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 |   All that remains: here in my afterlife as a 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. |
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The Idiotic Ideate?? Formerly: New Zenith To Hell…(all started with arc as writer here from the trials of Rising Stars to Preferred Author to WDC Quills Best Poetry Collection to the falling action I feel now that settles in a white case.) Got to hustle to preserve the best of me before fully fading on that virtual horizon glowing more brilliant with each passing day to permanent nuclear winter. if people don’t get it, I don’t need to explain it. We kill all that’s beautiful before we question it’s purpose. So many people find it easier to think in the black and the white. God forbid you get lost straying in the gray. "Whoever fights monsters should see to it…he does not become a monster.” I’ve been to the abyss and back. Not so bad. The loneliest happy person you'd ever meet, when not the saddest person who needs to be alone. In an ever-changing world, we need to handle topics at the ready. If you roll over and give in to the narrative without lending a voice of your own, you might as well hand over your civil liberties. We have voices that should connect to true conscience and spirit for honest and open discourse. Why feel so redacted? Unify on issues and put drama aside. Open minds require complete objectivity. If none need apply, question the unbendable sources for answer. If you knee-jerk react to every issue lurking out there that clutches your neck, you fall victim to your own ignorance born from a life of apathy (no doubt) in pathetic cries of injustice. Just writing what I feel without the narrative-altering mind f---ing with my head. [MY Chorus] In your house, I long to be Room by room, patiently I'll wait for you there, like a stone I'll wait for you there, alone "It amazed me how truth was often suffocated in minutes, but lies were given sufficient air to breathe indefinitely." "You are all better than you think you are, you are just designed not to believe it when you hear it from yourself." ![Merit Badge in Second Time Around Contest
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Congratulations on winning the Grand Overall Prize in [Link To Item #2164876] with your beautiful poem, [Link to Book Entry #933358]. This poem really moved me. Great writing!
Rachel *^*Heartv*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Second_Time_Around_Contest-2164963_14.gif)    "...lasting art is never anything more than a mathematical expression of the relations that exist between the internal and the external, the self [le moi] and the world." -Jean Metzinger I'm in love with carefully chosen words, arranged just so, audible, edible, to inhale. I attempt to post new poems and epiphanies daily with some links to what inspires. I am legally blind with a rare, genetic form of glaucoma. I'm described as "end stage" after two successful surgeries, still subject to further vision loss. Cataracts complicating matters. Writing Can get strenuous but seldom deters what yearns to emerge, despite a documented history of depression and recently diagnosed ADHD and undefinable social disorders and/or PTSD. My recent poetry:
Sometimes epiphanies about my insights on writing and life and what goes on... Making sense of life is maddening. Why do I need to know, when truth may not actually exist? Learning to accept would be a better pursuit? Flailing about in my own mediocrity, hoping to bust out. I am visible. You can put a face with a name. I would like to see other writers, too. Fiction is what you write, not who you are. Reinventing myself. I couldn't continue on the path I was on and needed a fresh start. This time around I want to put the focus on writing and the world outside of this community as it affects my life. I realize now that I have been baring my chest a bit more, as when young. fake me much more boring and unliberated than the real me. A world arriving as silent as that blossom in your garden that I told you about... |
| I change my handle too much, but think I've settled on three or four recognizable ones. I know it confuses some people who don't remember me and they have to hover and/or click to see. I really am just bored and having fun because it expresses how I feel. I'm flyboy now, I'll be glaerdrfly later, or just glaedr. Or when I am missing the little orange kitten that died in our arms a year ago, I might have a message for the little guy. He was our hero. Our 13-year-old cat Pele took ill about a month after we adopted Glaedr, named by my son after a dragon of the same color in the Christopher Paollini book Eragon. Pele was on death's door. We could only imagine why she suddenly took ill at her advanced age. After surgery and removal of a small obstruction, we waited. Glaedr sat by her and purred every night. I learned that's how cats cure themselves. Pele would not take food. It was an ordeal. Maybe, we missed the signs but Glaedr became more ill as his big sister recovered. When we noticed the little guy would just sit on the floor next to the radiator and do nothing, we worried. More veterinary intervention was needed and they could only assume he had contracted a rare disease. Glaedr came home with us. We had a decision to make. He made it for us. All four of us cuddled with him New Year's Eve. He was as small and gaunt as ever, but as beautiful as the day we picked him up at the no-kill shelter. And shortly after he made it into 2013, he took his last breath in my wife's arms. The children sobbed. We all had tears in our eyes. This miracle of a cat gave us all a second chance with Pele before passing on to greater things. Glaedr leaves us behind, but we will never forget the brave, selfless love for his big sister who is with us and has two new kittens (Mohawk & Carmella) to play with each day. (Tears streaming down my damn eyes when I wrote this. Now I've got to change my handle again.) |
| I have suffered from this malaise that I can only term as depression since I was a teenager. I forced my mom to take a picture of me the day I felt indifferent, couldn't smile. Whatever chemical it was that makes one happy was in short supply and she couldn't understand why I wanted to have a snap for posterity. I felt as though I could look back on it and figure it out when I got older. Still don't know why I struggle with bouts of melancholy. Maybe, it was just hormonal. But I've lived twice as many years as I was old back then, and I cannot shake the fits that anchor me to this wheel of life that takes me wherever it choses to go. When the ride is over, I get off and try to get a handle on what happened and move on. When I was a teen, I penned a poem that still sums up how I feel today. Mom and I were both astonished by the result and could not figure out how I managed to pen such words... Mine is a lonely life I choose to live I want all of human kindness without wanting to give I seek refuge in my mind hiding words people seek to provoke When they find the words unkind it's me they seek to revoke What do I do; what can I say? Why is it when I need a friend they all seem to turn away? I'm unaccustomed to making conversation I fear the words I want to speak Because people find them unfashionable my words are myself, oblique. That is to say, I cannot find empathy in this world. Sometimes, my mom called me an 'odd duck.' I was treated as different, even though I felt normal. Social conditioning taught me that I wasn't meant to commune with others. I was too emotional, open about my feelings. I didn't know how to make small talk because I felt it was not what mattered. The greatest social injustice is to repress a young, fragile mind into mediocrity. When I try to rise above it and find my own unique style, I was rebuffed. So, I insulated. All of the feelings trapped inside ate at me. I learned to become drepressed, not knowing how I fit in. And, no one knew how to help me because they couldn't relate. Mama's odd little duck grew up and waddled into a world of imagination, discovering writing (like poetry). Eventually, I turned writing into a journalism career. Then, while a member here, after having been away from my professional career for some time, I was hit with an odd epiphany about how desensitized and ignorant reporters, especially in television, appear to be. And so I offered this... Just a matter of moments now, the depression will come. Camped out here on the precipice of pain, we will wait now for the rain. Growing darker, the winds of discontent will be an ominous indicator of how troublesome this storm can be... ...We're live, waiting on depression, the result of unexpressed aggression. Are you safe in your houses tonight? The blackening sea swells below. There's almost no sign of wildlife. We'll try to pan our camera so you can get a look for yourself... ...Depression is violent, unpredictable, killing unsuspecting people yearly... ...Here to keep you informed of the forthcoming peril that is depression... ...Make sure you are safely bunkered, hide in the hollows of your heart, hold on tightly to something, a loved one, preferrably with strong shoulders. Perhaps, seek professional help, someone to steer you to safe harbor... ...There's so much we yet don't understand, no one indicator can give us a clue, why the violent storms keep returning. Are you safe in your houses tonight? Here it comes. Can you get a good shot of this? We'll attempt an interview, maybe get a soundbite... No? ...I'm live, just another victim reporting. Walking through this writing community, I realize now that many of us are inspired to write, to express in this format, because we cannot have our feelings be heard and understood. Now, I realize, I can at least pull up a bar stool and commiserate with others who struggle. There are messages from people all over this website who have discovered coping skills. I have been off anti-depressants for some time, replacing it with exercise. My rotator cuff surgery set me back and I've been feeling that old pull come and tug on my psyche again. It makes me feel helpless, reminding me that I have not accomplished what I've dreamed of doing. It makes you feel worthless and yet I know that I am not. And when this ride is over and I have come out of what feels like another deathly spin, I'll walk away from the accident scene stronger and wiser because it can't kill me. I may be an 'odd duck' but I will find my way back to the pond to swim again with my mother and bath in the remembrances of a woman who built me a shelter for life.
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| She brought me Kleenex when I broke down and cried yesterday. I hate the offering of the tissue. I much rather prefer someone to wrap me around my shoulders and whisper in my ear it's going to be alright. And mean it. Times like this I wish my mother was here to console me. She might've been the only person on this earth who ever truly understood me. Yes, my mother. My dad envied our relationship because we could always talk and sort things out while I was growing up. There was an emptiness in my life then and there is a void in my life now. I cannot explain why I feel so alone in this family, but I do. I should feel thankful for all that I have and all that I could strive for. But from an early age I was told I had so much ability artistically and with my mathematical skills. I just did not have the right mentor to help me carry forward a plan for my life. I was misguided and misdirected, bouncing from thankless occupation to dead-end job. I have yet to find my true calling, some salvation that will relieve the addled brain. I'm also reminded there are others who suffer worse than me. I can empathize, but I can't save them if I can't save myself. Though, helping other people seems to cure what aches in my heart just a little. I cried last night because I told my wife I have had thoughts of wishing I were dead because I feel I'm stalking an empty wasteland, finding no home for my talents wherever I roam. I reject comfort because it does not fill the void, the ache that will likely continue until my dying day. I don't want to toil in anonymity any longer. I find it difficult to appreciate what I've got. There are little moments, but not enough deposits in the emotional bank. I've witnessed other members lying by the waysides I've traveled here. This site is like a beacon to them, but not all find salvation, their true calling. I worry they set themselves up with too many expectations to be a contributor, role model, someone to rely on. And like me, try to appease others and lose sight of true goals. Where are those mentors who can help them stop jumping through unnecessary hoops and train their talents toward attainable goals. Many don't suffer from melancholy and depression like the few of us, unable to empathize. If only we could realize true goals, find satisfaction in our deepest abilities to feel and emote artistically on these virtual canvasses laid out before us. Where is the happy medium? |
| I was going to do one of those "what have we learned today" type blogs but then my mind went blank. Just taking life day-by-day, trying to keep it on an even keel. Keeping it positive and putting my focus on the things I enjoy in life. My muses don't consort with me these days and I am only forcing out words onto the screen that I am not connected to. I have been searching for years for that one true friend who could be a part of my everyday life. The cyber community does not suffice. But it does allow me the life-support I need to feel like there are real people out there with similar issues and similar goals as mine. By being away from writing.com so long, I became disconnected with the folks that have been in my corner. And I realize I'm all alone. I'm making a few new acquaintances. I'm not going to get my hopes up but perhaps some friendship will click soon. I just hope that I don't alienate anyone with my ignorance again. Just meandering through this website makes me wonder what I need to do next. Too many diversions took me away from the core of the writer I once yearned to be. It's too easy to get distracted with the trivial stuff and not keep my eyes on the goal. I have never been very disciplined to begin with, especially with setting goals. Times like this I just want to do something selfless for someone else. By giving, I can at least fill a part of me that is empty. Reviewing has been a good way to get some of the gratification I need, but it doesn't fully fuel the desire I have to achieve something great. I need somebody in my corner 24/7 and it's not going to come from anybody in my real world. I want to write the novel. |
| It wasn't supposed to be my morning to get up early. But they left the door open to the bedroom, and the noises of children getting ready for school and the sounds and smells of breakfast being made woke me up. I groggily hoisted myself out of bed, back stiff and shoulder still stinging from my physical therapy session yesterday. Once I'm awake, I decide it would be nice to spend time with the family. I bring down my iPad and sit at the table quietly, checking on the weather and this website. No one really acknowledges me until my wife starts cleaning out the fridge. I was supposed to throw out spoiling food last week, but with my poor eyesight it is so discouraging to scrounge around and find all of the things that need removing. Now she was doing my job and showing me things should've been taken care of, including a container of moldy chicken that probably has salmonella. Next thing I know, she's ranting that it was now all over the cabinets, ceiling and floor. The cats are trying to lick it up. I offer little help because I am still in a daze. This further invokes her ire. She says she should be at work. I think I should still be in bed. (Note to self: Exploding leftovers--must discover more and perhaps write a poem  )She turns into Nietzsche's super woman, if I can borrow that psychology term loosely. I respect her greatly, except when it comes to her powers of empathy, which she lacks. I guess I'm just a henpecked husband. I sometimes get the spine stand up to her, but I don't like to do it in front of the kids. Meanwhile, she always points out my flaws and faults in front of them and sometimes they act like my parent. So, I take the backseat, step in when I'm needed, and the rest of the time just take a lot of mental abuse. Now I just need to finish my coffee so I can get to the chores of the day. I know she will be smiling and happy when all is done. I thought this was going to be a humorous post. Maybe, I just need more coffee and possibly some Vicodin. ********************************************* Just over an hour later and she's hollering for me from the basement. She needs me to bring her pair of slip-on shoes. Muttering under her breath, I see her standing over a broken light fixture that fell when she was trying to clean the basement pantry. The cats are in the mix again as she needs a broom to clean up on the floor. What is it with her and exploding objects? I want to get my physical therapist prescribed home workout routine over with, but I can't relax with all her busy-ness. She's all over the house and in the places where I need to go and be at one with my brain. I want to stretch, I want to meditate and I wish I could take my meds but I know I should not. Now she has discovered that a jug of water was cracked and leaking, seeping through the boxed foods on the lower shelf. She says 'this must be God's way of saying I need to clean today.' And also, she said, 'you're lucky I'm not a crier' like her mother. I told her I would prefer the crier right now. Then, she enters the closet to get out the vacuum parts and the contents of an Easter basket falls on her and onto the floor from the top shelf. I am snickering behind her back. She says she knows that she will be able to laugh about this later. She'll be texting someone something humorous later. For now, I must bear the brunt of her agony. Just hate that she thinks it's okay to make others feel like sh*t when she is having a bad day. I |
| Poetry should be like your favorite candy. One must take all the flavor of life and boil it down to its savory essence. Poetry is to be chewed slowly; make you want to indulge, eat more, consume faster. The first taste should be the sweetest; the last sates you appetite until the sweet tooth begs again. |
| A plug before I die... Can you imagine... being that last molecule of air? The last wisp of breath; life exhaled before dying?
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| I wish I could embed this video in all of my static items. What will your verse be? Poetry is alive! Pass it on. Obviously, the Robin Williams voice over for the movie "Dead Poets Society". The poem that inspires this scene from the Movie... O Me! O Life! BY WALT WHITMAN Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring, Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish, Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?) Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d, Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me, Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined, The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life? Answer. That you are here—that life exists and identity, That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. Source: Leaves of Grass (1892) |
| Meanderings of a foggy old coot Is plum the new forbidden fruit? I can only imagine, juicy, full And ready for consumption Yet I don't know if she's Tart or sweet, yielding Or mealy, yet I'll consume her Thrust my jaws unclenched Reveal my razors and sink How deep I would like to go. But I can't I already ate and I'm told I will be full For a lifetime. I'll just Steal one quick snack Of some cheaply Manufactured confection and -- It's not the same. ♡ ♪ |
| Know what I wish? I wish I could remove that part of my brain that jumps to conclusions. Maybe you know the moments: when I try to guess what's going to happen next in that movie or what you were just about to say when I rudely finish your sentence because you paused. I know it annoys you, but these sensations cloud up my thought process. I feel like I'm going to put that book down one chapter in because my mind stops absorbing the text and begins writing the supposed ending. I'm processing all kinds of information at once, just so I can be over with something and move on to the next. I would make a horrible detective, except that I force myself to sift through all the facts to get to a conclusion. Only problem is, everyone else has already cleared the metaphorical crime scene. I draw conclusions, recollect the facts, see I was wrong, rush to another ill-delved ending before starting over once more. That's a bit what reviewing is like. If I cannot absorb an author's work, I step away when I clear my head and start again. Biases fill my head before the end and I have to remind myself just keep looking for clues. But my head keeps telling me why this scene or that character were written before I can get done. I'm not letting the work as a whole wash over me, so I have Siri read it to me so I won't be overly engaged. Then, if it hooks me, I read with her. Then, I go back and reassemble the evidence and see if it points to my earliest conclusions or if I have a defective assumption mechanism. It's fun to think you know everything and can be sage enough to see something coming. I wish I had these assumptive defenses when I was the kid in school who got cornered, bullied and beaten if some other kids were having a bad day. Eventually, I developed this knack of trying to be ahead of the pack seeking quarry. |
| I hate having to send her to the bus stop in 10 below zero temperatures. There is already talk of canceling school on Monday with temperatures reaching 45° below zero. Not too motivated to go outside today. Glad I do not have to work in this weather. Fortunately, it's going to warm up to 25° in the day I do have to work, Saturday. |
| Once upon a time, a writer yearned to be an author so he could prove to the world and the people who shunned him in it that he had worth. Frustration led to anxiety which ruled his days and he steered himself off course of his goal and found other diversions. Reflection allowed him to minimize anxiety and found serene calm and decided no one needed to judge his value to have worth. Now his goal is to do what makes him happy; and if others jump aboard his wagon, then the more the merrier. Misery loves company and the life of the party gets to be friends with the rest. Through good times and bad, I hope I still enjoy the ride to my ultimate destination. |
| When I went in for physical therapy on Monday I had a plan. My plan was to figure out a way to deal with all the pain I've been feeling in my biceps, since I have been having trouble dealing with all the twisting and turning action. It's not like my physical therapist is trying to hurt me. And I want to give the impression that I am doing the best I can to relax, but it is difficult when you're feeling the kind of pain I've been feeling to be able to relax enough to allow the physical therapy to take it's course. So when I came in I decided I was going to try to psych myself up and take some caffeine sugar with an energy drink and some fudge. Sounds stupid even to Jen it sounded stupid, but I was going to give it a try. My physical therapist thought it was okay but it failed. By the end of my session I was in the room with a ultrasound machine having my biceps muscle massage and it was the end of my session. I think the person running the machine could see that I was a bit depressed and I was. I could not muster up the words and thoughts to figure out how to deal with my situation. I'm behind the eight ball. I'm behind in my physical therapy and it has been stressed me that I need to catch up. I got that message from my wife after my meeting with the PA personal assistant to the doctor did my surgery. She told me that I was missing the point, that I needed to be fully flexible by next doctors appointment I would never get back the flexibility in my right arm. Ever since then I've been thinking about it and night and Day what I have to do to catch up. But the pain in my biceps either through physical therapy or the exercises that I do it home have been so discouraging that it just feels like I'm not to be ready by December 4 want to meet with the actual doctor about the results. Everything is been going pretty well since my surgery on September 26. I've been hearing horror stories mostly from my wife that rehabilitation from the surgery would be a nightmare. So I did my best I was calm I was patient I was confident. Although I put up with some periods with my mother-in-law that tried my patience. I did not handle some of the situations as well as I would've liked, but I think I did the best I could with the circumstances. |
| My hamstring injury was worse than I thought. I was feeling the back of my thigh and it felt like someone had filled my leg with lumpy cement. I told my wife that it had been over a week since I tweaked it before she noticed the black and blue cloud that encompassed an area that spread into my upper calf. I had been playing on it for over a week, as of last Friday, using Alleve to control the swelling and pain before I played. In fact, I took and additional tablet the last two times I played. Somewhere in the back of my head, I knew I was injured. I couldn't properly stretch, though I kept trying with no avail. In fact, that likely worsened the injury. Now I have to rest. I think the injury comes at a time when I should wait until I have proper head gear before walking out onto that court to mix it up with the various elbows, hands and occaisional head-to-head combat. Need to protect the precious peepers. I also need to do some physical conditioning to avoid future injuries that come from being unprepared to play a young man's brand of basketball. I had been working out with a personal trainer, almost a year ago now. I got out of the habit of training, party because I felt good enough to compete. I also need the time to cool off, because I don't like where I went verbally the last time I played. I yelled at another player after a frustrating game where he kept harping on me. I was tired of the negativity and pointed out the need for more positivity. I may have ended up contradicting myself with my approach. I just need to assess my situation and make another run at this thing when I'm better. I view this three-plus-year comeback to the game like taking two steps forward and one step back until I've danced my way back into the light of the old days. I think about dunking the ball again. If I can drop the weight (again) and stay on a strict diet and regime of exercise, I might be able to pull it off. I just have to remember to prepare longer before I start play. No more waiting until the last minute to walk out of the house. Either prep for 30 minutes at home or get to the gym that much earlier so I can be ready. I see so many older guys take their time before they play. They're in the weight room or taking their time with warm ups in the gym. They pass on early games or don't give as much effort until they are properly warmed up. Me, I'm itching to go. I don't want to miss a second. It doesn't matter if I just dropped my bag on the floor; I dig out those goggles and fumble with patella strap and bandana and race out onto the floor to calls of 'come on, let's go.' Patience. Act my age and treat my body the way it should have been treated all my life. Let it repair and don't despair if I miss a day or a game or two. I know I'm getting older and running out of time with this limited vision. I just have to put the focus on quality of play versus quantity of time spent weaving about the gym with a bunch of discriminate young people who will only share the ball with players they trust to make the right decisions. |
I had some real highs and lows today. I peaked with a walk off three-pointer that some say I shot from 25-feet out. It was a good moment, as I high-fived everyone on my team. We played well as a unit. Then, I had the misfortune of being paired with some guys who like to show their frustration. I confronted one of them and I did not feel good about it afterwards. My goggles broke again and I feel this should be the last time I play until I have new and/or functional eyewear to help me compete without further risk to my eyes. I did, however, keep playing with my regular glasses after a brush from another opponent attempting to steal the ball flung my specs to the floor. Friday is not a good day for me when there is so many young players, most home from college I suspect. They play high speed and are discriminating of who they share the ball with. Because I had my awkward moments with teams I did not mesh well with, I felt a bit left out and eventually uninterested in the game and didn't give my best effort. Even harder to do when I am using glasses I read with. I am ending a lot of sentences on prepostions. The walk off three was sweet because the guy guarding me had no idea I had that range. Everyone on my team knew we needed a three and I could see their eyes on me in wonderment if I would get open. That's a good feeling that inspired me. When I got the pass from original Dave (too many Daves but he's the first I met at the Y), I went up without hesitation fully knowing I would end the game and stroked a beautiful, long shot. We couldn't team up again with so many people arriving and I got stuck with a mopey kid who bellowed when I turned the ball over trying to hit someone upcourt after I had committed myself to passing the ball and that option got covered up. I threw the ball into the opponents hands all day and surmised at the end it was because of the goggles and the fogging that was forcing me to miss shots wildly, as I lost more and more confidence with each play and each earful that I got. I finally came unpinned and walked up to that kid in the hallway after that game, full of venom, and let him have it. He actually backed down and told me he was frustrated. I had started with, 'You know, you can be a dick sometimes!" I think I surprised him. Afterwards, I felt like apologizing for my outburst, though I think he understood. I did make my speech about taking a positive approach and supporting people out on the court. But, I contraDICKted myself by yelling at him after the game. I do know how to support players out on the court, either persuading them not to get down on themselves or using positive reinforcement when they do something right. I just don't know how to deal with negative people, directing their comments toward me and others. Young Mike got stuck on my team after that and we had some issues. Then, he wasn't on my team and trying to take advantage of me offensively and made a few good plays that I couldn't prevent. I forced him into more errors than he'd be willing to acknowledge. He isn't as confident with the ball as he should be and I take away the options he likes most and force him to make plays. When he does, he feels good about himself. It shows in his body language. But when he gets down, boy do his shoulders droop. His energy level just drops off. It's just basketball everybody. So what if you don't win or have some bad plays? I kept trying even when I failed and had people on my back. Can't say that it didn't get me down and that I didn't give as much as I should. But I laugh and have fun instead of throwing a fit. Okay, I might still be contraDICKting myself. But it's just the negative people who get me down. I really felt like God reminded me today not to get too cocky, though I was only making a joke after that walk off three. Someone asked what team won the last game so they would know if shirts or skins got the ball first in the following game. After someone called out 'shirts' I said to an older guy (Phil), who's very conversive, that I won the game. We chuckled. I knew I really hadn't. I didn't do much in that game, but did make a grand exit. After that, I got stuck on some sucky teams. I was denied the ball mostly and had trouble making plays when I did get my touches. There were a lot of energetic and long players double teaming every possession and I managed as well as I thought I could. I just wasn't up to the level of competition on this day. God reminded me that I need my teammates for those opportunities to shine. I don't hit a walk off three if they don't hit me with the pass and throwing all their trust in me with the ball and their vigilant, trusting eyes. I fear I will have to take a break for awhile. My kids have less than two months before summer break. I don't like hauling them down to the Y, unless I really get the itch to play. I'll need more divine intervention before I can step out on that court and participate again. I could use some time off to recondition this body that needs more rest. Will I? I haven't done much likely and see no plans for the future. My right leg wants to cramp up again. My left elbow has been good of late -- about 90% good with little discomfort when I grip the ball or bang my arm. I really need to drop the weight and tighten up my mid section, actually work out. Committment. I lack that. If I really desire to impress these people and do things with the ball like I used to, I'm need to get in even better shape. I want to lose enough weight to help me bound higher, shake off defenders and drive to the hole. It would be nice to shock and awe them like I once did. I might be asking too much of myself. Part of the problem has been my diet, but that's a story for another day. Sorry for the tired language. Wanted to write this out. They all can't be gems. |
| Under Construction (working title) I seek out your chesnut hair redder than before stained with strands of gold see the familiar hazel eyes hiding behind a browner pigment and hear you say you'd like a tummy tuck and have your boobs 'done' Once I get away I view the cloudy reflection above the under-lighted vanity hunching over, wondering if my own eyes deceive Silver blades weed a dying field once Autumn now brittle and starving straying from bloodshot eyes thankful I can still see while I cannot change the course of things to come. What I want to go for is cosmetic surgery can change appearances and how we perceive one another, but also, accepting what cannot be changed and what can be accepted as a natural progression of aging. In other words, we're supposed to be comfortable in our skin and accept that we cannot turn back the clock. We cannot be ruled by vanity -- the insecurity of knowing we are going to die might drive us to be more appealing, so we cannot sense our own mortality. Just one theory, or part of this insanity. Obviously, we want to be attractive to others. I want to be direct with this poem and say at the end that I'm preparing to die, knowing I cannot stop the aging process. Nor, can I stop my loved one(s) from changing my image of her and how I want to see her grow old with me. I also wonder about past loves and where they are now and what they are doing. Ultimately, I'm reminded they will not likely be as attractive as they were before and that seems to ironically end the nostalgic fits that occupy this hapless head. I muddled through this poem thinking about how I can best describe how I see people affected by thoughts of cosmetic surgery and the little things we do to look younger. I have a more difficult time expressing how I trouble with looking older when I look in the mirror (sometimes I'm trying to change my facial expressions until I can see the boy I used to know). Pathetic. It's like we lose ourselves as we age and forget who we are and where we came from. I want to stay grounded and connected to who I am and have it be the same for the loved ones around me. I can't stop my children from growing up either. It takes time to accept this aging/changing process. Sometimes, it seems like it is going faster than it should. I want the mirror to lie until I can get a grip and just accept this process. I want to go back and be in love again the way it used to be -- excited and full of anticipation meeting someone new and not knowing what love had in store. I want that kind of youth to blossom inside of my barren soul, I desire a reawakening that Viagara cannot give. (Just for the record, I do not require it...yet  I am looking into testosterone supplements, if my doctor says it's okay, to help me with the energy I desire for sports...that's all!)I suppose basketball is a part of my younger day, my glory days. Trying to recapture something I lost, gave away, gave up on seems to be some act of seeking fulfillment, maybe unrealistically wanting redemption. I have wondered what life would have brought me if I had sought out the loves that should have endured instead of travelling down this path that brought me to a happy place, but with a lot of baggage (that I bring from life's travels). I can't have a perfect life, but I wonder if I had some do-overs whether I could correct the mistakes and perhaps positively affect lives that I altered with my selfishness of yore. If I was man enough, I would have corrected the mistakes of my past sooner. Only now am I wondering if looking up those people I let down would help them or me move forward in life, if I could muster up the courage to salve 25-year-old wounds that likely only fester now in my soul. The mirror is truth. Every day, I try to get it to lie. I too wish for a magic potion that could heal what troubles inside of me. Let me find acceptance above all else and help me know that the past and where it brings me to the present cannot be changed. |
| There are two guys who I sometimes have to guard when match-ups put me in a precarious situation that don't take advantage of my lesser skills the way they could to help their team's outcome. Both are taller and more gifted offensively, Dave and Oscar, and often pass out of the post when I guard them. They might do this because they want to facilitate other players and just make a more rounded game, knowing they could go over top of me and score play after play. Or, they are both worried I might be too physical and could hurt either one of them unnecessarily, because I have to try harder to deny them in the post. Either way, I would rather they try harder. I wasn't as good of a player about three years ago when these match-ups first presented themselves. I know Oscar shies away from contact. I'm told he's a former D1 (division one college) basketball player and he just wants to get in a few pick-up games on the afternoons he appears to stay sharp. Dave on the other hand has been unlucky around me as an older player with weakening knees. We've had collisions that were purely accidental but maybe he feels that my awkward attempts to keep up with him put his body in danger. I've seen him have me switch teams so he didn't have to be guarded by me, as recently as this week. I don't blame either of them. I am a force to be reckoned with! If it is intimidating in that respect to be on the same court with me, then I have to use that to my advantage to guard them. It's not easy to block Oscar's shot, but I've deflected two of his shots in recent months. I stuffed up Dave a few times in the game I guarded him. There was more contact than I would have liked, but I suffered the worst. Perhaps, because I was trying to deny him space and got my head and knees banged up a bit. When the tables are turned, and a smaller player guards me, I must accept the same mentality. Jimmy is a 'retired' Baptist minister who is around five and a half feet tall, older than me, but scrappy. You can tell he has some skills that carry over from his younger day, and I suspect, despite his yielding nature as a man of God, has a bit of a chip on his shoulder if he thinks anyone dismisses him on the court. I did that a bit this past week and gave him opportunities to haul in 50-50 balls (loose balls) and take uncontested shots that he knocked down. I took Jimmy in the post only when I felt my team needed another option on offense and when the opportunity was presenting itself. I could feel him in my back and sensed some urgency on his part once he realized I was serious in my endeavor. And like he's done in the past, and I was reminded of this, when I received the ball he made sure I didn't finish the play, smacking me over the hand and wrist on the first play where I had to call foul. I wondered if he thought it was a clean strip. I didn't fully bring the ball over my head to shoot and the ball was ripe for the picking when I swung around. And why I didn't start with the ball above my head before I pivoted to face the hoop, I do not know. I saw other players sprint up the court as if they did not see a foul. Of course, I had to call it. And you have to call it loud, lest they don't hear you and get miffed that you make them come back after getting so far ahead after the ball was turned over. I had to call a foul a second time on another post play and almost didn't because I was disappointed in my lackadaisical nature that allowed him to get hands on the ball and me to kill another post play. But, it was acknowledged by more than one player that time and we reset our offense. I talked to another Dave after the game and we talked about it and he helped me realize that I have to take Jimmy more seriously. And I remembered how smaller players have an advantage because they are more leveraged in your wheelhouse with the opportunity to put their upper body into your midsection and hips, making it hard to move. I had a problem with a shorter guy named Dan who kept denying me post moves and passes until I got down lower than him in a ridiculously low crouch that gave me space to catch the ball and put my big butt on him to move him out of the way. I can't get lower than Jimmy. But, I can keep the ball over his head. I just have to remember to stay competitive and not lower my guard because I think I have an advantage over someone, because they already know they have to cheat and give their best efforts to stop a bigger player from making them look ridiculous. And really, it's me who looks silly if I let a smaller player outsmart me when I have an advantage. I have to see Jimmy like he's Oscar or Big Dave and make him work hard for everything he gets. If there is one thing I do know, when the guy that has that edge over you is allowed to dominate, it becomes a major psychological uphill battle to stop them. You have to get in their head first. So, as the big guy, I have to dominate and take advantage of my match-up early to get in Jimmy's head. Once defeated, it's harder for them to keep giving the same effort and have the same outcome in my favor. With every player and every situation on the court, I am trying to make my opponent make a mistake so I can get in their head. If I think they think I'm going to do something, I show it and then pull it off the table once I see they've reacted to it -- like a player driving to the hoop looking to score while keeping their options open to pass if I sag on them. I fake the sag to get them to think pass and then take away their avenues to the hoop and to the open player once I've calculated where on the floor they have to make their decision to do either. It works quite frequently. It might also work because I probably look like a crazy man in bandanna, goggles and patella straps slamming my size 15 shoots in the floor and they just don't want to get hurt. Whatever works. I want to have the psychological edge. |
| I realize I take a big risk just by participating in pick-up games at the Y. My eyes are vulnerable even with goggles...rec specs. And I have broken two pairs from collisions with my head. Most mishaps I cause, the last a swipe at the ball by another player who landed on my head. It broke my recently glued pair for the last time. Yet, I held on to those frames instead of tossing them in the can. Why? My oldest pair are ready to go, super glued after a crack to the frame that ended their service over a year ago. I could wear them again today, or wait under I find a new pair (not a chance). I prepared to order a new pair, but needed a prescription to complete the transaction and my eye doc offices closed at five. I could walk in and get the prescription tomorrow to hand deliver, but I also just started wondering if I need the corrective lens after all. I decided I do, because I am trying to get every kind of edge possible to help my play. It's bad enough that I have so many blind spots to go with the tunnel vision. Going back to the old frames, which weren't clear like the new ones that broke (or the pair that I'm ordering), makes me realize how a little hinderance greatly affects one with limited vision. When the blue goggles started fogging up last week, I was blinder than ever and had to rely on my instincts even more. The new frames will have coating to reduce glare from lights and the glass backboard that reflects light. When I'm under the basket and so near to my target, it is really difficult to see the goal and the ball. It's like flash photography that holds or distorts imagines, like a camera being adjusted to focus on an image. I'm dealing with split second images and decisions. I want to get back anything I have lost to glaucoma to help me see and then be more confident on the court. It took me forever to get used to receiving passes. The shorter the distant traveled, the more difficult to pick up the ball on my radar...because I don't know sometimes if it's a bounce pass or coming on a straight line. And then there's the speed. The more time it takes the ball to arrive, the better my chances are of adjusting. I looked foolish for awhile. People started to wonder about my play because I looked so uncomfortable trying to haul in a throw or even go after a rebound or loose ball. They yelled at me for spending so much time on the perimeter, my comfort zone, instead of rolling with the picks I set or generally making cuts, even with picks set for me. I learned to put myself in the best situations to catch a ball. I eventually got more confident with pick-and-roll plays and knowing how to space myself and finding a pass as I flashed to the hoop. But, I was only as good as my last play. So, if I got on a roll and the juices were flowing, it was going to be a good day. If I screwed up early, I would have to work extra hard to earn the trust of my teammates. It helped that I adjusted my game to that of a perimeter shooter. But, I need to challenge myself more. I need to put my back to the basket and react to the direction of the ball when I don't see it. I have to do that on defense, because the person I'm guarding dictates where I get to position myself when the ball is working its way around. I now enjoy passing up a three-point try and making people pay for guarding me too closely outside. Driving inside presents a lot of options, but again, I have to have the right eyewear to help my vision so I can make quicker, better decisions that will allow others to entrust me with the ball more. More touches equals more greatness. I can distribute the basketball very well and remember it was the part of the game I first fell in love with when I was 15 and impressed my coaches with the three-on-two fast break drills. I think it was my ability to show what I could do handling the ball that got me on the sophomore squad. It was the last year I participated in high school athletics. A story for another day. It feels like I am getting back the edge that I lost when I use sports equipment like goggles, patella straps, ankle braces, sports drinks, energy drinks, over the counter pharmaceuticals, and more. Anything that will inspire confidence, even though with a bandanna wrapped around my head, I look like that annoying dweeb who thinks he can play basketball. I have to work a lot harder now to show them I can. I wish I could play sans all and just be out there with a good pair of high tops, baggy shorts and a grin on my face. Goggles will be ready in two weeks! yeesh. |
| I forced myself to play all four days in a row this week while the children were away. I almost didn't play Friday because I only got three and a half hours sleep before I shot up in my bed and decided I needed to go downstairs and spend some time on my computer. I had hoped I would feel sleepy again., but I never did. I think I consume so much caffeine and other stimulants during the week that it catches up with me in the end. I slept like a soggy log last night. I woke in the middle of the night to find the sheets soaked with my sweat. I turned off the heated blanket and took off my pajama bottoms and slept the rest of the night with one leg over the covers. After eight hours, I still didn't want to get up, but forced myself. I took a hot bath and worked on a New York Times crossword puzzle while I was in the tub. The lighting was good, but without bifocals the words still blurred at times and it was a struggle. My body aches, especially the right hamstring that nearly popped in the past few days. I took a hot tub before Friday's games, a short 10-15 minutes to loosen up and invigorate. It worked, but I couldn't stop sweating when I hit the gym and the floor. My goggles fogged so fast, I had to keep lifting them up or blow on them when there wasn't enough action to let me run about so I could keep them dry. My wife super glued an older pair of rec specs that had also busted in the same right temple corner. I decided to give up on the recent pair, because they were tight and scraped my eye the last time they flew off my face. The older pair was harder to see with, because the frames were not clear, but blue. Add the vaporized lens and I was really blind. Yet, I managed. Hobbled with a tight leg that worsened by the last game, I still made great defensive plays. I did shoot one air ball, but Jeremy gave me a second try right after and I drained it. I had a few key three-point shots and did some good work inside. Young Mike tried to take me in the post again. I swiped away the entry pass, it got kicked back to him in the scrum in the lane that followed, and he went up and faded baseline aiming for the glass. I got a piece of him and the ball and he quickly claimed foul. Marginal, but acceptable call. The game ended on the next play when someone got hurt, so I didn't get to further frustrate him. I won't ever allow him to get confident while we're playing each other. He is too easy to figure out and manipulate to give him opportunities to think he's better than me. It motivates me to play guys like him. I don't have to say anything -- just let my play speak. He was running down guys like Clay who made poor decisions, loudly and derisively yelling, "Come on!" What can you do? I prefer to let them figure out their mistakes by not saying anything. I had another blog post to fill out from the other day and I am already writing this. Oh, well. Another time. Told my wife I was going to take a break from basketball to let my body heal up (eye, groin) and until I can get a new pair of prescription goggles. You know, for as much as my previous pairs have suffered from blows to the face and head, you would think I would second guess how and why I play basketball. I risk losing vision trusting some specs that I bought at Wal-Mart to keep my eyes safely secured in their orbital resting places. I have suffered scratches over each eye lid and a lacertion over my eyebrow and orbital bone. Yet, when the goggles break, I put on my glasses and keep running. The clear rec specs that I was using for the last year were supposed to only be my backups, replacement goggles. That's because they were too tight and deemed a waste of money. I kept them and used them to replace the first pair that broke. And now they break and I fix them and my old pair and I still haven't gotten a replacement. Risky? I play to get back what I missed out on, hoping I'll get back a little of what I lost. This is quality of life. Though, I risk quality life hereafter. Basketball is like a creative outlet, and thus, a source of pleasure for one who yearns to recapture former glory...and possibly still write a new chapter. Just don't know the end to this novel. |
| Bullet Points I have yet to process the events of the day playing ball at the YMCA gym. I will decompress my thoughts on these subjects and more when I return from dinner with my wife. (Still no kids! But only one whole day left) I'm An Idiot... ...because my goggles broke away and flew off my face after I got hit gathering in a rebound. My orbital socket started to bleed, so I took myself out of the game. I stopped the bleeding and pulled a band-aid from my wallet and applied it while using the bathroom mirror to place it just over the eyebrow under my glasses. I got back into the next game and played out the day in my regular glasses without incident. I'm an idiot. The Saving Play... ...was a thing of beauty. I was playing good defense again and on one particular play I stole a ball in a manner that felt like I had mastered walking a high wire. The other team had just recovered the ball and the guy I was guarding, Tyrone, was on a hot streak and was ahead of me down court. He had enough room sideline to receive a pass and I had not yet closed on that space. I like to bait people into throwing passes into places where I can close on the ball and steal it. Another player from my team was retreating nearby when I saw the pass come and pounced. They underestimated my closing speed. I had little room to work as I tried to knock the ball to my teammate, but the ball went straight up into the air and I was falling out of bounds. No problem. I managed to cup the ball with my other hand as I was running by and from behind my back was able to flip it without looking to my teammate, who was still standing near. The next thing I know, my teammates were about to score at the other end of the court. I felt calm, collected and didn't hear any adulation. Because, I think it's expected of me now. Players are not surprised when I make hustle plays like that. I'll say it surprised me, that I pulled it off so adeptly, my saving play. James Jones and Me... ...both like to shoot the three from way out. When I started stepping back to launch my missles it raised a lot of eyebrows and drew quite a few groans. They weren't going in as frequently, because I was adjusting my game to suit my blindness. So, if I set my feet to shoot more than two feet behind the arc, I heard a lot of teammates dissuade me from trying. I knew I could make them, because I had spent a lot of time shooting them in preparation of pick-up games. But, they didn't know me. People did know James Jones. As the Green Bay Packers wide receiver, he made a lot of new friends when he came to the gym to play his brand of ball. It involved quite a few pull up threes from 23-feet out or longer. NBA threes. He could make them and didn't look bad missing. I also knew I could can shots like that. He and I developed an unspoken rapport when I kept draining those shots in shoot-a-rounds. He set me up for a few tries in the games we played together. The encouragement helped. Because he liked my shooting ability and because he paved the way with his long range artillery, more people were accepting when I launched my long heaves that started going in. The more I burned people with that shot, the further out the defense was drawn. James Jones helped me gain acceptance in that gym where I once felt like a stranger. I now feel people have come to know me through my game and will give me some respect for my shooting ability. And now, I have to prove to them I can do more...off the dribble, as a passer and an inside player. John Kuhn and Me I have some thoughts on this Packer player who has participated at the Y and may be returning sometime soon. (Saw him working out on Thursday as I was leaving) I will revisit this part of blog post to finish another time because I cannot recall now what I was thinking of writing. |
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In the Falkland Islands, internet is very limited and very expensive. The place I'm currently staying only lets me use it in the middle of the night, so when I have to get up at 3 am to check my texts (no cell service to the US here unless I'm on the internet) or WdC, I don't do nearly as much as I used to. 
I currently have 2 very long emails I still need to get to from several days ago. Anyway, I miss everyone, but I also miss sleep, so there's that. 
Have you spoken to the doctor about your vision problems lately? I know there are special glasses for it because I have to wear them to read much ever since the brain injury. It's part of why I now only listen to audiobooks instead of reading regular books. It took 8 years for anyone to diagnose it because I have a brain injury and while one might think it would be obvious to me that I see double, it wasn't. Partly, my brain does a fair job of compensating. But also, partly, you use your brain to realize and understand that the 2 images you constantly see are double vision and something you should mention to your eye doctor. Since my brain was damaged, even basic things like that can escape me. 
I never once thought to mention it, even with annual eye exams in the Army and an exam every 2 years at the VA. Though, in my defense, since it happens in something like 41% of people with a brain injury, it should have been discovered by an eye doctor much sooner. 
I know doing that activity is a CRAP TON of work. But you made a difference in lives, not just his, but for all the people he's reviewed since. 
Well done! 
