I Know I Shouldn't, But...

I will be getting my tax refund in just a few days. I filed last week after refiguring my return multiple times in hopes of finding another few cents worth of deductions. I should know better, though. Despite the fact that I got a whopping 2% raise last year, my gross adjusted income for 2005 was somehow less than for 2004. Sadly, I'm too tired to make a big deal of it. I'm sure that someone out there has an obscure and obtuse rational for it - and I really don't want to feel the hot air streaming from their pie-hole.

The point, though, of this particular entry in my web journal, my online confessional, my electronic sandwich board, is to make public my intention to do something foolish, unsound from a financial point of view but something that will make me a happy, happy boy.

I'm a gonna buy me a guitar.

He's a handsome cuss, ain't he?


Solid mahogany body, rosewood fingerboard, active pickups for a hot, low buzz sound and looks that can kill. To compliment this beast, I'm planning on getting a Line6 PODxt LIVE effects bay with more integrated digital gizmos than you can shake a stick at. Basically, this will allow me to modify the sound in a multitude of ways without spending lots o' cash on individual effects pedals.

I've been playing this guitar in a local shop for over a month and it sings beautifully. It fits up against my body like the perfect dance partner and when I finger the neck and pluck those strings the sounds of satisfaction fill the room.

Who says you can't buy love?

Falling In Like - a reprint

Earlier this year I set up a page for myself on MySpace. I am not an addict in any sense of the word, but I do enjoy it and have met some interesting folk and have had more than a few interesting conversations.

Oddly enough, I have found that one of my blog entries has gotten some attention from some people and, in fact, they have mentioned reading it and re-reading it.

Wow. My first classic blog. And because it is restricted to MySpace users and I would like to possibly get some feedback from others, I reprint the February 27 missive here and now.


Originally posted in MySpace Blog by me.

Falling in Like


I know better than to think that one can "fall in love" with someone over the internet. Falling in love, anyway, is a suspect occurrence as far as I'm concerned. We can "fall in lust" with someone; realize that based on pictures and detached text based conversations that we want to do the nasty with that virtual being that may be half way around the globe, but love, in my book at least, love takes time. Time to get to know, to share space, to become familiar with the various moods, scents, sounds and masks of the other. All that being said, I have discovered that it is very easy for me to "fall in like" with someone with nothing more than phone lines and data packets between us.

Yet, from time to time (and now is one of those times) I meet guys that make me feel kinda warm inside. I discover that I'm checking my email over and over again in case they may have messaged me. I go to their own web page and look at their pictures and try to imagine them in instances not bound by the rasters of the http world. And what is more, I find myself imagining having coffee with them, going to movies with them, cooking breakfast together, meeting their friends, their families. I imagine all of these things and more, I imagine not just having sex with them, but making love with them. These are very distinct things in my estimation - they often can go hand in hand, but not always.

It's not love, but isn't it more than just "like?" In many ways it is so....so domestic. It's not just lust because I've realized that I'm attracted to what that person says and how he presents himself. That can be just as (if not more) attractive than bulging biceps (though there's nothing wrong with bulging biceps...or bulging just about anything!) I can read their posted list of general interests, favorite movies, TV shows and books, and it's not just the subtle clues and queues to his erotic tastes (favorite TV characters: Grizzly Adams or Bill Goldberg, favorite occupation: cruising musclebound leatherbears) but the innocuous interests like Dungeons and Dragons, Rilke, geeky SciFi TV shows and unpopular (yet really cool) music - it is those things that feed my imagination.

I've met quite a few great people since I set up a MySpace profile for myself. It's a pretty neat system, despite its flaws. And of those great people, more than a couple have gotten the juices flowing. And of those that have gotten my juices flowing there are a few: three, two, one...that make me really want to have a taste - I want to be more than just virtual friends, I want to hear and tell more than just glib aphorisms that cater to a general population. I want to maintain the "lust" and explore the "like" and keep the possibility of "love" alive.

What is this?

I installed some of my painting in the Boone County Government Offices Building yesterday as a part of a local "community art program" that puts the work of locals in businesses and government buildings in our area. Not a bad deal, really. I've been doing this for about a year and I've sold some work as a result.

What I'm displaying are not difficult pictures at all. Nothing too challenging, but neither have I offered up images of crying clowns or big eyed waifs. Perhaps I should.

The space is a modern rotunda of sorts. There is an open round area where there are offices and payment windows, and there is a stairway with a landing that's about 10 steps up then splits into two staircases that lead up to the second floor. On the landing there is a wonderful space for paintings and I chose to hang Ocean Interface there. I thought it was beautiful!



From the comments that I heard while installing the rest of the pictures I guess I was wrong.

"What...what is this?"

"I could do that!"

"They call this art? I call it 'stupid'."

I bit my lip. I wasn't going to say anything - and I didn't.

Now, I know that I'm no Rembrandt. I know that there are those who have the ability to capture even the most base imagination, the most uncultured neuron, and I may not be one of those people, but I'm no hack.

I didn't think it would bother me, but see...I'm writing about it the next day. Obviously, my skin ain't nearly as thick as I thought it was.
________________________________

The exhibition continues through the end of June at the Boone County Government Office Building, 803 E. Walnut St. Columbia, Missouri, 65201

Snapshot

A snapshot of me right now would show the exterior. I've got on a dark blue sweater with burnt orange stripes across the chest and around the upper arms, black, loose fitting trousers and my boots. My hair is very short and my beared is neatly trimmed. Though I'm only 47 my skin is some what wrinkled, but there are those that say that it lends me character. I just think I've got lousy skin.

I had just shy of enough sleep last night - so there shouldn't be any significan bags under my eyes, but I know that if I lay down for just a minute I could be fast asleep [and, as an aside, I would love to lay down on my bed right now...Max would come up and sit beside me, maybe sniff at me a bit, then position himself either for a belly rub or to cuddle up with me, my arm around him and the two of us, human and canine, would drift into a pleasant slumber......]

Because the hair is so short, my head having been shaved about a week and a half ago, the grey is actually quite noticeable. That's okay. I'm not THAT vain.

But, if the camera were to focus on my eyes, not the potential bags beneath them or the crows feet to their sides or the greying fuzz above them, but into my eyes directly, they might find some tension there, some saddness, some concern.

Generally I think of myself as a happy person. I laugh, I joke, I even giggle. I enjoy being silly sometimes, though I won't deny my serious side, either. I have been known, though, to make fun of my serious side. I think that is healthy. Yet, when people ask me how I am, I rarely lie. I don't sugar coat things. I won't say "fine" just because it is expected. And one can usually tell by looking into me how things are going.

And what is this leading to? I is gonna dump on y'all. Yup. Despite trying to "think positive" and not reenforce the negative by talking about it too much, despite knowing that looking at these things, knowing them, accepting them and then letting them go so as to move forward is the best thing to do, I realize that I don't let go of them. I hold on to these things. I allow them to fester and to continue to stink up my existence.

I went to pick up my medications on Friday. I knew that the 3 month supply would be expensive, but I was in shock. $965.00. And then I got home and you know what? My insurance isn't paying for all of the tests that I had done during my last visit to the doctor. And then, you know what? The CD burner on my laptop burned out. And the CD that is the masterdisk of my "album" Ecce Homo that is all of a sudden getting some attention - it's damaged. It isn't working. Even if the CD burner on my laptop were working, I can't make copies now. And no one came to look at the house last week.

Now, I know that there are those worse off than me. I am not so blind as to not know that. Our discomfort is always a relative thing. I know that all of these things dim the light in my eyes nonetheless, and it does not become dark there, nor a neutral grey, but deep within those eyes there is a form and a color - and it is the form of resignation and the color of mortally injured hope.

So, can these things be seen in that snapshot?

Of Sounds and Sorrows

I'm at work.

It is an un-fun time for me because I'm at work.

There are so many things that I could and would be doing if I were not at work.

My job is killing me. It was a slow thing at first, injuring a bit of my pride here, snuffing out a bit of creativity there, but nothing that I couldn't recover from. Yet, as the days, the months and the years crawled by, bigger chunks of my soul began to be extinguished. And now, as I look at the past few months I realize that entire matrices of dreams, desires and aspirations have been wiped out. Gone is the complex fantasy of major artistic accomplishment. Erased are the expectations of future musical compositions and recordings. Dead are the dreams of making a difference. And I attribute it all to this job.

I think it was when I was on a trip during my college years that I realized that as soon as you start thinking about what you've done on that trip, even if it is before you get home, the trip is basically over. The events and accomplishments of the past have become more interesting than the possibilities of the future. Similarly, when you start reliving past glories more than you strive toward new ones, you may well want to ask yourself, "What more is there to do with my life?"

With all of this held deftly in a compartment in my mind I observe the fact that I picked up a guitar several weeks ago and began playing again. I began playing music that I played 20 years ago. I played and sang songs that reflect my mindset from that period. I spent time remembering what it was like to stand on stage and play and sing. A long time ago in a land far away.

I got an email from a old bandmate of mine a few weeks ago. He was remembering the great times we had playing and mentioned the possibility of doing it again. Also, I recently found videotapes of performances from the 80s and 90s - I'm digitizing them, editing them and burning them to DVD. Again, I imagine being on stage again but occupy myself with trying to recapture times gone by.

How much am I reviewing the past and how much am I looking to the future? Has that which has come before been established as more interesting than that which is yet to come? Have my dreams been sufficiently murdered so as to preclude the possibility of a continued, ever expanding, ever enriching life? Is this what is called a "midlife crisis?"

The other day I posted 3 MP3 music files on the DEStudios website - music that I recorded in the late 80s. It's good stuff, but it's not new. Do I have new music in me still? Would anyone want to hear live music from a 47 year old who wishes he had been famous enough to even be thought of as a "has been?"

I wonder.

I wonder if it is really the job that is killing me or is it my unwillingness to take a chance and break away.

I wonder if there are new paintings in me still. I wonder if there is new music. I wonder if there is a novel still there waiting to be released.

I wonder if there is a soul mate, a lover, a partner that I'll meet before I die. Before remembering the past is the only thing that I have left to look forward to.

New NRA Bumper Sticker Proposal

Guns don't shoot people, Vice Presidents do!

©2006 Stuart Dummit

Green Grass

[This post is actually from a new blog on a "Yahoo 360" page that I'm experimenting with. I may post the link here soon...SD]

Once again I have been reminded that the grass is often greener on the other side of the fence. There is, no doubt, a lesson here. And, as it is with such lessons, we may be able to recite the page from the chapter book verbatum, but to integrate its message, its meaning and its essential reality into our own thought-free behaviors is another story altogether. These lessons cannot be book learned but must be absorbed by the soul. And they often take a lifetime to realize and incorporate.

Yet another fine argument for the transmigration of souls.

So, what are the particulars of this lesson of the greener grass? In this instance, finding the perfect partner. Are all the good ones (the ones that I would want) in another city? Does one sell off all of ones tables, chairs, rugs and boxes of books so that one might chase this (perhaps) mythical being? When does one know when the grass is changing color, and if one discovers that the hue has become richer in the lawn being left behind, does one torque oneself 180 degrees and go back?

Does one wait where one is, in the gloaming silence, alone with only lustful, untempered illusions masquerading as thoughts, and pray that he manifests right in front of you, hand outstretched in friendship, offering the potential for adventures in eros, agape and lessons learned together?

I sit on the lawn, the knees and butt of my jeans stained by the grass, and twiddle my thumbs, waiting.

New Life

So, the realtors are doing their job and the house is being shown several times a week. With each showing the reality of the situation becomes more and more apparent. I'm gonna have to move! (Oh, let's rephrase that: I'm gonna GET to move! Yeeee HAAAW!)

Because of this ever-opening flower of revelation, I am coming to terms with the clutter that I have amassed through the last several years. I have so much stuff it isn't funny. Actually, it is funny. Why on earth is there a paperclipped stack of grocery store receipts in a box full of old, warped cassette tapes sitting in my storage room? Why? For what earthly reason did I clip a newspaper article about a local diaper factory nine years ago and decide it was worth keeping? Why did I videotape the entire run of "Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman" back to back with "Babylon 5" - why?

And look at all of these OTHER videotapes.....and I have a computer that can transfer the video tapes to DVD..... hmmmmm.....

So, guess what I did? I went to the store, bought a bunch of blank DVDs and started playing with the video to DVD transfer gizmo on my laptop. Now, my VCR is old and not so happy, but I think I can get a better one for not too much money. When I'm done with the transfers I can sell it at my garage sale. Yeah.... Now, I'm not thinking that those "Lois and Clark" episodes will get transferred - they were recorded at EP, not very nice to look at these days, and anyway, that's a lot of transferring to do! But I found a videotape of me playing solo guitar at a local nightclub back in 1991. An old science fiction movie is being projected behind me and, man - it's pretty damned good! Somewhere there is a video of the last Duration concert - Duration was a band I was in during the mid 1980s. We were pretty strange. Our shows tended to make people drink a lot. There was Robert, the keyboard/guitar player who looked so much the emaciated pale skinned euro-rocker part - and when he wore red lipstick he seemed oh-so-wonderfully 80s. Some people had heard that there was a fag in the band, and thought it was him. There was me, the real gay guy, who just looked like I hadn't had a good meal in a week or two. I was the guitar player. Then there was Kathy, our drummer. She looked normal. There were rumors that she took off her shirt when she played, so we got a huge lesbian following. She only took off her shirt during practice, though. Sorry, ladies. - But there is a videotape of that concert somewhere...damn it would be cool to have THAT on DVD!

Now, there will be no illegalities going on here - I'll only be copying videotapes that were home produced, like the music shows and those oddball art events from the early 80s. The upshot is that I'll be able to get rid of a lot of these old videotapes and lighten my packing load plus, I'll be offering new life to some of these relics from my past.

Please, allow me this time to sit on this virtual curb, head in hands, and muse pensively over a life lived thus far....

Happy New Year

Just a fast post to wish all of you who really do read this thing a Happy New Year! I've actually got a lot so say but no time to say it! Damn this change of life situation! I have yet to really get that final room cleaned up and the clutter is starting to spread again in the rooms that I have bulldozed through!

Max is doing fine. He likes the cool weather and has enjoyed having Pa around to take him for long walks these last two weekends.

Brokeback Mountain is finally showing in St. Louis and Kansas City, so I'm thinking that I will try to see it next weekend. If I can get Grandma and Grandpa to puppy sit for me that is.

I will try to write a proper post some time soon. Until then, be happy, be safe, be.

The Next Step

I signed the papers to put the house on the market. It won't actually be listed until right after Christmas, but the decision has been made, the price has been set and I am going to do it. Finally. I have taken the next step in moving forward.

The plan as it stands right now is this: I unload tons of my junk; the clutter that I have collected through the ages, the objects, the things, the little pieces of paper with strange little marks on them that I have saved from years gone by. I reduce my belongings to that which will fit in the back of a truck. Then, I sell the house and use the money I make to buy that truck to put my shit in. I pay off loans and credit cards and rent a small apartment where Max and I can stay until I've saved up more money - at least $5000 to move on. Then Max and I go.

Go where?

Well, that's a good question. I would like to find a place where I can afford my medications, where I can be with or meet someone to spend my life with, somewhere that has access to culture, nature and prospects for growth.

I need to ask an important question here. Am I running away from something? Maybe I am. I am running from a place where I feel stagnant. I am running from a trap that was fine to linger in for a while, but now, in this particular time, I find that the level of poison in my system is too much. I can feel it seeping into parts of my being that I don't want tainted.

There is one major thing that bothers me and that is my desire to maintain a close physical connection with my parents. I know that I don't have to be around to take care of them, but a large part of me still wants to stick around. I want to be there for them, but I also need to get moving on my own life and, from what I'm feeling now, the two situations don't share a similar space. I can only trust that this and other intrusive thoughts are addressed as they need to be through the passage of time.

So there it is. I consolidate, sell, regroup and hit the road with Max, the intrepid Beagle and bestest of friends, and I pray for the best.

I don't know what is next. I don't know if this is the right thing to do. I don't know. I just don't know. But, isn't that the fun part? Not knowing?

I've started thinking about trucks. I've started thinking about going on camping trips with Max. I've started thinking about driving across country with Max, my camera, my computer and a tent and a fishin' pole.... my, how the imagination begins to fly when someone even mentions opening the door to the cage...

Engineering A Life

I live in Missouri. It is a beautiful place at times, with rolling hills, creeks, streams and rivers that cut through the fertile soil. There are flowering, fragrant trees and flora of myriad scents and shapes; elegant deer prancing through hardwood forests and wondrous natural features like caves, fields of huge granite boulders and broad, sky-domed prairies that yield to the wild and adventure laden West. There is history here, too. Lewis and Clark, Jesse James, the Pony Express, the World's Fair. Yes, it's beautiful, it's interesting, it's nice. There are even pockets of culture and broad, progressive thinking. Intellectuals. Writers, musicians, artists and thinkers exist in the cities and small towns alike. But it's hell living here. I feel so alone and isolated here and I want to get out.

How do I do that? How do I dissolve the ties that bind me to this place and move - move forward, or even take a step or two to the side, just to initiate some action? Sure. Just sell the house, sell all that you do not need, pack your bags and go. All fine and good, but I need to make sure that I can get my meds. They're damned expensive and without them I'm dead. I mean really dead. So, I need to make sure that I have money or a job that pays or insures, or move to a state that has adequate health care.

That thins out the possibilities a bit.

And then there is the family issue. My mom and dad are here. I pride myself on doing my best to take care of them. They have taken care of me for so long, don't I owe it to them? Or is there really a point where I can think of myself without feeling guilty?

I wonder if having any control of my own life is an illusion or not. Is will power and perseverance all that is necessary to craft a desirable living situation, a job, a lifestyle that makes me happy? Or am I bound by situations beyond my control?

I can do my best to do the necessary tasks, to make the calls, do the footwork, initiate processes, follow the rules and play the game, but I have no control over how others ultimately behave. And the final outcome of so many essential things ends up in their, not my, hands. If the results are not to my liking then I pick myself up, dust myself off and start again.

A lifetime can be spent doing that.

So, how does one engineer a life, craft an existence, manipulate the materials of being into a comfortable lair?

That is not a rhetorical question.

a smattering of thought

I was thinking about my friend, Sheila, who died on the Friday after Thanksgiving. Josh, the guy that was doing the lion's share of the care giving, and some other friends have begun going through her belongings. Sheila had requested that I take whatever from her CD collection that I wanted, and she also designated some strange and wonderful things that she wanted me to have: a collection of masks, an ancient kimono, some dusty, smoky parasols that used to hang in her house.

I still have not cried. I am thinking that I might not. Our main topic of conversation from the time that she was diagnosed with cancer through our final conversation was death and the cast and hue of the world through the eyes of one who is ill, one who has been told that they are dying. In a sense, I have been crying since the first day that she told me.

I was offered a chance to speak at a memorial that they are holding for her. I declined, though an extemporaneous burst may still occur. Yet, I was reading from my own writings and realized that a verse that I had penned and which is posted on the Scented Shadows blog, is most appropriate.

The Day the Gingko Leaves Fell

I recall that brisk and bracing day:
Yellow golden fans edged in green
Whipping, swirling 'mid Sol's heatless ray
And drifting down to lay between
The stalks of grass with random pose
To make mosaics on the lawn
A single day the gods have chose
The gingko's cloak to mandate gone.
I remember, I think, that chilly day
The skirt shaped leaves upon me lay
As 'neath the branches I lightly sleep
And life's clear moments Time's burglar reaps;
He takes away, I seem to recall,
The fleeting scent of the leaves of Fall
And then the painting behind my eyes,
The light around and within dies.
I recall it, I swear, I know I remember
That bracing wind of late November.
The day the gingko leaves laid down
To rest like me...

©2004-2005 Stuart Dummit


....My friend from San Francisco is set to arrive on Friday. I got a message from him today that simply said that he was excited about meeting me.

That caused a warm rush through my system. Let the Universe and Creation do as it will. For what it is and for what it has been, I am thankful. For what it may be or might become, I can only stand hopefully by without judgment, without preconception but with healthy and more than just lustful anticipation.

I should note, however, that the coupling of endings and beginnings in this cluster of time has not gone unnoticed. Is there some sort of cosmic meaning here? Or do events merely unfold randomly without any rhyme or reason...

And what about that coatless button laying just outside the back door....

I'm Here

I haven't gone away. I'm here. Stuck on the ground, my head in the clouds, wandering through the thicket and briars, tripping over scattered junk and wires, breathing irregularly and with a fair amount of effort.

* * *

My best friend died last week. It wasn't unexpected. In fact, I have been preparing for this for the last two and a half years. Still, it hurts. It hurts but I haven't had a good cry over it yet. Instead, it is festering in me and I don't know how to release it. I know that it is impacting my general behavior. Probably not for the better.

I also have been involved in a long distance obsession. A guy on the West Coast, by the look of his pictures and the sound of his voice, handsome, desirable, available...but there is physical distance. And there are still no guidelines for dealing with blossoming relationships through data ports and over phone lines. On paper and through words we seem to be compatible; both looking for the same thing embodied in someone like the other. The panic of insecurity and fear of stupid things constantly falling out of my mouth belies the inappropriate attachment that I have allowed to develop. He is scheduled to visit me in a week, yet I have not heard from him since night before last. Have I done or said something? Has he changed his mind? Is it me? Am I paranoid?

Most certainly.

I am going to sell my house. I have to trash all of the junk that I've collected over the years. I have to clean and repair and tidy and plan. I have to escape. This isn't an easy job.

Speaking of jobs - the one that brings in the most money is still getting me down. I can honestly say that I hate my job. I'm not alone. So many people do. Why, then, do I feel alone.

Many old friends are coming into town for my friends memorial service. My friend from the West Coast is scheduled to be here that weekend. What a program for getting to know someone that you might want to fall in love with. "Hi. Let's make out, go for brunch, then attend a funeral for someone that you do not know."

Escape? Me?

Yes.

I want to run away. I want to be free. But, I want to belong. I want to be wanted and needed. I want to be desired but I still want to be free. Is this the koan of my existence? Of everyone's existence?

And through it all, Max, the beagle, still wants his noon time walk, he still wants to visit his friends in the bookstore, he still wants his belly rubbed and he still wants to curl up next to me in bed. And with this, I am content.

talk talk talk

I need some advice from my faithful readers...all three of you. I'm a 47 year old boy with illusions of perpetual youth but, in this particular poker game the cards are permanently stacked against me. Recently, as you all know if you've read my blog, I've made great strides in reversing the ravages of disease and time and I think I really DO look and feel better. The diet is hard to maintain but I'm doing my best, and going to the gym is still one of my favorite things to do...and I've got the sore (yet bigger) muscles to show for it! I even can fit into my size 34 slacks! (Okay...it's a bit of a squeeze, but I can do it! Next stop, size 33!!!!)

Another factor is that stress is taking its toll. And the cause of this stress is a 3 letter word: J - O - B. (More later on my theory of 3 letter words.) Aside from the built in stress of working at a computer help desk for a hospital where doctors, nurses and assorted medical technicians and support persons, all with either inflated egos or an inbred inability to follow instructions (all to often, both,) who constantly call with a chip the size of Texas on their shoulder, there is the fact that I am forced to dress uncomfortably in my work. If I were going out on the town or in the public eye, wearing the whole shirt and tie thing wouldn't be so bad. Given the budget, I'd love to have some nice suits and could pull off the look pretty easily. That usually translates into comments like, "You clean up real good!" And actually, I shower daily. But, I sit in an office cubicle. The only time I'm seen is when arriving or departing the workplace, when I go to the lounge area for coffee (or tea) and when I go to the bathroom. Otherwise, I'm at a desk with a phone headset surgically attached to one ear. Why to I have to dress up? So, I'm stressed (underpaid/overworked/unhappy) and uncomfortable. I don't want to live the rest of my life like this!

My house is getting completely out of control. I'm rapidly getting behind in repairs and I'm afraid that there will be so much damage in the near future that the cost of just getting it into saleable shape will be astronomical. It may already be there. I've decided to sell the monster, but that puts me in a position of having to do more prep work, both financial, which is bad enough, and physical, getting the place presentable and unloading the mass of stuff I have collected.

Once free of that load I would have gained a certain amount of freedom again, though any hope of a nestegg would be gone. I have no savings to speak of and don't make enough money to put some away and pay necessary bills. Of course, the biggest chunk aside from mortgage payments is medication. Starting in January, my med bill will be increasing by about 5% - may not seem like a lot, but considering the size of the bill NOW, it actually IS a lot of money. Mortgage (or Rent) + Meds + Basic Needs > Income.

Ideally, I would find a high paying job that allows me to dress casually and has a great medical insurance package - and it would be local. That isn't going to happen. And that's trying to be realistic. Yet, and this is a central point, I have long been a believer in the concept that we make our own reality and following one's dreams is a realistic thing to do - "follow your bliss...." But letting go of so much security (such as medical insurance) is overwhelmingly frightening and actually quite dangerous. So, what do I do?

My "bliss" is writing and painting. Am I good enough to make it in that highly competitive and sparsely populated world? Is it possible? That would be for the public to decide.

I do understand that it would require me to get out and "push the product." How do I do that? Should I relocate? Should I try to do this? Do I know what this really means?

I feel inadequate and insecure.

Paintings

I was able to get the paintings done for installation at Boone County Hospital. The pictures are good. I'm not sure how much farther I can go with the landscape idea that has been filling canvases lately, but I know that there are still plenty of paintings of one type or another inside me.

The work involved with the transport of the paintings and their hanging is kind of a drag for me. It would be easier if I had a truck or at least a larger vehicle than a Toyota sedan to move them in, but once the pictures were on the wall, people started commenting on them. I was being asked the standard questions: "Are you the artist?" "How long have you been painting?" "What's your inspiration?" "Do you sell any of your paintings?"

Oddly enough, I love talking to the people about my pictures. I suppose because it is talking about myself. Like a good self centered artist, I love talking about myself.

Regarding the AIDS benefit that I was to participate in, well, that was a bust. I think it is indicative of the administrative skills of the people in charge of the distribution of Federal and State funds for HIV infected persons in Central Missouri that were at the center of the problem. I requested information on donating a painting for the auction and how I would be able to help. About a week before the date I had been told was the auction and exhibition, I finally receive an email asking for a Bio and a picture of the painting I was going to donate. I emailed back for more information and then got an emailed invitation to the event - the day that the exhibition began. So, no painting donated, no paintings exhibited. And I thought they would JUMP at the chance to have "one of their own" on display!

The Visitor

I met someone online who, after just a few days tentative chatting disclosed that he was preparing to move across the country back to where his family lived. It took very little to convince him to make a stop here. The conversations were lucid, endearing and we both wondered out loud if it meant anything in particular.

After an eventful roadtrip, he arrived near penniless (because of repair costs) and tired. More handsome than I had anticipated and I, for my part, felt a connection. I knew quickly, though, that the feeling was not mutual. I didn't seem to click for him.

I did my best to be the best host I knew how, he was the perfect guest, and our short visit was accepted for what it was like two mature beings. No magic, no fireworks, just two guys that had experienced enough of the workings of the heat, the head and the heart to appreciate the ways of the universe.

After he left, I did feel a bit sad, and Max had taken a special liking to him. I received word from him just the other day that his health has taken a bad turn. My caretaker instinct wanted to kick in, but I knew that he was in the warm and caring hands of his family.

Apologies

There are plenty of reasons for my laps in posting, but I'll spare you the list. Instead, let me present you with some quick posts that will fill you in on the events that kept me from my keyboard.

Of course, these will show up in reverse order...good god...how confusing. The chronicle will read like Merlin's backward life ala The Once and Future King.

And the World Keeps On Spinning

It has now been a week since the break in and I'm still reluctant to leave my house. Of course, I have to - I have to go to work, I have to walk Max, I have to go to the store, I have to go to the gym. (That last one might seem odd to those who don't understand my total commitment to my workout regime, but, yes, it is necessary!)

I've heard nothing from the police about the case and, I suspect that even though I was able to present them with a traceable piece of evidence in the form of a dropped pager, I doubt if the lead was followed up on. It makes too much sense.

So, in the meantime, I make sure all of my doors are always locked and I've taken to hiding certain objects in unlikely places...just in case.

Of course, I had to spend quite a bit of time away from the house this weekend because it was the Columbia Festival of the Arts and the Boone County Art Show - the Big Event of Columbia cultural life. The festival itself is your basic tents and pavilions with mass produced "art by the yard" and pottery stands and open mike poetry readings and funnel cakes and sidewalk drawing, etc. and etc and etc. The Boone County Art Show, on the other hand is a two day exhibition of up to two works by local artists, both professional and amateur. There is usually quite a variety of work on display in the bank where the exhibition is held. And that was certainly the case this time around.

I entered an acrylic painting (photo to be added to my website soon) and an ink drawing. Neither work garnered any remarks to my knowledge. The top prize was taken by a worthy piece (a woman's corset made completely of glass) yet, many works that received prizes and the nebulous "Honorable Mention" seemed poorly executed and conceptually trite. Sour grapes? Maybe. But there were many, many works that I would have chosen over mine to have received recognition that got none. To me it seems a case of the politics of aesthetics.

But, there's no rest for the wicked. I have three paintings to finish by this coming Thursday and I must take down the show at the Columbia Realtors Association offices and install eight works at the Boone County Hospital. And then I have to have three more works done by the next weekend for an AIDS benefit.

So, by virtue of the fact that my life continues in spite of last week's violation, I leave my house regularly. I leave my home basically defenseless to the ravages of people that care only for themselves and do not see the emotional damage that they do by raping someone else's property. The world continues to spin and my mind and its perceptions continue to develop. Soon, perhaps, I will look back at a recent event in my life and wonder "who was that man, that boy, that experienced that? Why did he react that way? Is there hope for him?"

A Violation

I discovered it last evening when I was looking for my gym bag so I could go work out. My daily ritual at Gold's has turned into a great stress reliever and I look forward to either lifting those weights or tackling the treadmill with my favorite workout music being pumped into my ears with my handy-dandy portable CD player. (The current favorite is "Relayer" by YES.) And I suppose I should have been tipped off when I noticed an old book bag laying on the floor in the living room that had previously been upstairs, or by the fact that the back door was slightly ajar. I passed it off thinking that Max had gotten into the closed room upstairs and pulled out the bag and the back door has never been super secure. But, when I realized that my gym bag was nowhere to be found I checked the trunk of the car and then ran back into the house, knowing that it HAD to be somewhere in plain sight. I mean, I use it every day!

Then it struck me. I glanced around the room. All of my DVDs were gone. I ran upstairs. My change bucket was gone as were a few pairs of pants (nice ones - they still don't fit, but I had just laundered them in anticipation of being able to fit into them again in a few weeks if I worked real hard.) Someone had rifled through my stuff. My house had been broken into and I had been robbed. I had been burgled.

For those of you to whom this has happened, you know the sequence of feelings: the hot flash of realization, the momentary fear of something un-nameable, the oddly placed anger and frustration, then a flood of paranoia: what else did they get? What personal things did they find, did they take - what personal information did they get? Are there any credit card receipts laying around?

At first, I couldn't find my camera but then realized that it was still on the tripod in the corner. The laptop computer was still there. A favorite pair of boots were still in the middle of the room and a few choice electronic gizmos were still laying around, seemingly untouched.

I went out and announced the situation to my neighbors, all of whom were outside doing chores. No one had seen or heard anything and they all claimed to have been around all day. Together we looked around the house for evidence of the intruder's entry. They had to have gotten in the back door, but to get to it they would have had to climbed the back deck fence. Difficult, but not impossible. And then, there, on the ground, my neighbor found a pager. Right near where it would have fallen had it been dropped by the burglar.

I called the police and within 30 minutes an officer was there. He was courteous and efficient. He took notes, photographed the crime scene and made a list of what had been taken. All told it was about $1000 worth of stuff. The officer then told me that he would fill out a report and it would go on a stack of other cases.

Do I feel any safer? No.

Then it began to rain. And it poured. And the skies roared with thunder, wind and an onslaught of sheets of late summer warmed water. The clouds were deep bluish - greenish grey and it seemed almost night time. I sat on my couch, the empty DVD rack in plain sight, feeling the sticky air around me and listening to the atmospheric battle outside. I was feeling exposed and violated.

At the apex of the storm I found the courage to walk calmly outside, lock the door, walk to the car and drive to the gym. I could barely concentrate on the workout. I was wondering how safe the house was during my absence. No one would try to break in during such a gully-washing of a storm. But, then, I realized that my own sense of reason did not apply to whomever had robbed me. So, I finished quickly and went home.

By then the clouds had finished crying and the sky was becoming lighter and the air, still thick with moisture, was blowing impotently across the debris that had been washed down and deposited in the streets by the deluge. Everything was different. My house was a mess and I felt vulnerable and unhappy and the desire to escape was edging up toward the forefront of my mind.

Excuses

Okay. I have tried to start this entry five times now, each time with a different sentence and none of them have been satisfactory. The problem has been what it is that I want to say in that opening sentence. Do I want to grab the reader with a bold revelation? Do I want to slide into an interesting little anecdote without the reader realizing it? Do I want to apologize for not having made a post in so many days?

Yes.

I'm sorry that I haven't been writing much lately. There are a ton of excuses: Working too hard, out of town, complex events requiring my attention, laziness.

Amid all of the excitement that is my life I have found that, as soon as I stopped worrying about the painting that I'm trying to birth the process became much easier. It isn't finished yet, but I can see a direction. It hasn't stopped fighting back but it at least it is allowing me to get a punch in from time to time. There is a light at the end of the tunnel. Of course, it was about the time that the paint started allowing me to push it around effectively that I was informed that I had to have two extra paintings ready for an exhibition starting at the end of this month. With the painting I have to replace because it was sold and the one that I have to have ready for the Boone County Art Show, that brings me up to 4 paintings that need to be completed in the next few weeks. And then there is a drawing that I have to finish as well.

Swooooosh!

And, as they say, "When it rains, it pours." Now, I'm not one to kiss and tell...hell - there hasn't been any kissing involved! But, in the last few weeks I've gotten more responses to my online dating attempts than ever before! And what's more, some of the respondents have even been local - and they're (for the most part) nice, normal people! Wooo hooo!

In other news:

I haven't been able to work out since last Saturday. I'm feeling flabby again. Today - right after work I'm there.

I've finally started the process of getting the house refinanced. With luck I'll have it all wrapped up by the end of the month and maybe even have some extra cash to, well, buy some new clothes that fit!

I got my hair cut.