Karma, Kramer

Karma:  A force or law of nature which causes one to reap what one sows.

It's not magic here, is it?  I used to think life was a big Magic Eight Ball of whimsical and random answers, that there was no cause and effect, no reward for hard work or consequences for bad behavior.  Some large hand in the sky, some Hand of Doom, would strike my face or pat my head following whatever cruel whimsy ruled the day.  

This is why I sat around, smoked dope and drank beer, watching TV.  None of it made any difference.  The die was cast.  My fate was determined.  The Hand of Doom was poised, hovering.

(Ed Note: Hand of Doom is an excellent Black Sabbath song - check it out).

What a lazy ass I was. What a quitter.

That being said there is an unknowable ebb and flow to life.  My friend's sudden death is a good example.  He didn't get to live as long as he wanted to live, and this was through no fault of his own, not a punishment for some wrong in his past.  It was what it was.  Yet, he had a good life because he behaved well and cared more about others than about himself.

So . . . what is the answer to all of this?  I guess live a good life, seeking god and serving others, and hope you don't have something floating around in your head that's going to clog up an important blood vessel.  Good actions lead to good results.  Bad shit happens to good people.  Who the fuck knows why?

"That ye may be the children of your father which is in heaven.  For he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.

What a kook, that guy.

Off To The Big Meeting In The Sky

So I sent the following note to the wife of my buddy who passed suddenly. Hope it helps somehow.

I am, like so many others who loved S, sitting here this morning with a heavy heart.  What a kind, generous man, that big, goofy smile always plastered across his face.  

I pride myself on needling my friends just to get under their skin but I never was able to get under S’s skin, not once, which really got under my skin, a source of never-ending glee for him. For a while after I moved I tried reaching him on the phone which always resulted in a text reply instead of a return call.  Mildly miffed, I finally challenged him on this, protesting that a response in kind was called for.  He laughed a lot, and continued to text back, shuddering in mock horror at the thought of actually “talking to someone.”  Finally, I got it - not a phone guy.  But S, of all of my Old City friends, was always the one who, hearing that I was in town, would show up at whatever meeting I attended.  The last time I saw him was at my father’s funeral last year, one of just a couple of friends who showed up,.

I think a lot about the 3 or 4 times that I stayed with you two when I was still coming home to finish up some work obligations.  Taking walks on the trails he was making in the woods, sharing great meals, rolling my eyes as S explained in detail who was the current favorite to win on American Idol, and why.  Or having him try to explain some weird Galilean theory he was trying to work out- I think I’m a pretty smart guy but I had no idea what he was talking about half the time.  Thank you for those memories.

I’m not really a New Age devotee but I wanted to share some New Age stuff with you.  There’s a lot of information dating back a long time about the symbolism found in birds.  When my mother died a few years back a couple of doves started to sit on top of our chimney here in SoCal and sing - I swear it sounded like they had an amplified bullhorn up there.  After dad died - he had binoculars and a bird book sitting next to his easy chair that he used to track the wildlife outside his retirement home - I took out his hummingbird feeder and found some old sugar water.  Even though it was very early spring - too early for the hummingbirds - and they’re famously persnickety about old food, it wasn’t but a couple of minutes before one showed up, and he was a visitor until I had the apartment closed up.  My research showed that doves are associated with peace and hummingbirds with faithfulness - I couldn’t have come up with a better one word summary for my folks.

On one of my trips S pointed out this big owl that sat in the tree on the left side of your driveway.  Do you remember that owl?  That dude didn’t budge if you approached him, sitting there and blinking slowly.  I loved that owl.  It really gave me a thrill to see him every time I pulled down your driveway.

Anyway, owls are associated with magic and silent wisdom.   Doesn’t that seem perfect for S?  I think that big owl was a messenger or a symbol or something.  Keep your eyes peeled - I wouldn’t be surprised to see him show up again.

With much love and greater sadness,

Seaweed

The Muddled Answer is Perfectly Clear

Wait: To delay movement or action until some event or time; to remain neglected or in readiness. 

I'm pondering in the silence of my Devotion Space the amazing ways that the prayers I offer up are answered, or the voids I leave open when I meditate are populated with responses.  I have never been able to completely abandon the idea that my Higher Power is sitting there, pen and pad in hand, ready to jot down an immediate response to whatever self-centered screed I need answered.  He's a clever one, my higher power.  He answers, he always answers, it's just that the answers take so many shapes and forms.

One of my bad jokes is that I really want a dedicated hot line to heaven - like the one that's supposed to exist between Washington and Moscow so the leaders can quickly talk if nuclear winter seems imminent - that I can pick up each morning in order to dictate my needs and wants in excruciating detail to god.  Maybe it could be one of those tubes you can use at the drive-up window of a bank - you put your correspondence inside and vacuum pressure sucks it into the bowels of the bank.  A minute later you get your response.

A lot of the time the answers are pretty clear.  In others a unseen side alley or a trail hidden by vegetation opens up.  Unfortunately, of course, it's very common to have an obstacle thrown in my path that I have to overcome in order to get to the place I'm meant to be.  And then there's The Silence.  Nothing but Silence.  Wait.  Be patient.  Something will be revealed when it's time for that something to be revealed, and not a minute sooner.

I Can't Think Up A Title For This One

I believe that one of the accurate indicators of a true friendship is revealed when old friends meet up after a long absence.  With some people I feel like I'm continuing a conversation I had yesterday.  There are no awkward silences or stock questions like: "So . . . what's been going on?"  I hate that question when I'm talking to someone I haven't seen in two years.  I'm lucky if I know the numeral associated with today's date  - I'm supposed to recap two years?  "Well, I was happy, then I got depressed followed by a brief rage, Christmas was good, I had outpatient leg surgery where some dude stuck long needles into my musculature, and we went to Vietnam.  You?"

I need to remember this.  I put too much stock in regular contact, a technique that works for some people but not for others.  When I was newly gone from The Old City I tried to stay in touch with a bunch of people, including my buddy who just died.  If I called him, he would text back.  Once I objected, telling him that wasn't acceptable, it wasn't a tit for tat response, an effort that paled in comparison to mine.  He laughed and kept doing whatever he wanted.  Finally, I got it - he wasn't a phone guy and no amount of berating on my part was going to change this.  He was a show-up-for-regular-Saturday-lunch-every-Saturday guy.  I didn't go every week - I didn't like the dynamic of a big table full of guys - and he never called me on my spotty attendance.  I like the phone - he liked the lunch.

So I have been trying to release my mom and my dad and my old sponsor in my morning prayers.  I have also been trying to release The Old City and all of my friends there.  I don't want to be mad at these guys.  These are my guys.  And it has been 6 years since I left.  That's a chunk of time.  I'm much more comfortable with abstract prayers like this as opposed to specific requests for specific things, even when I temper such nonsense with the old "if it be your will" qualifier.  Prayers like this often exploit some weird, unexpected loophole, which burns my ass more often than not.

I also find that I learn through effort and I learn a lot by working through a difficulty.  My higher power never seems to strike me patient or tolerant or calm, preferring instead the irritating habit of placing an obstacle in my way that, once overcome, leads me to the solution I would rather absorb by osmosis.  My irritation at the deafening silence coming out of The Old City would indicate that my prayers of release have been hollow, empty words that I didn't believe.

Good for me. 

Pious When Right Which I Always Am

Sanctimonious:  Making a show of being morally better than others, especially hypocritically pious.

Continuing in the "just like that" theme I found out that a dear, old friend from The New City suffered a massive stroke, was quickly declared brain dead, and died shortly after life support was switched off.  I'm speculating here because I'm having trouble getting updates from the crew back home even though I'm doing a lot of reaching out.  And it has been established, of course, that it is all about me, and this holds true even when someone else has suffered a tragedy.  I can bring it all back to me at the drop of a hat.  It is my unique talent.

I'm confusing my sadness over this very sad event with my irritation that I'm so out o the loop. What do I expect?  It has been six years since I saddled up my ponies and hit the trail out west, a long time to keep the intimacy and connectedness alive in relationships.  Fair enough.  But I have to balance this with the fact that I'm good at reaching out and staying in touch so I'm feeling some natural frustration at the lackadaisical response.  I can forgive people for being distracted by their suffering but I still don't get it completely.   I wouldn't treat people this way so I'm not as understanding when I'm treated this way.

So I'm sad at the loss of my buddy, mad at the disrespect I'm being shown, and embarrassed that I'm somehow managing to turn a tragic, sudden death into a petty story about what's going on with me.  

I go to the meeting yesterday morning and one of my friends starts texting during the readings.  I try to balance my Bleeding Deacon-sim (not my business what this dude is doing) with my Elder Statesmanship (fact: it's rude, disrespectful, and sends the wrong message to newcomers, not forgetting that it hurts the person not paying attention).  My friend is a confrontational guy like me so let's say this didn't go well.

I'm pondering an amend but I don't think it's coming because I'm right and when I'm right I'm unbelievably sanctimonious. 

Just Like That

Grief:  Pain of mind arising from misfortune, significant personal loss, misconduct of oneself or others, etc.  

I have continued to attend a grief support group every other week.  I don't know, I'm not totally sold on the concept yet.  It seems like a solid, healthy thing to do and, god knows. some of the folks in the group really need to hang their hat on something.  I continue to marvel at the variety of strengths of The Fellowship: our patience with ideas which may not fit our world view; the ease and frequency with which we get to talk to people about all manner of things going on in our life; the sense of belonging that comes when we gather together with other humans who have undergone some of the same bad shit that we went through.

There are a few people in the group who clearly don't have anyone else to talk to about what they're going through.  I get this - it can be uncomfortable sharing deep feelings, especially ones that we're not used to feeling.  Part of the reason I'm going is that perhaps I can be an ass in a seat so these folks have someone to listen when they share.  That might sound arrogant, to a small degree, and I don't mean it to - it's just that if I show up at a meeting with something to get off my chest and there's no one there that something remains on my chest.

I was struck last week at the varieties of grief - attendees have lost a son, a brother, mothers and fathers; they've lost beloved pets; they have had physical injuries with an accordant loss of function; they're enduring divorces after many years with a partner.  And I'm struck at how the length and intensity of the grief can vary - being an intolerant sort I whipsaw between disbelief that someone can still be grieving long after the loss of a relationship that doesn't seem monumental and amazement that someone else can find the strength to even get out of bed.

A dear friend of mine had a massive stroke a couple of days ago and has been declared brain dead.  He's on life support with a DNR order, waiting quietly for an out of state daughter to arrive at which point I believe they turn off the ventilator.  I've learned that I have to go through what I have to go through.  There's no set of instructions for this kind of stuff.

Intolerant Tolerance

Tolerant:  Tending to permit, understand, allow, or accept something.

As I whipsaw back and forth between tolerance and intolerance some oldies but goodies try to worm their way into my dark and cobwebby awareness . . . 

We love people for who they are, not for who we want them to be.

I'm encouraged to think of someone I love, someone I know well, someone I see often but don't know at all, and someone who really sticks in my craw.  After I ponder each person for a minute I say these affirmations:
May you be happy.
May you be healthy and well.
May you be free from mental and physical suffering.
May you be . . .  something or the other.  Hang on - gotta look this one up.

May you live without fear and have peace in all ways.

And from the inventory part of The Program at the spot where we are contemplating how to deal with some asshole who desperately needs to have the shit choked out of him:
"This was our course:  We realized that the people who wronged us were perhaps spiritually sick.  Though we did not like their symptoms and the way these disturbed us, they, like ourselves, were sick too.  We asked god to help us show them the same tolerance, pity, and patience that we would cheerfully grant a sick friend.  When a person offended we said to ourselves, 'This is a sick man.  How can I be helpful to him?"

This is pretty good stuff.  I like the general tone but I'm a little uncomfortable as to how it sort of implies that I'm in the right and the other guy isn't.   While it's somewhat generous to add the adverb "perhaps" when describing the nature of the other person's spiritual problem, I'd suggest that we also could have implied perhaps the other person was reacting to our own not inconsiderable dickishness.  Our founder also stuck in the intimation that "like ourselves" others may be spiritually sick.  Yeah, well, I'm going to stick in the other intimation that we're pretty messed up as a general rule.

Isn't there also a paragraph that says that we triumphantly seize on the shortcomings of others to avoid looking at our own flaws?

Lots of good stuff to help me validate all of my sins and inadequacies.

Tiny Needles

I had a follow-up appointment for the surgery that was inflicted upon my legs a couple of months back.  You know - the surgery where I declined the medication without talking to anyone in recovery before going in for the surgery that hurt like a sumbitch?  That surgery?  The one where I really wished I had taken the medication?

I understood that round two was going to be much less extensive than round one.  This means pain but not for such an extended period of time.  Nonetheless, I really was up in the air about the medication this time.  I'm one of those people that can't look when I'm getting a flu shot or having my blood drawn, procedures where tiny little needles are used.  Most of the time I can barely feel the thing going in and I still want to vomit.  The leg surgery uses needles roughly the size of a World War Two bazooka.  You can feel them going in, oh, yeah.

They did not offer the medication this time, solving the ethical question for me, and it still hurt like hell.

Show Up or Shut Up

We lost a member of my home group a few weeks ago.  He started attending meetings a couple of years back, bounced in and out for a while, before finally settling in on what looked to be permanent, continuous sobriety, although all of us know that's not set in stone for even people with long-term sobriety.  He was about 50 and had recently lost a lot of weight.  I believe he had a nice drug habit as well.  It looks like he had a heart attack - there were no signs of drug and/or alcohol abuse around - but we never know about that, either.  Years of addiction and lousy life-style choices take their toll.  All of us that knew him have decided to think the most positive thoughts.

There was a funeral and wake yesterday for this man.  In the part of the country where The Old City crouches - admittedly a much more traditional, religious, family-centric region - the event would be packed with members of the groups he regularly attended.  I've told the story many times of declining a suggestion to show up at a member's ceremony with the excuse that funerals "weren't really my thing" and being told, somewhat bluntly, that funerals weren't anyone's thing, that they weren't meant to be parties or some other fun thing.  They were FUNERALS!

Here - not so much.  Out of a rotating membership of 75  people in my home group maybe 8 showed up.  This appalled me.  However, from the dung heap of other people failing to meet my expectations sprang this delicate flower - the attendance of two of the most disruptive, least-liked members of the group there, mentally-challenged people who rub most of us the wrong way, me included.  One guy had made an effort to comb his hair and clean up a bit and didn't let loose the string of expletives that I normally associate with his sharing.

So be it.  I choose to look at the bright side here and avoid the dank.  I don't hold anything against the non-attendees.  I have, however, loaded a rather large howitzer with a rather large high-explosive shell which I will loose upon any non-attendee who voices any negative comments about our disruptive members.

You get to do whatever you like but that doesn't mean I have to like it.

Ethics 101

Intention:  A stretching or bending of the mind toward an object.

More lessons from the Ethics Department . . .  (Ed. Note: I don't know where this department is located - apparently I went to schools that defunded the ethics department or never established one in the first place).

I've written at length about a sum of money that my dear sister spirited out of one of my dad's checking accounts - allegedly with his approval - under the cloak of night, behind my back and behind closed doors, in a For Your Eyes Only - Top Secret kind of transaction.  Because I have some serious training in the Don't Act Like An Ass ALL of the Time Department I was able to process through this with a minimum of damage, roughly in the following manner: get pissed; escalate this status to very pissed; sleep on it without . . . you know . . . talking; seek counsel from other wiser souls; make a judgment right out of the Do You Want to be Right or Do You Want to be Happy Department; move on with one's life.  I did this with the firm belief that my sister snagged some of my money and she snagged it believing her snag would go undetected.  I can still hear the stress in her voice as she tried to explain - flimsily - why this went down.  I've always said that the worst thing about lying is that you can be caught in the lie.  Otherwise, I have no strong objection to lying, befitting a tremendously talented liar who has practiced and perfected his craft over long periods of time.

So in the world of money the sum we're talking about is a sum I can afford but a not insignificant sum - I believe all of us need to look at money in the harsh, unforgiving, factual glare of an accountant's accountant lamp.  There are, for each of us, amounts of money that are small enough to ignore, amounts on the other end of the spectrum, and amounts in between.  The trouble for me is that if I think it's my money then I'm never comfortable not having it.  I've only learned in The Program how to process this in a somewhat healthy manner.

The ethical question, you ask?  I received a check from a hitherto undiscovered life insurance policy my father held, a not insignificant amount but an amount far lower than the amount I was fucking screwed out of . . . er . . . I mean that my father wanted my sister to have.  Every asset dad had has to be accounted for  in the court system and I mean copy of the check and copy of the bank statement and copy of the bill and blah blah blah.  And because the estate was opened with a list of assets any new ones require that we submit all of this new shit WITH a "Previously Unknown Asset" form.  This keeps the estate open and it allows our lawyer to keep charging whatever unconscionable hourly rate he's charging.

Thusly, I deposited this money in my own personal checking account to avoid jumping through hoops while securing some kind of return on the money.  Now, do I tell my sister.  My intention is to do just that.

Give Me My Money Back!

As we were careening around NZ I took some time every few days to send a note to the young woman who planned our vacation.  I was having a great time so most of what I wrote was positive but I also pointed out the occasional screw-up or discrepancy in our itinerary in what I believe was a kind, calm, factual manner, even though I paid good money for my trip so I didn't expect any mistakes ever in its execution.  Seriously, though, I learn more from correcting my mistakes than I do from my sailing through things with flying colors.  Sometimes SuperK and I found trails or restaurants or sites that we thought were very good and I wanted to pass this info along.  A couple of times the things we did were better suited for someone who may have been about 82 years younger than we were.  I don't think I complained or I whined or I cast the trip in a dark manner.  I really love to travel and it gives me great pleasure passing tips and shit along.

At the end of the trip our planner sent a nice, non-defensive explanation of why things may have diverged.  She has to link information that her literature department compiles - which she admitted is usually but not always up to date - with information that different tour operators who are actually in NZ provide.  There was one tour that was mangled and one that was frayed so I asked for some consideration on this - one of the hazards of pre-booking far in advance is that you have paid your bill and they gots your money and if you don't show they keeps your money.

This woman writes me back and says that we will be getting a full refund for both tours.  KK and I kick this around - we want to be fair - and decide to tell her that we'd be happy with half of that. The tours were messed up but not disasters.  I expect a certain amount of confusion on a long trip like this.


Her response:  "This is why the feedback you provide is so valuable when you return. For each accommodation, excursion, and tour, we have an accompanying text block in our system that prints in your documents.  Part of the reason we go on our trips each year is to go through and edit these to be sure they are accurate and up to date. If the person doesn’t update these right away or information is misconstrued, this can cause small details and descriptions to be incorrect or outdated. We have a product team that works on these text elements which is who I have given all your feedback to. They are now in the process of contacting the suppliers, finding out why these elements weren’t already updated and make the necessary changes. 

I want to thank you again for taking the time to provide all of this feedback. I actually have a little folder here of the pieces you’ve brought back that I have already given to my product team. I know you had to deal with some inaccuracies that I apologize for but you are really helping my team here as well as future travelers with all these notes.

I feel pretty good about this.  I feel like I helped someone out, an organization, even.  Maybe someone will have a better trip in the future because I did this.  I bet that the advice wouldn't have been given much consideration if I had been angry or belittling or demanded a full refund  - I can only imagine that a tour planner has to deal with all kinds of budgets and expectations and temperaments.  What is luxurious for me may be a shack for someone else.  And, as usually happens, when I'm fair with someone I receive rewards in kind.  I didn't pitch a bitch so I'm getting a much bigger refund than I expected, and with a huge amount of peace of mind.  

Big Mo

Momentum:  The force , either of a body in motion, or of an idea or course of events; in physics, the tendency of a body to maintain its inertial motion, the product of its mass and velocity.

I find it comforting to see the world as a series of images or maybe analogies.  Perhaps this is the storyteller in me.  Perhaps it is the continuation of a long string of LSD flashbacks.  Anyway, talking about the resistant newcomer with my extremely nice friends made me think about how difficult it is to move forward with sobriety once the decision is made to be sober.  Honestly, most of the things that I've wanted to accomplish that were difficult took some work to overcome the sheer momentum of inertia.  I have little notes in my little notebook about tasks I want to complete or behavior that I want to eliminate that I've been moving forward for years.  Maybe I'll get to them someday, maybe tomorrow, but it wouldn't be outrageous to suggest that they've got the upper hand and may remain undone.

There was a guy in The Old City who described the difficulty he had in early sobriety in nuclear warfare terms, an apt metaphor if you think about it.  He said that he had spent his entire life getting up and launching long-range warheads at the people, places, and institutions that were on his Shit List.  Ka-boom.  Ka-blooey.  Then he quit drinking and stopped the regular launches.  Good for him but the air was still full of the missiles that he had been firing off.  The Ka-booms and Ka-blooeys continued to occur.  So it can be frustrating changing one's M.O.  It doesn't happen with the snap of your fingers.

I like the imagery of being the captain of a large battleship.  At first I was out at sea so my reckless boat operation was relatively benign.  As I continued to drive or pilot or whatever you do with a battleship - I'm not a boat guy which begs the question: what's with the boat analogy? - at a high rate of speed I got closer and closer to the shore, eventually beginning to blast through swimming areas and run over smaller boats and crush the odd dock or wharf or pier or breakwater.  OK, I get sober and turn off the boat engines but the boat is not a tricycle so it continues to smash over shit.  This happens for a while.  It's a big boat and it has a lot of momentum.

The lesson here is to buy a small boat.

Sponsoring an Initiate

Sponsor:  A senior member of a twelve step or similar program assigned to guide a new initiate and form a partnership with him. (Ed Note: I laughed out loud when I read this one.  The good people at Webster's need to make a couple of calls before publishing tripe like this.  I've never heard a new person called an initiate.  What do they think this is - a fraternity?  Initiates get paddled and then get drunk).

I went out for coffee after the meeting this morning with a couple of good friends.  Henry asked me to go and I declined initially - the best answer when one is unsure is always No because that can be changed to Yes more easily than the other way around - before thinking: "What exactly do you have going on, anyway?"  When ever someone asks me to do something that may involve human to human interaction I defer.  It gets too peopley most of the time.  I don't want to do anything if it involves other people.  Other people are the worst.

These guys wanted to talk about a new man who has been struggling to stay sober.  I could tell that this was not the first time they had kicked around some ideas about a good course of action. I ate my bagel and eggs and listened, an unusual turn of affairs for a know-it-all like me.  I figure I should be telling people what to do, not listening to them talk.  If I have to be around other people at least they can let me tell them what to do.  Who knows better than me?

They are such nice men.  I'm pretty nice but I'm not even in the same general universe of niceness as these guys are.  This is very typical of the part of the country I live in - people are generally positive and laid-back and . . . you know . . . nice.  Happy.  I know - it's pretty fucked-up.  I do not get it.

I got to weigh in eventually and my opinion - honed from many years of life in a more assertive part of the country - was to boot his ass to the curb, with a lot of kindness and empathy.  I think there is helping someone and there is enabling someone, and my friends were veering into the enabling section of the bookstore.  But then again, what do I know?  There are people out there who need an extra dose of TLC and there are people out there - I'm looking at you, Seaweed - who need an extra dose of boot-up-the-ass.

I shared the fact that precisely two men have asked me to sponsor them in almost 4 years of residence in this fine community - one guy is at the meeting every morning, has 15 years of sobriety, is doing fine, and has called me precisely once; the other guy disappeared for about two years and when I last saw him he was living on the streets in a most precise manner.  In the New City - full of rain and dark youths - I had like 1,329 people ask me to sponsor them.  Seriously. Go figure.  Who knows?  Maybe I'm the dark one now.  What a weird, strange journey this is.

I'm OK with this turn of events - I'm not a patient man and new people beg for a lot of patience.  I realize that working with the newly sober can be very satisfying and good for the sober soul but all I can do is raise my hand when the secretary asks for volunteers to be temporary sponsors.  I do try to get to the meeting early and work the room - I'm so very outgoing and willing to stick out my hand and try to make everyone feel welcome.  I can't tell you how many times someone has said: "Thanks for listening."  People seem to like this.

Maybe I'm sponsoring the whole goddam room.  Didja ever think about that.

Buddy

So this single guy moves into the trailer house across from mine.  I don't particularly like him.  I don't particularly like anybody so this is not surprising.  He's a nice enough guy but he's a little too interested in my life.  I prefer to wave at my neighbors from across the street, hey, howya doin'?, that kind of stuff.  I don't really want to talk to anyone.  I used to have a coffee cup that said: "Have a nice day elsewhere."

Still, he's new to the area and I know the feeling of being the new guy and not knowing anyone.  A couple of weeks ago I asked him if he'd like to join SuperK and me for our weekly blues outing - he seemed really grateful but had something else going on which was a blessing that didn't even bother with the disguise.  It was right out there, loud and proud.  Last Friday, as we were duding up for some more music I saw his light on across the street and - against my better judgment - asked SuperK if I should invite him again.  As you might surmise I didn't really want him to come what with all of the not liking other people thing still highly active.

I knocked on the door and we chatted for a minute or so.  Sort of out of nowhere he said: "Seaweed, could you call me Jake and not 'buddy?' "  He continued by saying that this must be some kind of Program thing where we try to make everyone feel welcome right before we go right into the mandatory group hug while chanting Kumbaya.  Or something like that.  I didn't know what the fuck he was talking about.  I call people dude or my brother or big guy or sweetie or dear, all kinds of stuff.  I don't even know when it's coming out.  I don't know anything about half the shit that comes out of my mouth.  It comes out.  I'm a bystander most of the time, watching shit come on out.

I do really enjoy, in an odd way, the experience of being caught flat-footed and tongue-tied.  There are many things that I am not but at a loss for words is not one of them.  I wasn't mad - fuck do I care what he wants to be called, right? - but I confess to having some thoughts ricochet around the old noggin.  Like "why would he bring this up right now when I'm asking him to join us for some music?"  Bad timing.  Not good timing.  Then again maybe he doesn't like me which would actually amuse the shit out of me.  I've gotten to the point where I have much more respect for people who hate my guts than for the idiots who like me.

It also made me aware - for the thousandth time - how many misconceptions there are about The Fellowship.  Obviously I told this guy I was in recovery - I've very open about that, even with strangers - and obviously he uploaded a whole lot of pre-conceived notions.  Again, don't care but it does make me ponder how recovering alcoholics and drug addicts are perceived by some people, odd as they may be.  I think he'd be stunned to learn that more often than not there is ass-kicking going on and not coo-cooing.

I'll tell you what and I say this resentment free - the ball's in this guy's court and he's facing a lot of pressure.  Our relationship is in the He's In A Deep Hole phase.  He can go find his own music to go to by himself.

And, of course, I'm sure that he may be sitting over in his house thinking: "Man, I hope that asshole leaves me alone."  

It's not unheard of.  I can be an asshole.

Go, A Little Bit

I've had some release with my dear, departed dad, too.  He did the best job that he could and he didn't do a bad, either - he just didn't do the job that I wanted him to do.  This is a far different situation where my behavior is concerned, of course, as all of my dealings with other people leave a pleasant, pleasing fragrance hanging in the air.  Sure, I'm always a joy to be around.

In my efforts to reconcile all of my feelings about my dear, departed parents and my dear, departed sponsor I have been telling them each morning in my Quiet Time that I love them and miss them and that I'm going to let them go a little bit.  This last part is somewhat newish.  I don't want to forget them but instead let them inhabit their current space - whatever that may be -  and not demand that they occupy so much my space - which they clearly can no longer do.  I believe I can do this and honor their love and friendship while stepping away from the control and sorrow. We are clearly in different spaces.  This doesn't mean that we can't feel the presence of the others but that the relationship is less . . .uh, physical.  Go, you guys, a little bit, is my intent.

I've been telling my dad that he did a good job.  Not that he did the best that he could and I'm OK with his effort but that he did a good job.  I think I'm a pretty good guy and he had a huge role in my life so I guess he was doing things better than I thought.  I certainly wasn't the greatest kid for most of my first 30 years.  Maybe I should concentrate on that instead of on the perceived shortcomings of others.

Furnished Ruts

We have been bandying about the phrase "Who's the one with The Program?" with more frequency than normal in the Seaweed household lately.  That's all I'm going to say about that except to say that I'm awfully glad that the bandying has not been directed at me . . . this time.

I've been doing a lot of praying about other people in the last few months.  I'm not engaging in the kind of praying where I suggest that this person be relieved of his fatal malady or that person be cured of the character defect that's irritating the shit out of me.  Oh, no, not me - I've been scalded by that fool's errand one thousand too many times.  It has been more of a releasing of the holds that different people have on me - some good, some bad, holds nonetheless.  I can hang onto relationships that suck and onto relationships that I enjoy and cherish for too long and for the wrong reasons.  It has taken a lot of praying on some of these but it really does work.  I can feel my attitudes settling down into a proper-sized rut instead of the jumbo, furnished ruts I normally inhabit.

Let's never forget that it really IS about them.

A Mechanical Repeating

Routine:  A set of normal procedures, often performed mechanically.

One of the great things about getting out of my routine is . . . I don't know . . . getting out of my routine.   My life seems to be one, big, existential battle, a life and death struggle, between my love of routine and my love of smashing the shit out of my routine.  I'm comforted by repeating things, especially things that are good for me,  and I'm infuriated by it, too.  I know that routine can be really salutary - think diet and exercise and a strong, regular Program - and blowing right through the routine can be good, too.  I get bored if I do the same stuff over and over.  Then again, routine-crushing makes me appreciate my routine.  See the conundrum?

So I get back from a lovely trip and I start to get back into some regular habits, albeit more and more slowly the older I get.  Those long plane trips and new time zones are increasingly hard on my body.  I'm in the locker room at my swim club, dreading the first session back in the pool, when a dude I know from The Fellowship walks over, asks how I'm doing.  I confess to some Program sluggishness when he blurts out: "I fucked up."  He's wired, almost manic, thinner than I remember, talking a mile a minute about how he's been smoking weed the last six months and his wife has been cheating on him and on and on and on.

Got me back to a meeting the next day, I'll tell you what.

It can go just like that.  Made me appreciate the routine all the more.