Tabling Arguments

What is it that we all want to read about today? How the West was won? How billions of dollars are wasted on movies that are never watched? Or should never be watched for fear of severe eye and brain damage?

Let's talk about it all. It's all on the table today. Along with the salt shaker, the pepper grinder, the napkin holders, the natty table cloth, and the crumbs from breakfast. Is there an elephant in the room? Put it on the table. 800-pound gorilla? Table. We's gonna talk about it, whatever i'is.

Gotta say that the passing of Walter Cronkite closed the book on a lot of things in this country. The world is so different now. The media is this ravaging juggernaut of disrepute and glitter, so far removed from the respectful and scholarly news media of Cronkite's time. But such is life; all things must pass.

I just want to give Mr. Cronkite his due recognition and a respectful send-off to wherever it is that he's moved on to. Would love to hear his report of what he's found there and how he's doing. He'd be the ultimate correspondent from the afterlife, wouldn't he?

What else is on the table? Peanut M&M's. Ate more than half a 12-oz. bag yesterday and I'm probably gonna finish it as I write this. So it should slow down the typing a bit. And have some effect on spelling and grammar, to be noted and calibrated at a later time...

I fear going into detail.

What does that mean?

Ask your mother...

More table items... medication. Anybody else out there taking Lithium and Zoloft and Abilify and shaking enough to register on the Richter scale? I was mowing the lawns (read: weeds) yesterday and was beset by tremors at several points in the chore-- not exactly helpful when attempting precision work with a weed-eater. So I'm guessing you don't want me trimming your bangs while on this particular cocktail...

M&M break!

Okay. Go ahead and tell me if the load of candy consumption might be my "shakes" problem. But I don't think so.

I'm an ever so little bit closer to having a book written. I've written a children's story about a goat and a cat on the Greek island of Samos. It grew out of the legend of The Wild Cat of Samos that we learned of when we visited Samos in the summer of 2001. Rather than go into a lot of detail right now, I think I'll post the Wild Cat story. Then I'll give more details in a later post about my story. That will give me time to work on the illustrations more. How you like them apples?

They're what's on the table.

The animal which you are about to read about and which you can see for yourself in the Natural History Museum of Mytilinii is a savage feline, related to the tiger, known as a " kaplani " ( wildcat ), with its habitat in Asia Minor.

The Kaplani of Samos.

At the beginning of the present century, this animal was forced, either by the flooding of the River Meander or by fire, to swim over to Samos, where its established itself on the hills around Mavratzaii and became the scourge of the domestic animals and flocks of the district.

Farmers and shepherds drove it out and forced it to take refuge in a cave, which from then on was known as the " kaplani - hole ". Its pursuers, not daring to go inside the cave, built a wall of large stones across the entrance. In this way, they left it shut in for about three months, expecting it to die of hunger and thirst. But by eating the remains of its old prey and drinking the water which drop by drop gathered in a hollow in the cave, it remained in fine form. After this length of time, the villagers, wishing to assure themselves that the beast was dead, opened up a hole in the top of the cave - not risking opening the entrance which they had built over - and tied one end of a rope to a pine tree, dangling the other down into the cave. By means of this, Gerasimos Gliarmis, unarmed and wearing a cape, descended into the cave. Imprisoned in the cave, man and beast were instantly engaged in mortal combat. The man grasped the wildcat in a headlock in an attempt to strangle it, while it tried to tear his cape so that it could rip his chest with its claws and crush his arm with its teeth. Gliarmis called for help, but no one had the courage to approach.

In a little while, the brother of Gerasimos, Nikolaos Gliarmis, who because he was one - eyed and powerfully built, with superhuman strength, was known as the " Cyclops ", arrived on the scene. When he discovered what was happening, he grabbed the rope and went down into the cave. The animal left its exhausted opponent and throw itself upon the newcomer. But he seized the wildcat by the throat with his left hand, while with his right he attempted to draw his knife from his belt. But by the time he managed this, the animal had already choked to death.

Gerasimos Gliarmis had been injured in his chest by the wildcat's claws and died from the resulting infection a short time later.

Distraction Attraction

I'm up early today. And as I sit here at the computer once again, I am distracted by a number of things. I am distracted by a little moth gnat something or other floating around, landing on my computer screen, hovering above my water cup... The instinct to smash and be done with it is strong, but I'm resisting. I can live around it, surely?

Other distractions form my perspective. Should I be up this early? I need sleep. I got some, but don't I need more? Could this be the start of a manic episode?

That last one is far fetched, but it enters my mind nonetheless. Anytime I get to feeling kinda good about myself, about things in general, and start to get some energy about myself and start cookin' up schemes and getting the mind going on all cylinders... along comes the second guessing. Am I okay? Hold on a bit, now-- better take stock of the situation here...

So I'm trying to just write this morning. The distractions will continue, but I want to just write. I don't want to edit as I go, but I will. Because it's a habit. Saves time. I want to try and keep moving and get to the good stuff, the unpackaged thoughts. The ones without all the giftwrapping and bows. The ones that are so raw that they really move you.

So wish me luck. Or you're going to be seriously unentertained here. Well, that might be the case anyway. Again, distractions.

The mothra thingy buzzes my nose horizontally, disappearing behind the Kleenex box. By the time I write about it, however, the matadon has circled my head again. Twice. Lovely, natural, chalky distraction.

I adjust myself in my seat because my back is aching. The moth lands on my leg. What is a matadon, anyway? I resist the urge to grab the dictionary. The distractionary.

Shouldn't he/she/it be hanging out above my head, at the overhead light bulb? Don't know if matadons or moth things are keen on certain behavioral patterns.

Anne Lamott gives me permission to have a really sh**ty first draft. I'm giving you permission to read it. You also have permission to go elsewhere.

More distraction.

What about my brain makes it tend toward conflict? Negativity? What mechanisms are the product of my experience, of my nurtured mind? And what has been prewired and is static, unmoveable?

And where is Thistle Penn?

I think I see him in every transient soul at the busstops and freeway offramps holding cardboard signs. Is that him rolled up in dirty, torn blankets and newspaper, all of his possessions in a cart or gathered around him as he sleeps?

The number one thing that I need to do here is stop getting distracted and write. Where did my thought train go? Where did my moth friend go? Is my moth friend Thistle? Is Thistle my moth friend? Or is he a matadon? A matador?

I pause for a sip of water. The condensation on the cup slides around both sides, coming together to form droplets that launch themselves, castaways, satellites, escape pods from the mother cup... and crash land on the surface of my t-shirt.

Mothra buzzes my left thigh.

I'm trying to figure too much out. I'm trying to do everything right here, right now. I want to work hard and get it done, right now. I want to write about my struggles with bipolar disorder. I want to write a good story. I want to entertain. I want to figure out my job situation. I want to eat more healthily.

I used to do this sort of entry into my carry-on journal. It was with me wherever I went. I wrote almost daily. Hard to read, some of that stuff. But there's some great vignettes captured there. I think.

I want to be loved. But I fear being judged.

My chops are chop suey. I'm out of practice and out of shape. My stuff feels flat, stale. Unleavened? What does that even mean? Distractionary....

Anyway. Mothra is now exploring the Tibetan Wheel of Life poster on the wall above my calendar. No, check that-- it's on the screen... landed on the word "daily"...

And just now, on the "home" icon. Flew in as if to select it on the screen, landed there, stayed for a few seconds, then was off to explore other worlds again.

Is Mothra communicating with me? Make my home page daily writing assignments.

Well, now Mothra landed on the search box.

Time to look up matadon? Unleavened?

Time to go back to bed and forget what I was thinking about?

No answers right now. Only distractions.

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.