River Deep, Mountain High

River Deep Mountain High

When I was a little girl, I had a rag doll
Only doll I've ever owned
Now I love you just the way I loved that rag doll
Only now my love has grown

It gets stronger in every way
It gets deeper, let me say
It gets higher day by day

Do I love you my, oh, my?
River deep, mountain high, yeah, yeah
If I lost you would I cry?
Oh, how I love you baby, baby, baby, baby

I found this song on a Tina Turner greatest hits-type CD, and I love it. It has what my limited musical vocabulary describes as a boogie beat, a lotta horns, just a good song. It talks about the depth and breadth of love for another human being in real and human terms; expressive without being fancy. Very down to earth.

I played it for my wife, and she didn't get it. She didn't like the style of music, didn't understand Tina's lyrics due to her screeching (some might say, wrenching wail, in a good way) style. The whole thing left her cold. When you're trying to express to someone how you feel about them in another medium, the blunt force trauma of the dearth of connection there is chilling indeed.

Why is it so hard to make these connections? Why is the chill of rejection, even minor or imagined rejection on such a small scale, so bitterly cold? I used to think I was immune to the pain of social isolation, and maybe I was. But if I was numb or emotionally armored for years, that desensitivity has vanished, that armor has turned brittle and flaked away.

The kicker, the proof in this pudding, was my trip to Paris, France this past spring (yet another eye-opening revelation from a trip to Paris, this one not necessarily as welcome as the last). I was so horribly lonely, desperate for human contact of a sort that I could not achieve; what anguish. Now that I'm back, I can't deny that the sensation persists, if much less acutely.

I think I was happier with my social blinders in place; this new sensation is anything but pleasant. It's like an ache in the bones before the coming rain; I'd much rather just depend on the weather report, and leave the discomfiting forecast out of it. Apparently I have no choice in the matter.

Just as hunger is an excellent motivator, maybe this gut-borne longing will propel me to do or find or go to or be something useful or valuable. I hope so. My friend Joe believes in an ultimate sense to be made of these types of things, a cosmic logic; I hope he's right. 'Cuz this malaise is just a nagging misery at this point, and I'd just as soon be rid of it.

Doing OK

Life has been interesting these days. And strangely better. I'm writing a little more, which has been a real problem. Seems like that's easing and improving.

Met some pals and made s'mores with the kids last night. What a good night.

Michelle smiled at me today. Nice.

I mean: "I'm fine, how are you?"

Gravity. Bacteria. Entropy.
They are but hungry, tenacious wolves
patiently waiting to pull us down
expose our guts to the cold sunlight
and draw us inexorably back into mother nature's deathly silent embrace.

The pleasure of anticipation

The first time I went to Paris, I spent weeks or even months planning the trip. I agonized over the air fares and hotel packages among different offers, and ran the numbers like a coked-out Accountant with OCD. I noodled over sights and how the Metro worked. Already a student of the language, I kicked my studies into a higher gear, and made a lot of progress.

Not long from now, I'll go again. The thought of returning was just as dream-like as the first time, right up until the time I booked the flight. At that moment, when it became real, a combination of events began churning into reality and quietly began to erode what I didn't realize were some of the best parts of the trip: the anticipation.

The run-up is the dance before the kiss, when all things are possible, a story not yet written. It's all potential: the dreamy, cartoonish whimsy where imagination and expectation meet, and jerk each other off. (Egads, what a jarringly crass turn of phrase. I think I'll keep it.)

As soon as I pulled the trigger on this little event, stuff started happening. Some pending items in my personal life, much like my trip, went from "someday" to "pretty frigging soon." My work life was much the same, taking a typically lax span of time and filling it with strife and tension. Even my stand up comedy life, deep in the drowsy doldrums, twitched and demanded attention.

In short, all the slack was pulled out of my line, and it was all I could do to hold on.

I had hoped to renew my love affair with the French language (which never should have lapsed). It's currently what I'd call "passable," but I wanted it to be so much better. I wanted to study art so that when I went to the Louvre and other museums, the things I'll see would have more meaning. I had hoped to scout out my sights online; for my last trip, I cyber-stalked cemeteries, streets and sights within an inch of their lives.

What will I see in Paris this time? I've barely put together a list, and even that was fairly flung together.

When will I see it? I hastily threw sights into a calendar like darts at a dartboard, and who knows if reality will reflect the slots I've chosen.

Where will I eat? I've got a wonderful book my wife bought for me, describing all sorts of restaurants there. I haven't read nearly enough of it.

I've barely been able to keep track of the paperwork I'll need to get on planes and trains involved in the plans I have cobbled together. I almost lost one of them this morning. My shit is not wired tight.

I feel sad and cheated that I haven't managed my time well in advance of the voyage. I've got to get a better mastery over the way the data is arranged in my noggin. I can do better than this.

...

Often, these blog posts give me perspective. The emotion I note here isn't the only one; sometimes, not even the dominant one. Still, it's useful to look back and see where my head was at, and that's reason enough to register my disappointment here.

So, on the bright side, I'm going to Paris, punk! If you had told me six months ago that I could go to Paris without a moment to plan, I'd have kissed you on the mouth and gotten on the plane. Things aren't so bad. I could happily sit on the street and consume cheese and wine and stare at the buildings and people and be as happy as a dog eating shit.

Here's to the happy dog!

Shouting across the gulf

Everything is going along just fine, but then I turn around and see the distance between us. I turn and move to close the distance. I look, and she's there, waiting. I open a channel of communication as I do so, and start to explain the view from my side of the gulf.

With a harsh word, she hacks at the bond that connects us and the line clouds with an intolerable static. Although she muddies the line, it's me who severs it. The bridge looked sturdy, but it slackens. The ground at my feet cracks and gives and inspires worry.

Should I beg to simply be heard? "Pride goeth before a fall," yes, but is a little dignity too much to ask, especially when you've anted up enough already? Maybe it's hubris, but at the moment my answer is no. Maybe it's an excess of ego. On the other hand maybe it's been not nearly enough.

That's the risk of wearing your heart on your sleeve: every once in a while, someone slugs you in the arm. The trouble with being Mr. Nice Guy: people routinely mistake it for a kind of weakness, instead of what it is: a kind of strength. It's an investment, and all investments involve risk. They don't all involve a payoff.

Artifacts

Our impending move has forced us to do things we should have been doing all along; things like sorting through our belongings and tossing the junk.

What strikes me most lately is the connections to the past, the sentimental items that remind you of other times, other people, other priorities. My wife and I both found ourselves making the face that accompanies difficult choices: a grimace where the things of the past are weighed against the practicality of the present, and the sentimental thing loses by a close margin, and enters the whirlwind of trash that roughly blows into anonymous history. The face gives unspoken voice to thoughts like:

"This used to mean so much to me."
"Cliff would have liked this."
"I really thought this would work out. How wrong I was."

I hate that face; both making it, and seeing it on my wife.

Aim for the moon

"Aim for the moon - even if you miss you'll still be amongst the stars." - W. Clement

I've seen or heard that quote three times in the space of as many days this past week. I'm not superstitious, but there are worse creeds to keep in mind as you go about your busy day. Perhaps I should grind a little harder and aim my sights a little higher for a while, see what happens.

Cliff is gone.

My brother, Cliff Bickle, passed away yesterday at 6:20 a.m. after a long fight with a brain stem tumor that took nearly everything from him over time, before it finally did take everything, and a damn good chunk of something from me and the rest of his family, too.

I can't take the time to memorialize in this space or anywhere else just now because I have to work and it tears at my heart to think about it (although my wife and I celebrated and remembered his life just a bit last night). This post is just to plant a temporal flag that it happened and when. Soon, I'll have the opportunity to grieve and remember more appropriately one the damned few friends I had in this world.

Creative myopia

I am blessed and cursed with a powerful combination of cognitive short-circuits.

I am blessed in that I find many topics wildly fascinating at the outset. This is a blessing in that I can summon great amounts of interest and energy, sufficient to support an initial onslaught of research and genuine engrossment, some of which actually survives the rigors of time and occasional intoxication.

I am cursed in that this interest and energy necessarily abate over the medium term, at best. Always! No matter what the subject - computers, guitar, comedy and others - my fascination and ability wane after the first blush, and I am frustratingly unable to generate the wondrous blossoming of creativity (that sounds admittedly flowery, but it really is wondrous to me) that originally characterized my introduction or re-introduction.

Take comedy for example: for the longest time, questions abounded. "How do you start an open mike comedy night?" "What's the best way to light a comedy show?" "How much do comedians command for a given performance?" (If you've searched your way to this blog entry for answers to these types of questions, by all means, go to my comedy-related website, www.HumorMeComedy.com, for answers to questions like these, and more!) As I've progressed, I'm proud of the fact that I've answered many of these questions to my own satisfaction, and moved on to new ones. However, the levels of wonder and fascination have waned.

It's not that I don't still love comedy (for example); I certainly do. But I am no longer on the outside looking in. I am still near the outside of course, but have passed the most daunting palace gates. The waves of lust have broken against the honeymoon period regarding a topic, and at the end of it I find the reservoir of "I must know" drawn low. I feel like a honeybee or hummingbird flitting maniacally from flower to flower, sucking up nectar but rarely finding a reserve that lasts.

Currently, I maintain the will to see through the content-building necessitated to continue an endeavor like my comedy website - it's a potentially huge draw to create content of any kind for public consumption; the only constant requirement is to produce more - only because I remember, with active (though minimal) effort how much joy it has brought to me. The camaraderie of others with a similar love of the art, the creative challenge of putting a few minutes' material together, the joy when its success brings laughter from others, and the technical challenge of coordinating a real, live, no-shit comedy show like those I've attended myself and thought "I must be involved with that, too."

Even with that happiness firmly in recent memory, I can feel the intoxicating romance of firsts dim. Although it's never quite drudgery, my legs become heavy as I trudge around in my mind, trying to arouse again the springtime of wonder I felt before. I am not discouraged, because I find that I still can rouse it readily enough, but it does cause me to wonder if it's like this for everyone. It also causes me to suspect that genius may simply the ability to maintain a grip on this mental inertia, this wonder, allowing it to ford the obstructions of weariness, ignorance and other difficulties that keep us from excellence and success.

I'm glad I don't ultimately tire of writing/blogging, though. Although I tend to repeatedly (maybe tediously) revisit and dissect topics like this over periods of time, it still feels good and useful to me.

Monday morning

This morning is an albatross, wobbling and honking during a laughably ungainly takeoff.

I haven't had my usual, good night's sleep since last week, and it's very odd for me. I usually sleep like a baby on Ambien and whisky, and I have to wonder if I've stripped some sort of gear.

I'm trying a "Java Chip Frappucino" at Starbucks, in order to prime the chemical pump. So far, it's cold enough to hurt that one tooth that always gives me trouble (the chink in my dental armor), and the little chocolate chips are an annoyance, like oral debris, making the whole drink feel dirty, and not in a good way.

Shit.

Must... stop... the pain!

I went and lifted some weights yesterday, and then I've somehow contracted the Brown Bottle Flu. It's not as bad as swine flu in that it's more fun to catch, but I imagine it no less painful.

Both have left me moaning and torpid this morning, and I want very little so much as I want a good night's sleep. That's one argument for legalizing marijuana you don't hear often enough: hangovers are less-severe or even non-existent. So I've heard, anyway, being clean and all.

Ow.

Drip, drop

Today is trudging by in exhaustingly slow, 10-minute intervals. Bleah.

Cliff has a tumor

My brother Cliff has a tumor in his brain stem. It's a little fella, but appears to be the source of all the pain and odd sensations in his extremities lately.

He's in San Francisco now for testing, and while his pain spikes when they don't keep on top of his meds, he seems satisfied with the current schedule and types of medications they've got him on; pain management without utter, drooling disconnect from reality.

Some reports indicate grim possibilities, others hint at "dodged-a-bullet" near misses. I don't know how worried to be right now. We had a cousin that died just last year, younger than either of us, from brain cancer. Nobody knows yet if this is the same thing or wildly different. He may or may not get a biopsy early next week, and know more.

His direct line at the hospital is: 415-514-5159. His cell works too, but isn't as reliable, at 209-271-4364. Give him a ring.

More of the same

Every time I bring up my blog page, I feel a pang of self-disappointment in that I don't write often enough. Then I begin writing, and the stuff I write just sucks. That's when I realize (one of the reasons) why I don't blog as much as I used to; it's because I don't blog as well as I used to. Sometimes, it just doesn't flow. Is there any paler feeling than when you go to the well that has served you so well for so long, and it's dry? Bleah!

I suspect it's largely because I don't do many exciting things lately, and -- worst of all -- I've temporarily lost the ability to find the humor, wonder and conflict in everyday events. The same weird shit is out there; I've just got to tune into it.

Also, taking up more-exciting/fulfilling endeavors would help a lot. As it is, I work, watch TV, take care of the house and family. Those are great for starters, but there's an element missing.

I gotta get off my ass. Soon, soon.

Finally, it doesn't help that I'm out of practice. Perhaps some blog-based throat-clearing is in order. Brace yourself as I jot some mildly-interesting-even-to-me junk just to get my fingers and frontal lobe flexible again...

We friends again?

As so often happens, I found a way through my frustrating dilemma just as my weapons were loaded and unsheathed.

It's fixed, and I feel better. I need to find something easier to do that doesn't involve stupid electric boxes...

Hope

I awoke today looking for some point, some reason. Over a period of years, my idea of a raison d'etre has slipped from having something to look forward to every day, to having some sort of goal towards which I can trudge for a sense of satisfaction, to where I am occasionally now: I just hope for one slippery thing to hang onto to get me from day to day. Sitting at home has never been the languid paradise I pictured, especially when money is tight, and one wants to contribute more.

I didn't get here overnight, and I won't get out of this quagmire overnight either. I know good things are just on the horizon, I just have to get that idea into my bones again, get on that roll.

This morning, the needle of my compass gave me the finger, and told me to go figure it out myself. I puttered around the house, made some minor phone calls, stumbled through some housework like The Mummy on methadone, trying to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Life = hope, and one of the worst things to do is to become still and allow the current to take me down. I'd rather dog-paddle than sink.

I just got done lifting some weights, trying to get some endorphins pumping - even my endocrine system has abandoned me! Oh well - I suppose one more workout on the calendar will pay off in a medium-term way, even if I've bottomed out for instant gratification.

The one sin I'd really like to avoid is being bummed in front of my wife. She hates my stupors more than I do, and they weigh her down. Me, I've learned to deal with my own stagnancy, like a pig wallowing in shit, but I can't bear to take her into the pit with me. This alone is reason enough to escape the shadows.

This post didn't want to be so sullen - I really meant to jot down something about shaking off the doldrums and finding meaning, regardless of all I can find to moan about. Sometimes the words line up how you want 'em to, and sometimes, they cut their own path. Meh - whattayagonnado?