Milk Thistle

Been receiving signs lately. He's coming.

Don't know his whereabouts, but he's out there. And I know it. He's communicating with me. Leaving clues.

Recently, I found the blue bottle of Milk Thistle herbal supplement. 200 capsules of standardized extract to help maintain healthy liver function. Whatever. The message was in the name. A command: Milk Thistle. For all he's worth.

The serendipitous alignment notwithstanding, I have continued to march through my assignments with calloused rote regimen. No, really.

Well, alright. So I don't have any rituals or routines. But I'm trying.

No. Really.

I dove into some old papers the other night and unearthed another nugget. Am I channeling a higher energy when Thistle comes to life in my mind, in my writing? Or is it yet another distraction from what I really need to be doing? No, the communiques are interesting, enlivening, energizing even. The thought distortion is around the "should," as in I should be doing my taxes, or I should be mowing the lawn.

Anyway. The nugget. It's not clear when I wrote this. But deducing from all of the scribbled notes and "to do" jargon, I'm gonna guess it was more than ten years ago. Here's the text as written:

• "Thistle hiding from pain. Running from hard truths of not being accepted, not being loved. Carves out reality based on half truths; Reluctant to face inconsistencies. Instead forays into detailed analysis of "Super" powers and simplicities of living-- breathing, walking, drinking (water)-- deconstructing the elements & essentials of life, formulating a path back to the reality he is denying exists."

So I'm thinking that I will continue to run into him in my subconscious until eventually he knocks on my door and invites me to lunch.

I think Thistle is an alter ego, yes. Created by my young writer's mind as a potential manifestation of myself, he was me "in twenty years." Well. Now I'm almost me in 20 years from that time.

I'm about to be staring Thistle in the face.

Gotta Make These Things Closer Together

There hasn't been any glue. Too many pieces, put together and then falling apart. No glue holding my thoughts together, my words together. Tried putty. Caulk. Chewing gum. No stick.

I've been practicing mindfulness, having teflon mind. Letting go. Allowing thoughts to slide away instead of snagged in a white-knuckled grip. Deep breathing, allowing for the greater wisdom to prevail, to guide, to assist. To ground.

But my words have been faint. Exhausted. Pale. Rendered impotent. They have been at odds amongst themselves. They haven't been playing well with others. They've been fractured, schizophrenic, kinetic and dynamic. Moving like rush hour traffic without adherence to the rules of the road. All over the place. Here and gone. Stop and go. Effluent.

I've wanted to try and make sense. But I can't be bothered by such silly love songs. I just need to trust my gut. And oh, what a gut it's become.

So. I left ya hangin' with the last post. S'pose I should try and tie up some of them loose ends (or is it split ends?) fer y'all.

Nah. Not right now. Gotta procrastinate a bit more. And with you, licking your chops. You gotta really want it, friends!

And so do I. Besides. I gotta read the last post again to remember what I said. My Etch-A-Sketch mind has been shaken since I wrote that...

I shall return, to borrow a phrase. Stay tuned.

Testing...

I'm not sure I have anything to write about right now. But I'm gonna try and do it anyway and see what happens.

Get in the car. Turn the key. Engine starts-- put it in gear. Here we go.

Don't forget your seatbelt.

I've got piles. Stacks of paper on my desk, in boxes. All for inspiration at a later date.

Today's that later date. Time to get, as my therapist put it, a spiritual enema.

I want to write about my past. I want to tell of the stories that I thought were important then. Are they still important? Time will have to tell.

I was a boy back then. Young. You may not have guessed just by looking at me. But it's true. I was just 18 years old and I'd found the person I thought I wanted to spend my life with. Problem was, I was timid, I was shy, and I wasn't sure she wanted what I wanted. And I was scared that if I asked, the truth would be something I just couldn't bear. So I was quietly friendly and cautious. Slow. Hopefully romantic. Hopeful. But exasperatingly cautious. And timid. And frozen from acting on my greatest of intentions.

I set this all up because I hope to transcribe what I wrote longhand so many years ago. But not here; this is not the place to rehash all the names and places of my past.

Or is it?

Guess I'll do what the audience desires.

If there is an audience.

*Is this thing on?*

Kindergarten Art Conspiracy

I'm a pack rat. Well, not exactly... I'm an archivist. I've held on to many invaluable things. Invaluable meaning not able to be valued or assigned any value because there exists no inherent value. You know what I mean-- old grade school papers and drawings, magazine clippings. Stuff that is really fun to run across when you're looking for something else.

Among the archives there exists a document from my kindergarten class. It's a compilation of drawings that attempted to define me and my dreams and aspirations at the time. There's the requisite hand tracing and foot print. There's the drawing of this and the drawing of that...

But I remember one of the pages distinctly. It stands out from all the rest. Not because it captured some nuance or reflected some early signal of artistic talent. But because of the mystery and conspiracy. Because the page is not mine.

The rest of the pages I identify as mine easily enough. They are my marks, and my words have been added by a teacher's aide transcriber, as dictation was taken. The aide, or perhaps the teacher, added the text of my words where appropriate and even wrote my name in the corner of the page. To keep mine separate from the others. Because there was more than one Michael in the class. Always was.

Growing up, I was very rarely referred to in class as simply "Mike" or "Michael"-- it was more often "Mike A." or there was some sort of calculus that determined one of the "Mikes" would go by "Mike" and another would go by "Michael" in the interest of minimizing confusion. I seem to remember, however, that one of my classes had four "Mikes" in it, and there just wasn't an easy way to keep us separated in people's minds. It created a "Mike-demonium" if you will.

So surely it's understandable that there would be a slip up in the processing of things in the classroom now an again. We humans make mistakes. It was inevitable that a student's drawing might be mis-identified or passed back to somebody other than the drawing's creator. Certainly, the adult mind can maturely assess the possibilities and rationally surmise a simple solution to this conundrum. If there is a mature mind...

I, on the other hand, am more prone to explore the conspiracy.

Each student had been asked to do the same project, and produce the same series of drawings about themselves to be assembled in a booklet. The teachers had assisted with keeping the drawings straight by writing the student's names on the pages.

Or had they?

On one of my pages, I didn't recognize the marks, the concepts. The words captured by the teacher did not ring true-- they sounded like a small bird flying into a window. I knew they were not mine as soon as I saw them.

At the bottom of the page was written the name, in the teacher's handwriting. There was a "Michael" alright, but it was followed by a "W." Michael Williams. This was Michael Williams' artwork. He wanted to be a racecar driver. Not me.

Further fuel to the conspiracy theory lies in what had been done to the "W," apparently after some event that created this cover up. The "W" had a line through the middle of it, an apparent late addition, in an overt attempt to simulate an "A".

So was this artist robbed of his property and given someone else's as a forgery? What had happened to his original? Had the teacher deemed it so superior and elegant that she claimed it as her own? What circumstances could have led to this forgery of another "Michael's" work?

And what was the explanation offered to Michael W.? Did he simply have a "Michael A." forged into a "W." among his other work? It would seem strange that the two would have been so completely altered instead of being matched with their proper person...

So what of this situation? 'Tis a mystery with no break in the case, no leads. What is the most logical explanation?

I agree. My drawing was stolen and stashed, and has been cooling off over the last 35 years, collecting even more worth that I will never enjoy.

But I've got the other drawing still.

Why I Used to Drink

So I thought I'd get a little pick-me-up, since the day wasn't jump-starting itself. And I went to one of the many Starbucks coffee marts to solicit my dose. I got in line, opted for a pastry item, and ordered a simple standby-- the "Venti Mocha". A simple drink. One that a seasoned barista scoffs at for its lack of originality or personality.

Done and done. So I shuffled to the open space by the feeding trough-- the "drink landing" where the fresh prescription is placed for the patient... "Do you need a consult with this medication?" Uh, wait-- is that the pharmacy? Yes. Focus now-- We're at a coffee shop. Waiting for our drink order.

Man, it got busy, and quick. Where'd all these people come from? I thought the economy was bad! That every other person had been laid off or at least had their hours cut. Look at all this commerce! Surely the worm has at least begun to turn? There's only three coffee associates behind the counter, and one of them is an increasingly frazzled barista. She's soldiering through, though. Making great effort-- she tries a bit too hard and knocks over a stack of straws. It's okay-- no biggie. She laughs it off. She's making jokes to try and calm herself and relieve tension that is building in the room.

And it's at this point-- somewhere in here-- that I start to lose it. Not in anger. Not in crazy arms flailing action. All internally. All somehow brilliantly hypothetically maybe-ish real. Vividly. I start to sense a grand theory that is built on some shaky logic... but that doesn't matter at the moment it's happening to me. It feels plausible. And all the thoughts fit together to make the house-of-cards logic seem like the Taj Mahal.

I'm thinking about the commerce, the economy, how bad the reports of it are, all the down-0n-their-luck stories going around... and here is a whole lotta exchanging going on. This place is buzzing! (Or, I should note, it seems to be hopping... It may be misperceptions which drive this mobile home precariously close to the cliff...) This just doesn't balance out. What could be the explanation?

From the farthest corner of the universe, a thought born yesterday is launched to my immediate attention. Maybe they've somehow tapped into my bank account.

But it doesn't stop there. On no-- we've only just begun. And yes, the Carpenters are now playing in full stereo in my head. That's typical for me-- I got a DJ with an amazing library at his disposal on permanent retainer in me brain. Playing millisecond clips of things just to get me thinking-- Hmm... why does that sound familiar?

In the meantime, I continue to collect new raw data to support my grand schemes. A few minutes have now passed, and people who ordered their drinks both before me and after me have been served. Curious. Where's my mocha?

All of the supporting "logicistics" are quickly awakened from their slumber. Thoughts I'd thrown in the trash days, weeks, months, years ago are franticly assembled and brought forth to my present mind.

People are arriving and picking up their drinks and joking with the barista. I interpret these jokes to be somehow poking fun at me. Not all of them-- no no, that would be absurd. Just some of them.

The barista notices that I've been waiting a while and asks me what my drink is. She apologizes and says she'll bring it right up. She is calling out drinks in Starbucksanese-- "Cafe Latte half-calf misto" and "Noccachilean Nor'eastern Birthday" and "Mucho Nacho toasted drizzle" and... okay, so those are mine, but they might has well have been what she was saying. She was joking and adding things not usually said because she was frazzled. I took it to mean that she was saying a multitude of euphemisms for "Venti Mocha" that others understood, but not me. No, I just couldn't think right-- wasn't smart enough to realize how clever she was being. Others knew Starbucksanese much more fluently than I, and so were able to step up to the drink landing and get a free mocha. On me. Because they had tapped in to my bank account somehow.

She apologizes again to me, and says that "somebody usually comes out on the short end." I smile and say, "Oh, and today it's me?" We have a polite exchange but I can't recall what was said, because my attention drifts to two other patrons who nervously giggle and gather their drinks.

So like, I'm actually rich, somehow? And all of these people in here are unemployed and broke, but they know me, because I'm rich AND famous, and they know when I come through an establishment, they can be comped whatever they order. Long as I'm around.

Yeah. Sounds plausible, don't it?

In the same way that excessive drinking seems like a good strategy for living.

We Hardly Knew Ye

It was a warm, if not clammy, evening in our little Iowa town, and we were sitting in the porch bar. It had been just a porch, but they made it into a bar, building shelves and setting up barstools. And they'd taken out the porch windows so as to invite any breeze at all to come inside and tickle our sweaty brows. The breezes were elsewhere on this night.

We sat and we talked a bit. Sharing observations about others, the feelings in the air, plans for the summer. It was as if we were talking for the first time. Because it kind of was. I mean, we'd exchanged hellos and had small conversations here and there, but tonight-- this night was different.

It was different because there was a gravity to the mood, to the momentous occasion. There's always a perspective shift at graduation time, when what to do next becomes particularly pressing.

Carmen was leaving, having graduated, and was moving on to other things. Things kind of hazily defined, but definitely away from Grinnell, Iowa. Away from college. To be honest, I don't recall specifics. But she wouldn't be around to have more talks with me, that much was apparent.

I was the one to be left behind; I had taken some time off from school and was returning to finish up next semester. So I was saying goodbye to many of my classmates that I'd once planned to walk with in the commencement procession. I was feeling some regret and despair watching the celebrations occur and seeing the joy in their eyes.

Carmen and I talked about this some. We talked for awhile about a lot of things that I don't remember. What I do remember was that Carmen was a beautiful young woman, someone whom I had admired from afar for some time. I'd noticed her talking with her friends, smiling. She had a smile that brought friends along with it-- if she smiled, others were bound to smile too. I thought we had a very nice conversation, about the fun of the night's party, an assortment of other things... And as we made motions to say goodnight, I was feeling torn. Torn between my life until this moment and what was to come.

I felt the despair of losing someone I was just getting to know-- that I was really enjoying talking to and feeling comfortable with. Someone that I was gaining respect for and was hopeful about relating to further. I was realizing that the hopes and dreams which had prefaced this evening had little chance of being realized, but now, with this moment, and the conversation, and the mood, and the comfort... I didn't know how to let it go.

I finally said something that attempted to describe some of my emotions... I don't remember what it was. But it was something like "It's sad to lose a new friend."

I don't know if that's what I said. But it was something like that. Maybe it was something most brilliant. I don't know. What I do remember is that Carmen smiled, and said, "That's so sweet," and got off of her barstool, walked over and reached up and kissed me, gently, on the cheek.

We said goodnight, and she walked away.

It was the last time we spoke.


Carmen Misol, 39, passed away in Washington, DC, on November 18, 2008 from complications due to multiple sclerosis.

High Without Reason

Don't know if I was feeling good or feeling bad or if I really need to invest in such judgments.

I just was. Thinking.

I thought about this and I thought about that and I thought about there, here, everywhere and nowhere. That took all of two seconds, so I sped away again in my mindspeeder... time travel is possible in the imagination.

Back in the present moment, drool was collecting on my bottom lip.

But whatever. I was all-thinking. I thought about God saying something like "I'm not in the business of making sense. I'm in the business of getting things done." Or "I don't have a license to practice logic. Don't need one. I'm God. But that's not my thing anyway-- logic was a game created by humans for humans to play. There's no universal rule that every "it" has to make sense. That's a human myth. But why would you listen to me-- I'm God."

Or some such noise.

I had to go to see my therapist. She's been helping me with my theoretical endeavors. The theology of it all. Does that thought really exist? Okay, so not really. But she has been helping me. She suggested that I get a dog. So we did.

Enter Muppet.

Muppet is a miniature poodle. I never thought I'd have a poodle. But I do. And he's perfect.

So we've transitioned from loving couple to loving trio. Mommie and Daddie and Doggie. We're all getting along quite famously.

I have no real reason for going on with this, this "writing." It doesn't make sense. Where's the issue? The contrast? The development and counterpoint and the suspense? Why would anybody wanna read any of this?

Um, God? Yeah-- little help here?

There are thoughts about sensitive issues. About saran wrap. About toenails and toejam. About the interplanetary rotation of it all. About the plastic in our lives. About the end of lives. About death and dying. About junkmail. About the fate of the puppeteer. About the long and the short of it. About why. About who. About when. About face.

Non-congenital thought disease.

Just needed to write something. Didn't care what. Who. Where. How. When. Anything.

Leave sense for the philosophers in the crowd.

There's so much thinking that goes on-- in so many directions. So much seems to have little purpose.

But that's on purpose.

The question is the little engine that could and will keep right on chuggin' along, running the universe.

Ask not what your country can do for you-- ask what you're doing for the everything.

I gotta go to the chiropractor-- disjunction adjustment required.