"Destructive Distractions" (P.o.t.D. 2/10/15)

The thought, dominant in my mind,
Blotting out all, besides its kind
Is of intense pain, centered in my right thigh -
It feels like stabbing needles...

I can not think, for too long, on poetic form
Before another jolt brings me back - to forewarn?

I can hear the clock ticks, ever marching on
I feel a neck itch, begging to be scratched...

It's all me, me, me, right now -
I'm so wrapped up in the aches and pains;
I'm only vaguely aware of talks in the Ukraine.

Yesterday, there was a brief glimmer, writing about the cat -
A forlorn desire, to write without wearing the Jody hat.

That's the challenge, really, you see
Not to write about me, me, me -

To create a world fantastic, or sci-fi, or other
With enough clarity to appeal to another...
Yet, hold the ring of truth,
Not just whimsies on the screen.

Writing about writing again - that's another fallback;
Like status updates that only say,
"I'm checking my Facebook feed, see!"

This poem started crippled,
With pain interfering at every turn,
And trying to follow forms of rhyme and meter,
And now, digressing on how to write...

Perhaps tomorrow,
The pain will be less,
The form - not so followed -
And the Scene laid before you all
Without the little devil constantly criticizing...

Pain in my leg (and now back) jumped a couple of orders of magnitude. Can't even tie my shoes.
Waiting in the emergency room, right now...

"The Meadow" (P.o.t.D. 2/9/15)

Slipping through the shadows,
Its coat as dark as night,
Its green eyes all alight;
The cat owned this meadow.
The mice trembled in fear,
Knowing it was so near...

"Revert to Haiku" (P.o.t.D. 2/8/15)

When in doubt, haiku!
A simple form, oft abused...
Mastery is tough.

"What Rhymes with Pain?" (P.o.t.D. 2/7/15)

pain
insane,
makes me "Wane" -
I can't explain
the physical drain...

"Picture This..." (P.o.t.D. 2/6/15)

Capture a moment
With camera expertise
And no Photoshop...

"Dad's disappointment" (P.o.t.D. 2/5/15)

Did I disappoint Dad?
He never says so directly,
But the hints are in his hopes:

"Why don't you get a car?
You can't live on minimum wage...
You are capable of so much more..."

He wants the best for me,
And he knows I can do so much better;
He's stuck by my side
In some truly tough situations.

So, I get wrapped up in guilt
About my slacker lifestyle...

"No whining" was a slogan he had
On a placard hanging on a wall,
And it is so appropriate.

Don't wish for a better job,
Or more mental stability,
If I'm not going to take the steps
To leave my "local happiness maximum".

Some people spite their parents
From futile teen feuds.
Not I, though... some times,
I think my teen years were happy years.
Dad went to bat for me,
And my school finally recognized
Academic excellence,
Through awarding me
The first letter jacket therein.

...

I just want to scream,
"How did I accumulate
This Karmic crap of a life?!?"
Experience says,
"It's because you're easily distracted."

Even now...
If I can't finish this poem
In five minutes flat,
Then it's an epic failure.
Faced with doubt on which direction
To lead it, I slide into commentary -
"OK, whining..." -
And in my heart, I feel that's a cop out,
Detracting rather than adding
To the punch of the poem.

...

I spent a summer working with my Dad,
In the high-tech industry -
He was Elder Bean, and I was Chick Pea,
And my brother got to be known as Garbanzo.
It was a fun job, and I learned some technical skills,
And Dad would pick up my lunch tab,
When going out for lunch was the engineers' wills.

My brother pegged my Dad's gift to his sons
One Christmas, with a hand-crafted set of puzzle blocks.
Our childhood had been liberally sprinkled
With games and puzzles and science magazines,
And we were probably the first kids to play with PC's...
My Dad is an engineer, and he succeeded
At passing on that love of "how things work".

When I tried to take myself out,
With a month's worth of Depakote pills;
My Dad sat by my bed side,
Through the month of coma and recovery.
We talked it out, and really tried
To understand why I did what I did.
Actually, my Dad spent many a night
Over the next ten years, treating us
To dinner and a movie, once a week.

...

Chronological order at play,
Or should it be a buildup of impacts?
I think I meta-write these comments,
If ever I make it back to do edits...

...

When I was running through the mental hospitals,
For the fourth time,
I could not comprehend my Dad
Telling me that he might have to cut off contact -
Because He'd always been by my side.
Heck, the first time in the hospitals,
He was the one who convinced me to go in.
I trust my Dad, when I can not always trust myself.

So, when it sounds like my Dad does not approve,
I die a little death,
A realization that I am not doing the best that I can;
And maybe it's time to get off of the couch and move...

#Take5toBlog : 5 sentences talking about mental health on Feb 5th :
The scary thing about being bipolar is that I crave the manias. Even though most projects get left half-done, if that, the mind's over-active state fools me into thinking I'm getting lots of stuff done. It's also hard to remember that the unusual elation and sudden conversations can be quite scary for those who fell in love with me when I was normal (sedate) or depressed. Back to the first sentence - mania can feel amazing when you're in the middle of it, and I want to keep it going and going; but the danger is the increased risk-taking to do so and the disappearance of moderation and self-control. I am thankful that my medications are effective at reeling my mind in from the 10,000 distractions, without turning my mind into a "slug on ice" (my feelings when I tried Depakote before)..

"Stripped" (P.o.t.D. 2/3/15)

White birch sentinel,
Bark stripped bare, in neighbor's yard;
Its leaves spread 'cross mine.

"Getting Older" (P.o.t.D. 2/3/15)

Twisted up in strange pretzel shapes
To minimize leg's muscle aches,
Sleeping so that mouth's drool drains out
On my side is how that comes 'bout...
Just a couple bad signs of age.

"Just another night" (P.o.t.D. 1/31/15)

2:03 a.m. finds me awake, 'gain.
I thought I was working tonight, but noooo!
I made an effort, to show that I can,
Alas, the worker I would replace showed.

Putter around with my armies, thru my
Phone app, lost five hundred thousand, like that!
This makes me question, "What's the point, and why?"
Alas, that won't save them, as they go "Splat!"

What's the value of a poem that journals?
Sure, it can work for a prompt, but then what?
Can it sew a few dramatic kernels,
That grow images, not stuck in a rut?

There I go 'gain, talking in meta-words
When I ought to be "entertaining birds"...

"Errant Knight" (P.o.t.D. 1/31/15)

"Let me be your knight in shining armor!"
'Why, when you have the time, to armor shine?'
"I can save you from your troubles, amor!"
'My love life will be fine, don't need your whine...'

The trouble with dating? Imperfect roles.
Movies paint these rosy pictures of love,
In their chase for ratings, without real goals -
Yet some can only offer a peace dove.

I speak from my humble abode, in rhymes:
No car, No house, No tough guy - these aren't mine
To offer in these, your most troubled times.
Perhaps this poem is my attempt to sign,

"I wish I could just wave a magic wand -
Solves no problems, because magic is gone..."

"Composing Haikus" (P.o.t.D. 1/30/15)

Helicopter whirling
Outside my door makes me pause,
Mumbling 'bout the State.

Guitar plucking, too,
From roommate in other room -
TV's on, unseen.

"Damn it, Damn it, Damn!
Poem's not cooperating!"
Moments slip through hands...

Hunkered on laptop,
Pecking at keyboard and brain,
Jumbled thoughts swirl 'round...

Some times, the moments
Escape distracted poets
While they play with rules.

"Time Marches On" (P.o.t.D. 1/29/15)

Time marches on, the second hand spinning -
Each moment gone, feels like I'm not winning...

Half-finished fences are my seen symptoms
Of a disease that plagues all my rhythyms...

I'd like to write poems, play games, and relax;
Yet cash flow crushes me, weight 'pon my back.

When worried where I shall find my next meal,
Retiring becomes a much smaller deal...

...I do not feel like finishing these lines,
Or sticking to meters and rhymes,
Or staying coupled in ideas and thoughts -
The play thru poetry is a hindrance, a block,
That keeps me confined, preventing my mind's unlock.

I still make feeble attempts to play within the lines,
But, it's so hard to keep at it...

Life is full of futile frustration.
I question what help I've tapped into,
Or if I'll ever climb out of this oubliette;
It just feels like I've not arrived yet.

Memories of yesterday's poem,
That talked of failed expectations...
You'd think I'm in some mid-life crisis,
But I doubt I've lived even a tenth of my life.

This just feels like a Goth's whine -
"Drink deep the troubles in my blood!"
Honestly, as long as I'm not thinking
About where I'm at, or how events are linking,
Then I am fairly happy...
I do still play fun games, I do still write,
And I'm slowly, oh so slowly, trying to set life right.

I wish that the seconds didn't tick so,
That life's candle didn't burn our wicks, lo...

...and the clock marches on, with its tickings,
and life proceeds, bringing me, my lickings.

"Expectations" (P.o.t.D. 1/28/15)

Expectations.
They can cause much more trouble
Than the rewards that they promise,
Especially if they go unfulfilled...
Some times, for years at a time.

If I'm a free spirit,
Floating through life,
Moment to moment,
With no chains linking
Past deeds to future rewards -
Then... then... then I live
Without worry, in each
Moment lived so free.

Yet, the chains do bind,
The past does promise,
And the people do predict
"Great Things" to come
Because I did so well
At the challenges undone.

In school, I was a scholar
Who excelled,
Who bubbled to the top;
I competed in science, in math,
And a smattering of other fields,
Usually ranking in the top three,
Across the state as well as locally.
Was this why my class voted me
"Most Likely to Succeed"?

So, a quarter of a century later,
I'm not a rocket scientist,
Nor a genius computer programmer.
Instead, I sell beer and smokes,
Earning eight dollars an hour...
My inner voice trilly chides me:
"Such a disappointment..."

I know we can measure
Success by other metrics.
Even so, they're coming up short:
No marriage, no house, no kids,
No savings, no car,
NO... No... no...
American dream,
Perpetuated by a culture
Thru song, film, and print
Over and over and over again.

There's a part of me,
Fed by futile frustrations,
That wants to turn my back
On what the man on the street
Considers a successful life.
That bit whispers in my ear,
At night, when I lay down in trouble,
"Give up everything,
Seek Enlightenment,
Become a monk"...
For a humble life
Is an honorable life.

"Foreboding" (P.o.t.D. 1/27/15)

Like a deflated balloon, sucked by kids,
Looking for some new sounds in their voices;
My spirit crashes to the ground and skids.
My Dad's simple request tastes like poisons.

"Recollecting the Wreck" (P.o.t.D. 1/26/15)

Do I remember the car wreck?
"Sadly, no..."
Or maybe "Gladly, no!"

I vaguely remember the troubles
We would have, fastening seatbelts...
And that the Pinto was the epitome
Of a teen's hand-me-down first car.

Actually, the finer details, like color,
Escape me about that car.

That morning, I hear that it was foggy out,
And I think we were running late for school -
I want to say I was still half-asleep.

I think I was nodding off in the car,
As we plowed thru the pea soup,
Passing on a curve,
When, even after swerving,
We T-boned a Cadillac!

My brother's right leg was fractured three times,
And would never grow longer -
He wore a cast for six months or more.

My forehead hit the windshield -
I always thought that I went thru it -
So my six month ordeal was
A plastic surgeon digging glass shards
Out of my forehead, as they resurfaced.

Still, I don't remember the crash -
Just another moment of coming to,
In a hospital bed, with concerned family
Calling me back to consciousness.

Even though I'm scarred 30 years later,
I have long since forgiven my brother -
Well, I do tease him with "90 by 40":
90% scar tissue by the age of 40".
Still, the wreck has faded into the fog,
A memory that I choose not to have.

"A Countable Union" (P.o.t.D. 1/25/15)

Given integers,
Use half to count the first set...
Then fourth, then eighth, then...

"Pensieve Play" (P.o.t.D. 1/24/15)

Grabbing a fistful of ideas,
I gingerly pull an image
From the twisty tangled net
Of my memories and mistakes.

Trying to sew order,
I line up the facts,
And apply a little logical glue -
Hoping my conclusions still ring true.

"Mincing words" (P.o.t.D. 1/23/15)

I find myself mincing words,
Just to get a bowl of pho out of xenophobia;
Or maybe find a little lip in liposuction...

When I saw details of Charlie's recent heart attacks, and need for surgery, and so on - part of me thought, "Don't make him suffer in ICU - perhaps, it's time for him to go home to God"
It felt callous of me, yes, but these lives of ours are not meant to be forever.
I have lots of excellent memories of Charlie (and his cookies), and I hope to see him again, some day, on the other side. Until then, the best way I can remember him is to carry forward the positive parts of his legacy.

"Selfies" (P.o.t.D. 1/22/15)

Paint our pretty pictures with pink pastels...
Shades from light to dark, showing our skins' bark -
Captured couple in cute, awkward posings -
So candy-coated - the picture's "loaded"
From film to Facebook, for future fan views.

"crumbling crayons" (P.o.t.D. 1/21/15)

Even though we're doing the best that we can,
We have to work with crumbling crayon
On a crumpled old newspaper
Fished out of the trash,
With a faint odor of dead bass...

You see, not everyone's given the same tools -
I can't assume your life has been easy,
Or that your events mirror my own.

I may be wrong.
This may not be my best.
Fear pulls me back,
Saying, "If you don't try,
Then rejection's not..."

Everything feels half-finished,
half thought out in a
whimsical improv,
passed through once,
to be forgotten tomorrow.

(Oh, but I am saving these,
Perhaps to revisit one day)

A lot of projects started,
But not "colored in";
Life is full of distractions.

Where's the punch?
Where's the shock?

Mine's not a life with abuse,
Or with fights with authority,
Or with trauma...

Oh, but there is that little demon, addiction;
And there is that touch of insanity;
And maybe something can be learned from that
Impending failure, dogging my heels through the years...

I write this, as a conversation with you,
Instead of trying to hijack your mind's pilot
To paint a vivid scene,
Telling your senses exactly
What they are experiencing.

My defeatist says a far better poem
Would be in five stanzas,
Each describing your basic senses -
The colors in your eye,
The tones in your ear,
The textures upon your skin...

If I want to work at it,
To make it a little more memorable,
Then I'd add a meter and a rhyme
To fence the stanzas in,
Lest they run wild.

I've given up on this poem,
The one you're reading now -
The mathematician in me
Is screaming for better order and structure;
While the storyteller
Is chiding me for the
Excessive director's commentary.

Alas, thus ends this first draft.
Maybe I need to rub the crayons' crumbles,
Along the newspaper's crumples,
And see if I can make
A modern-day shroud of Turin,
Remembering the fish I ate last night?

"Drunken Sonnet" (P.o.t.D. 1/20/15)

By the Old Gods, I do solemnly swear,
"I am a happy drunk, without a care!
Bitterness ends with the beers' hoppy tastes,
Friendships and loves are not to be my wastes!"

Which of those Nameless Ones did then take note,
Encasing my mind with a madness coat!?
I did rant and rave, claiming no harm done,
My war was lost, though my battles felt won.

Unhinged thus, I faltered and I stumbled -
Incoherently, began to mumble...
"Just one more drink will help me clearly think -
Why'd I drink, and not pour it in the sink?!"

"I can do practically anything -"
That's how my mania will try to sing...

"Falling Leaves" (P.o.t.D. 1/19/15)

How do you convince
Leaves to fall, to separate?
With time, bonds decay...

"Coffee" (P.o.t.D. 1/18/15)

The drops drip... drip... dripped...
Brewing black, bold, blessed bliss -
Bean's nectar, so loved.

"..the diodes in my left side.." (P.o.t.D. 1/17/15)

"This last year, I began to have pains,
Shooting through my right leg," He complains...

They shot some x-rays, and found a bone spur
Encased in his ankle - the mangy cur!

As he walks - along that spike, his muscles would rip -
Is this the fate of Achilles, in his famed trip?

Cutting it out, with surgery, was not advised;
Instead, stretches, from a worksheet - that was prescribed.

Even armed with these exercises, there's no motive to pursue...
Alas! The pain grows worse, more constant - the yoga is now due.

"The Curator Whispers" (P.o.t.D. 1/16/15)

The wind whispered while winding its way
Around the sentinel tombstones;
Yet the silence made it deafening
For naught would speak in beastly tones.

A month ago, cold earth clods crumbled
Upon her corpse, laid to rest amidst
Frogs burping, squirrels chattering, and birds chirping -
All just asking, "Why silent, good Miss?"

She had a gift of beastly whispers,
Where, through grunts and squeaks, she could divine
What needs, that before, the animals had to defer;
Finding them to be furry friends, oh so fine!

Her death was ghastly and happened suddenly
Through the actions of her employer,
A museum caught up in greed and gluttony,
When they learned she was a betrayer.

You see, she was tasked with building collections,
But she balked at expanding the ecology exhibit.
Her fear of loneliness won out, and she warned them,
Of traps and poisons that would freeze them forever...

A question lingers on today's whispering wind -
How did the museum find out, how'd they win?

"Three Schools" (P.o.t.D. 1/15/15)

I spent my youth in a small Texas town;
Finished school, and then I was Austin bound.
Once I got there, so many things to do;
Dabble here, dabble there - how the time flew!
Took fifteen years to earn a cap and gown...

"rain drops" (P.o.t.D. 1/14/15)

So, you got a little wet?

Rain drops soaking
Through your shoes
...and socks...
...and soul.

You raise a flag of hope,
Or good old surrender,
As you open the umbrella -
Knowing full well
That shelter only protects
Scalp and skull,
But not the bottom of your sole.

Who's to say that
'Twas a falling drop
That made you turn
Away from the rain,
And the life it brings;
Towards a hunched back huddle,
Hoping for far less humidity?

It could have been
An army of drops,
Pooling their resources,
To present a blocked passage
And an opportunity
To seep through the splits and cracks,
That you did not know
Were at your feet.

Your mind is so set on getting somewhere;
You forget to appreciate the journey
And the wonder of water everywhere.
It's there in the clouds,
Masquerading as unicorns in form...
Or the puddles and creeks,
Gathering the squall back to the sea...
Or even in transition,
Touching you without a second thought.

Confucius on planning

"If your plan is for 1 year, plant rice;
If your plan is for 10 years, plant trees;
If your plan is for 100 years, educate children."

- Confucius

Sandman: Season of Mists toast

"To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due."

- Neil Gaiman, "The Sandman: Season of Mists"

I missed the bus, to check out the workshop on "manifesting my New Year"

================================================================================================================ Year Separator ==============================================================================================================

"He is the most typical man in the world..."

"He is the most typical man in the world..."
------------
Part of me wants to hash out a series of expectations made of me, by reason of my gender. Not sure how researched they would be, versus just personal feelings... but maybe an exercise in gender roles?
Example:
"He went hunting deer on Thanksgiving weekend, because it was too cold to go fishing on Lake Travis. It was tough, though, pulling him away from the college football games, and they had to bribe him with a case of Lone Star beers and a couple of bottles of Jack."
"He is the most typical man in the world..."

"The Question"

"Life is an unanswered question, but let's believe in the dignity and importance of the question."
- Tennessee Williams
("Zen Calendar: Wednesday, 16 April 2014")

"Noting Notes"

A time for noting is upon me:

1) Recognize the thought has come to my mind.
2) Detach from the thoughts, possibly thru returning to
A) my breathing, maybe my heartbeat
B) what sights, sounds, smells are around me
3) In detachment, note now those thoughts are out of my control
A) this is fear, hope, fantasy
B) this is past, future
C) this is trying to read another person's mind or motives
D) this is.
4) ...and let the thought pass, like a cloud in the sky
5) Realize this is cyclical, and more thoughts will bubble up

Right now, I'm on a bus... So, I'm grateful for:
- relatively reliable public transit in Austin
- the recent contest that placed local short poems beside the ads on the buses
- driving time converted to time spent on mail, Facebook, news
- big windows to catch glimpses of local neighborhoods
- passengers usually respecting each others' privacies

"Things are..."

"If you understand, things are just as they are...
If you do not understand, things are just as they are..."

~Zen Saying

Grateful for:
- long weekends
- loving, caring family
- free activities like computer use and reading
- volunteering and its appreciation
- warm welcomes

If I shared everything that's been on my mind, I'm afraid I'd wind up locked up at ASH.
However, if I just shared rainbows and unicorns, I would be dealing in half-truths.
Probably, the best plan is to consider where to share it; and not what to share...

(Found on Capital Metro, via Austin Poetry Society)
Pigeons at Phil's Ice House
Pigeons jive their heads
In rhythm with the traffic
Sleek grey heads bop it
Back and forth
Tiny panhandlers
Forsaking flight between the tables
To wait for French fries
To fall from the heavens.
- Diana Conces

Today, I'm grateful for:
- good friends
- working
- plenty of food
- hobbies and volunteering
- broad perspectives

Ah, snap! Another V-D come and gone, with no romance in my world...
Perhaps I am fated to be a monk or a priest, living a solitary life of quiet contemplation...
Then again, maybe I'm just blinder than Cupid, oblivious to the romantic possibilities already present in my life? With my shoestring budget, though, it's probably wiser not to date, right now.
Still, I curse at our cultural "conditionings"...

My mind's trying to take me to bad spaces, this week. It's tough, fighting back the urge to jump in front of an oncoming bus...
Is there an easy fix? Maybe redouble my efforts to change my career, possibly find a purpose, I don't know...
Yah. Bipolar blows...

"Happy Haiku" (P.o.t.D. 2/9/14)

Try to be happy?
No. Do great acts, and your joy
Will rise, without thought.

What words are percolating,
colliding in passing...
some times sticking,
other times flowing?
What ideas power that current -
distant memories of this morning,
or random conjectures
of tomorrows,
marching into the cement
of actual experience,
or fading away
from physics falsely found facts..?
what is that you say? Whimsy?
Like so many other scribbled notes,
I try to begin in the meta-,
A sign perhaps,
That I am scratching at vapors,
Not at all sure what's happening
Right now, Right here,
In the Present Moment.
Then again,
Maybe I want to stoke
The creative fires,
And let loose the imagination,
To try to glimpse those alternate realities,
Where pigs DO fly,
(...and women ask me on dates, for a change...)
And...
Like that, I suddenly want to end it, and post it.

I'm conflicted...
Part of me wants to slip into the shadows, and become mousy quiet.
However, then I'm not sure how I'll spend my time, as I got accustomed to the old routine.
The challenge is that I'm entering my first 6-day weekend of 2014, and I want to create some changes that lead to a better life balance.
Maybe, instead of 'hiding more', I should instead take more direct approaches, such as phone calls and personal letters and lunch chats...

Some of what I was pondering, during the 12@5:30, tonight:
(Topic started with page 164)
- What am I relying upon?
- What are you?
- What is the path by which I seek God, or maybe just seek comfort? ...like, my first seven years, I was still smoking at least a pack a day... And there are some who seem to be in "the relationship of the week"
- the dangers of self-reliance, or co-dependence...
- differences between meeting-based sobriety, and step-based sobriety...
Part of me wants to quip, "I **THINK** I'm relying on God by _______, but I'm actually relying on God by _________"
And then, I think that an addict doesn't feel complete without relying on some thing or activity external to themselves - so we may have dropped a drug addiction, only to pick up a different addiction in its place...

Looked over the Christmas cards at Walgreen's, and only a couple jumped out as Jody-caliber... Maybe...
I'm going to go downtown on Monday, if Emerald's is still around, to see if they (or maybe Whole Foods) have any cards that can give me a good belly laugh.
Yes, I really do spend hours searching for Christmas cards

Unfinished typing.
by me, just now...
Anything gained, through meta-writing?
A clock ticks the seconds off, one by one,
And as the immersion takes hold,
The minutes melt away into
So many background sounds,
Destined for some deep abyss
Of half-perceived dream of a memory...
Standing on the platform -
Typing on the laptop -
Taking a sleepless plunge -
Typing away on a keyboard
Makes it easy...
What plunge is this, then?
Where will I go, and
What shall I do, now?
Alas, there's the rub.
No inspirations rise to meet me,
No grand images unseat me and
No destination appears to greet me.
I am left to wander, aimless -
A shadow and a ghost,
Chained to my bed by
Shackles of poverty.
So, shackles?
How do I unlock thee?
Perhaps, a bit of practice
At frugality and
Career pursuing.

Easy way to reset: delete Facebook account, and start from ground zero.
Unfortunately, this method may lead to "throwing babies out with the bath water", as I think there may be some gems, even originally created gems hiding in the notes and news feed.
So, I find myself contemplating setting limits instead - no more than one post and one share per day..? Instead of flying by the seat of my pants, I might actually think before I write...

I was 5 seconds away from leaving, when I got asked to run the timer.
However, my mind was still so dog-piled by holiday resentments that I couldn't come up with a good share on the topic of "morning meditation and planning"...

I'm hungry and lonely, and that's getting me angry and tired.
I'm hoping a visit with my friend will help turn this Thanksgiving around...
...missed work potluck - not registered as Operation Turkey volunteer - overslept through house dinner - unaware of other friend's dinner - Black Friday taking Thanksgiving hostage....

10 facts about Mr. Bean

Kelly Aguirre gave me 10, Heather Watson suggested 8, and I'm still waiting on Emily Jane's number...
I'm lazy, and will just suggest that you try to come up with 9 facts about you. Then tag me if you'd like for me to see those facts; as it's sooo much easier to find posts with my name on them.
I checked the archives; and I've done a similar exercise in the past in my notes; I think it's titled "25 semi-random facts about me". It's a bit on the long side. So, I now give you "10 sentences about Jody Bean":
1) I graduated Salutatorian in a high school class of 117 or so; and my speech was well received.
2) It took me 14 years to complete a bachelor's degree in mathematics; as Austin is full of distractions.
3) I enjoy acting and singing, both as a creator and as a spectator...
4) I have been hospitalized 4 times, as a direct result of bipolar flare-ups, since 1996.
5) As a teenager, I was fairly active in the Catholic church; but, these days, I feel much more interested by Zen Buddhism and Taoism.
6) Since 1986, I have had at least 20 jobs; with my longest and most enjoyable job being a math tutor for 7 years
7) On the Myers-Briggs personality test, I usually am classified as an INTP, and I quite agree with the accompanying description, 'the architect of ideas'
8) Some times, I just like to do Tarot readings, as some of the interpretations can get past my left-brain, linear, logical thinking.
9) I'm quite a games enthusiast; whether it's cards, board games, RPG's, computer games...
10) Living in the French House student housing cooperative from 1992-1996 was one of the best life experiences I've had.

If I don't feel welcome, then why would I want to stay?
So, I showed up, I helped set up, I sat in an eerie cone of silence for 15 minutes...
...and I got overcome by the mental "Fuck it!"'s and I decided it would be best to leave.
Maybe Monday will be better...

Contemplating archie style

write. Write! WRITE!!!

is that a worthwhile way to begin this? I don't know...

do i bother with formatting, grammar, punctuation, and all that -
...or do i play with archie mode, not using the shift key because i can't jump on two keys simultaneously...

sad that few out there know who archie is

still trying to wrap my head around a theme, and i'll probably follow this post with a second post along that theme... thinking about it, i can still single-key '.,-=[]/`

i remember though that archie tended to avoid any punctuation creating one continuous stream rambling about mehitabel and her alter life as cleopatra

although i also remember short lines of text
hinting at the allowed use of the return key

ponder ponder ponder
do i run with it
minimal punctuation, no capitalization, and almost poetic line formatting

still... we can dress the words up in fancy rules
but can we create content that's more than just random drools

all this leads me to a theme wrapper for some posts
that i have already labeled as archie mode
so do i add this to my collection of themes
like the sssu posts or the movie monday or tune tuesday posts...

"Bug-brain" (P.o.t.D. 8/8/13)

engage archie mode
working title unknown at this beginning

although i play at being a cockroach
i am but a human
it could be possible that
for some incarnation
in the distant past
i was walking on this earth
with six legs
and no brain

who am i to say
that bugs have no brains

for a spider can weave wild webs
with interesting defects
when under the influence of this or that

an ant may be part of a larger colony
whose individual actions seem random
and yet the collective actions of the colony
benefit most of the ants

hyper intelligent cockroaches
take over the world
in the far future
for the earth is so scorched
by us meager men now

so we are but humans
imperfect and flawed
and not always looking out
for the welfare of all
especially when chasing
our wanton wants

could the problem be
that god gave us brains
but he left us to learn foresight

Conflicting goals... (life/work plans)

"...what is really important...?"

To predict..? To create..? To interpret..? To model..?

What was the appeal underlying studying math? Why do I enjoy science? ...and yet, there's an artist inside of me who wants to write, draw, act, and make music; because I'm drawn to the fantastical, too - and sometimes, art does NOT imitate reality.

I was thinking about this (a touch) when I revived my case at DARS. I would love to write, or at least, I've enjoyed some of the writing I've done in the past. Perhaps one career path is to become a textbook writer, or a popular science writer. Then again, it could be interesting to critique food and entertainment. Heck - who's to say I can't do both...

I have a voice. I want to shout from the mountaintops, and whisper in the valleys, that I may be a channel for my and others' meager understanding(s) of this great big universe. That, I think, is the appeal of teaching; and yet I detest having to constrict myself to a set of standards like the TEKS.

Note to the reader: This is a first draft, and may not be grammatically correct, or even well-organized; as I'm writing on the fly and partially streaming my conscious thoughts. A weakness and a strength, perhaps?

So, I have enjoyed tutoring immensely, although I don't think tutoring or teaching are high-profit fields, monetarily. I did not enjoy admin/clerical work, thus far, as it seemed to be so much rote document production without creative outlets. I liked writing for the Wylie News, and I've liked writing on topics that interest me... however, still not sure how to impose the discipline to even become 1/100th as successful as Asimov or Bradbury.

I wonder who might have ideas about a career in writing and/or teaching? I'll tag my first suspects...

(ThSSU - 7/25/13)

ThSSU:

A bird flitters in between trees, a little electronic spark aided by seratonin, traveling. Is a thought a crow that rests inside one's skull, parroting "Nevermore!" and trying to deceive you, gentle reader? Let it walk a minute in the fields of your awareness, but remember to let that idea fly away and pass into the past. Gain what you can from it, while it roosts between your shoulders, but do not hold onto it

hoping to squeeze water from the rocks (or rocs)
big bird gains more power as our feeble attempts to grapple with it,
clawing evermore

Yes, Let Go and Let God. Let it Pass. Do not Force that which easily Flies,
for the flutter of the wings alight from one point to the next, picking up a little more moss as new connections are made, as the pebble sits in the stream of life, sometimes carried by a torrent, and other times, left alone and unmoved by the babbling brooks.

And now I ask? Is the idea... an idea... an animal... a piece of the earth... a play on imagery and personifications, possibly muddled by the surreal streaming mode? Try to be aware of each idea, as it bubbles up in your brain, but also let it sink back into the network of the universe. If it really needs to be reconsidered, it will resurface when the time calls for it. So, let your idea fly free, knowing that it has a nest in your memory where it sings quietly in the night...