Killer Whale, infested waters until absolutely necessary.
Until it is no longer possible to be any closer to the edge of the ice - then one falls...or...dives.  So that's the question, is it the bravest penguin who makes a decision of conscience to be the first to take that leap, or is it a matter of dumb, cowardly-laden luck that he happened to be the one who got pushed in first?
So the first word, is it brave or just lucky?
Could it be a bad decision to begin to "publish" again (I love, publish), like using one's finger to rub one's eye, forgetting that the previous task that finger was engaged in was slicing a fresh lemon?  Ouch.
Or, is it a necessary evil, one that the perhaps great, certainly prolific, Stephen King suggests:
Just Write.
Doesn't matter what it is, just put words down, and eventually the words will get better.
Ha.  So says a great American writer.
Be bold, take the teachings of a former professor who said:  Simply sit down and open up a vein.
So therein lies the risk.  To bleed upon the page, or at least upon the laptop.
The question being, what do my veins hold?

rolling camera and....ACT NATURAL

So we were chosen by a cable TV show for a kitchen makeover.  This is phenomenal for a number of reasons the least of which being that we are getting brand new appliances for free.  It has been a crazy place around this house for the past several days, some of it has been fun, some of it....well not so fun.  The crew could not be nicer, so we've been as accommodating as possible to their requests.  We've been smiling and talking, painting and sanding, and acting like a normal American family, and now, well, I'd really love to get to the part where I'm standing all by myself in my freshly painted kitchen staring at my shiny new appliances that are humming away and feeling like "well that wasn't so bad."  That part is coming soon I hope.  But right now, the big Sears truck just pulled into the driveway, three separate times for the camera.  Hope they got the shot.

Somebody Clone Me

Somebody please duplicate me so that I can actually feel like I'm keeping up with my own life.  This is a simple request no?

Running the gamut of emotions from 6:00am to Zzzzzzzz

So much happens in a day.   What an understatement for anyone's life yes?  To wake up each morning with inspiration and motivation and to play duck and cover all day long from the slings and arrows shot from the arsenal of three of the most important people in my life, well, let's be honest, it's just exhausting.
By the time I force myself to sit down and type something half witty and meaningful, I simply don't know where to begin.  The thing yesterday that seemed so hilarious as it was playing out, tonight just doesn't seem all that special,  (trying to avoid a pink birthday cake for my son's 7th birthday, for example).
My stream of consciousness is more like a babbling brook that drains down to a trickle, then becomes a raging river only to pool into a sedentary swamp.  A SWAMP I TELL YA.
Each day is a salad; a fair mix of joy, silliness, laughter, spontaneity, patience, loss of patience, eruptions, and interruptions, and as always, a dash of mind-bending tedium and repetition.
There is a story somewhere in my soul, perhaps more than a few.  I just have to pull the sleeping lion off the lid of the trunk so that some of these ideas could float up to my brain and out my fingers.  Focus, focus, focus.......bed, I'm toast.

open letter to the ones who make me laugh

So I had an accident last night.  I went to help someone move something heavy.  Something enormously heavy.  With no story, I'll just say this enormously heavy thing landed on my left foot.  Stars, searing heat, sharp, deep pain.  Look down, blood, blury, don't want to cry, but seriously want to cry.  I stay committed to moving this heavy, goddamedmutherfuckingpieceofshituseless THING and hobble my way back into the house (and out of the pouring rain) where I call to the woman of the house as discretely as possible and ask for a first aid kit.  First aid is administered, and I decide, it's not that bad.  There is little swelling, no immediate bruising, and the pain, after icing, has subsided.
Fast forward to today....FUUUUUCCCCCKKQQQQQUUUEE!  This is not good.  I have what looks and feels like a club foot and I'm trying to keep from scowling so as not to increase the speed in which the deep lines of age divide my face.  I've got a lot on my mind - but that is another letter for a different day - and I'm starting to feel like an old man.  More specifically, Jeff Bridges in any one of his last three films.  As many of you know, I'm a bit of an amateur when it comes to drinking.  But I'm distracted, angry, anxious, and in a ton of pain that is not letting up.  I'm trying to focus and just go to bed early, but I can't do that, because that would be a rational thing to do.  So I'm limping and sliding my lame club-of-a-foot around the house and drinking....water....like it's straight scotch.  I'm carrying my glass around with me and taking heavy sips imagining that this will numb the pain.  I catch myself doing this as I walk past a mirror (scowling face, and lame hobble and all) and I realize how ridiculous I am, so I laugh, out loud, at myself; and I instantly feel better.

Silly, Silly Woman

I've been avoiding this blog page like a relentless telemarketing phone call.  And it just might continue.  I've become paralyzed by my own thoughts.  There have been thoughts, I've had several, I might be so bold as to say I've had many.  Yet somehow, I manage to kill the expressive process with one simple thought:  it's all been said.  It has become my mantra.  And though it is true, it shouldn't stop me from publishing, (I love, "publishing,") my ridiculous ramblings no matter how bland, foolish, or redundant.  This is my little nook, my corner, my electronic notebook.  No one reads it; it's about as hidden as my old journals I used to keep since the age of....well, eight.
So I'm going to continue to have thoughts for a little while longer, and well, we'll just see I suppose.