Horseface of Arabia

Bore: To weary by being dull, uninteresting, or monotonous.

I have been mulling over the difference between comfort and relaxation, and boredom, the curse of the hyperactive personality. This is usually a good indicator that I am contemplating doing something stupid. Most alcoholics have a lot of experience living right on the knife edge of control. We like to push the limits, see what we can get away with. We think: "WTF. I'm going to give it a shot." Or we dispense with the thinking part and just give it a shot. Then later, sitting in the emergency room or the back of a police car or some doghouse or shithouse of one kind or another, we think: " WTF was I thinking?"

Now I'm sober, after a fashion. However, I still like to run out into heavy traffic from time to time, just to see what will happen. I'm not too good at sitting in a comfortable chair in front of the TV. I want to see what's out there. The trick is figuring out where "there" is, exactly. I'm a little better at it today but my tuner is still not hooked up right.

To me it's like going to my favorite restaurant and ordering my favorite meal (tripe stuffed with haggis, at a great Norwood place, in case you're interested). If I try something new, I miss the meal I love so much. But if I get the same meal over and over, it starts to bore me. I don't think this way when I'm retching up the raw oysterettes on a bed of caramelized kelp eggs, but I start out thinking this way.

A few years back I went to Morocco with Thai Stick and we took a long camel or dromedary or whatever TF we were on ride out into the Sahara. Sounded adventurous: Horseface of Arabia. After about 2o minutes of the 3 hour ride my ass was numb, my back was in full spasm, and the animal's funk was overpowering me. We ended up at a tented camp where the heat of the day quickly gave way to freezing weather. I'm in the desert trying to thaw out my frozen hands over a wood fire, eating something that I couldn't clearly see in the dark, thank god. The tent where we slept -- on the ground -- was actually heavy blankets strung between poles. It was not purchased at The North Face outfitter's store as far as I could tell.


By the time we went to bed -- there was nothing on satellite TV that night -- it was so cold that I climbed under the blankets fully dressed: shoes, coat, everything. And if you think that desert sand is soft you're sadly mistaken. I would doze for about an hour before my aching body awakened me, at which point I would contemplate whether or not I should risk losing some of the precious heat my skinny body had managed to generate and ignore the pain, or try to find a more comfortable position. It was definitely Lose -Lose.

The next morning we awakened before dawn and climbed a huge sand dune that we could vaguely sense looming above us the night before. We figured we could quickly scramble to the top but we had definitely lost all perspective of size and distance in the vast open spaces of the desert. So there we were, perched a hundred yards up on the side of this dune, watching the sun come up in the Sahara. There was nothing to catch the eye but rolling sand dunes stretching as far as the eye could see. There was no color other than desert brown. There was no sound except for the wind. The stars that absolutely lit up the sky the night before were winking out.

Wouldn't trade the memory for a million bucks.

An UnQuiet Mind

Dream: A fond hope or aspiration.

I like to dream. I like that the definition has fond in it, which has an air of foolish tenderness or affection. It's nice to be able to imagine a future where interesting and pleasant things might happen, instead of the nightmarish outcomes that I usually project. Now I imagine disaster only on occasion instead of with obsessive regularity. I can also say that what I do today no longer revolves around a:

Hallucination: The apparent perception of sights, sounds, etc. that are not actually present; it may occur in certain mental conditions.

Drugs had their part in my hallucinations, as did long, steady bouts of drinking. I was starting to hear things at the end. I would go downstairs to complain about my neighbor's TV only to find that no one was at home. So there was no actual TV that I was hearing, which definitely gave me the creeps. I try to avoid the hallucination today; at least I'm alarmed, and rightly so, if one pops up. I shouldn't see people where no people exist, or TVs, either, for that matter. I also believe that when I dream today I'm not dabbling too heavily in the realm of:

Fantasy: An unreal mental image; illusion; phantasm; a whim; queer notion.

Queer and unreal, great. That's just great. I tend to associate fantasy with trolls and hobgoblins, or naked, well-endowed starlets. I would classify as fantasy the satisfaction that I imagine I would surely feel choking the last bit of life out of someone who was annoying the shit out of me by driving poorly or drinking the last bit of milk.


All of this is OK as long as I do not allow myself to become a:

Projectile: An object, as a bullet, shell, rocket, etc. designed to be hurled or shot forward.

The future is the future. All I can do is to take steps to move toward something that interests me or away from something that doesn't, and see what happens. I get myself into trouble when I insist that my dreams come to life. I get into trouble when I project outcomes. I should let god do god's work. Unless I want to continue acting like an:

Idiot: the lowest classification of mental deficiency, below imbecile and moron.

I think my work is done here.

Truth or Consequences

Consequent: Following as a result; resulting; following as a logical inference or conclusion; proceeding in logical sequence.

What a shock it was to find out that there were consequences to my actions. I was more comfortable living in a heartless, random universe where great forces and distant powers determined the course of my life. I'm not suggesting that there aren't great forces and powers out there -- I am married, after all, and there's nothing distant about the situation -- but I don't think that they're that they're that involved. I feel that way about god. I don't think god finds me a parking space when I'm running late. I don't think he/she/it is that interested in the excruciating minutia of my daily life.

It makes me think before I do something. My actions affect things. I can't just go spinning off like a top on crank anymore and expect to start from scratch the next day. I can't just say what I want or do what I want to do. I'm not 5 years old. I shouldn't have to be taught something this basic.

I surmise that this isn't surprising information to the vast majority of adults in the world.

It's Not Paranoia If Someone Really Is After You

Paranoia: A mental disorder characterized by systematized delusions.

While I was in Oregon I drove out to the coast for a couple of days. I stopped about halfway to hike in the Tillamook National Forest. The trail head was several hundred yards off the highway, down a creepy gravel lane hemmed in with overgrown vegetation. It was raining steadily when I arrived, the trees cloaked with fog and mist, and parked in a deserted clearing, next to a swollen mountain river. I'm not a guy who would survive very long in the wilderness, so I was a little nervous as I contemplated disappearing into the dripping thicket. I needed a blanket or a wubbie or a big bodyguard dressed in a black turtleneck and mirrored sunglasses, even though it was raining. Those bodyguards can pull off the sunglasses anywhere.

As I started down the narrow trail, the stream thundering by on my right, I started to hallucinate up all kinds of nightmarish scenarios. I started with animals, wild animals, rabid with blood lust, stalking what was clearly a sick and weakened animal. I was watching out of the corner of my eye for the grizzly bear rearing up out of her den, listening for the scream of the mountain lion as it pounced and sank its fangs into my neck.

Because this seemed so implausible I let my imagination begin to work on the crazed mankind scenarios that I generally prefer over the crazed wildlife ones. I worried about stumbling on some backwoods marijuana patch where ten foot high sin semilla plants were guarded by Uzi-toting villains. They would shoot first, ask questions later. My body could easily be buried in a shallow grave in the rotting humus. Or maybe some inbred mountain crackers looking for some fun would toy with me for a while.

The great thing about hiking for a few hours is that my body requires so much attention that it begins to distract me from the wildlife and crackers living in my brain. I walked along the river for about a mile, then climbed steadily for an hour or so. It was hard work. Every now and then I stopped and listened to the rain pattering down. I couldn't hear anything else. About half way I passed another dude and his dog, which reassured me somewhat. I figured the grizzlies would have gotten him first. We chatted for a minute, sharing that weird bond between two guys stupid enough to walk in the woods in the pouring rain all alone.

The 21st Year is the Hardest

Twenty: Two times ten; the cardinal number between 19 (which is a piece of cake) and 21 (which is the hardest).

Today I'm celebrating 20 years of marriage -- continuous marriage -- and the entire experience has been a walk in a meadow on a Spring morning with cute, little birds and butterflies flitting and prancing about. I no longer pay attention to the swarms of stinging horseflies and rain clouds gathering in the distance. I'm sure that they'll go away, or they are an illusion or a hallucination of some kind. Maybe the whole meadow is a hallucination. Maybe the whole marriage is an illusion -- my history with relationships has not been that good and I'm still trying to flush all of the LSD and cannabis residue out of my system.

In the not too distant past I turned 50 -- actually that's been almost 3 years ago so that's getting to be slightly distant -- and I celebrated 20 years of sobriety -- and that's been 2 years ago, now that I think about it, so that's not that recent, either. Where the hell does the time go? Of these 3 milestones I'm most impressed with the marriage anniversary. What did I have to do to achieve 20 years of sobriety? Don't drink and don't die. And 50 years of age? Don't die, which is even simpler. If you're married the key is don't drink, don't die, and don't let your spouse kill you, which can be tricky if you have a murderous mate. I mean, you have to maneuver around with another person in mind, which is hard when you're totally consumed with yourself.

It's funny that if you just take a deep breath and move through your day trying to do the next right thing and paying attention to god that everything seems to work out in the long run. When I'm in a good spot, nothing SuperK can do vexes me, and when I'm lost in a spiritual desert, she can't do anything right. So obviously it's all a function of me and my attitude. The thing with a partner and kids and parents is that they're right there all of the time. Makes them convenient targets. And for an excitement junkie having to deal with the same people or jobs or friends over and over and over can be most annoying.


Low profile, and lots of disguises. That's my secret. And just keeping MY MOUTH SHUT. That has never failed me.

We Are Family

I've had some stuff going on with my family lately that hasn't been to my liking. What makes this particularly galling is that I'm the first person in the history of mankind who has had any trouble with family members. Unfortunately, I have to assume that I'm probably a little bit at fault or mostly at fault or completely at fault, given my tendency to make simple situations complicated and annoy people with my passive-aggressive stance on life, or my aggressive stance, depending on the situation. Passive-aggressive is kind of fun in a sneaky, shitty way but it's also great to just let the old temper out of its cage from time to time.

For the most part, I've learned to keep a lid on my complaints when I'm in the public domain. I am grateful for a few close friends that will listen to me vent, even while I'm patting myself on the back for being understanding and considerate and misunderstood. I try not to gossip but realize that I have to get stuff off of my chest, no matter who's at fault, especially since it's usually me. I conveniently ignore the fact that if I'm totally and completely nice and good for the rest of my life, I'm not going to come close to correcting all the damage that I've done in my life. This falls in the category of inconvenient truths.

The thing with families is that we are privy to all kinds of insider information. We get to see these people at their absolute worst from time to time. I have to be careful that when I share the specifics about what is going on that I'm not just writing a Kiss and Tell novel. That's low journalism. And I'm not sure I would want the details of my life spilled out at my mother's church or my sister's PTA meeting. As if anyone would be interested in what I'm up to.

Aren't you just dying to know what I'm irritated about? Probably not, actually. You're thinking about yourselves. In all honesty, the details are so mundane that it would be more unhealthy to share them than to keep them to myself. Suffice it to say that alcoholics aren't the only people who are driven by out-sized desires for more money, more power, more sex.

"But, Mom, he hit me first!"

What Was That Noise?

Anxiety: A state of being uneasy, apprehensive, or worried about what may happen; misgiving.

There is a psychology study circulating which is investigating why some of us are so susceptible to generalized anxiety. Admittedly, it's not easy to differentiate conclusively the many different factors that make some of us more anxious than others. For instance, it would seem to me that if you grow up with parents who fret about everything that you will be predisposed to worry more than others. I'm using my degree in Someone Who Thinks He Knows A Lot About Everything to make this conclusion.

What this study has determined is that some of us are fearful right out of the womb. Not many of us, but a small percentage. This is a totally anecdotal observation on my part, but a lot of the worriers seem to end up as alcoholics and drug addicts. I've always liked the phrase Free Floating Anxiety. There is actually a medical diagnosis called Generalized Anxiety Syndrome. Wonderful. Apparently some of us just worry about everything.

It was disconcerting to me hearing some of the conclusions. They appeared to be talking about me specifically. It takes some time in the morning and a pretty significant force of will to tamp down my inclination to simply assume that everything is going to turn out badly. For many years, if I heard an ambulance and a family member was out, I worried that something bad had happened. If I get a headache I assume it's cancer of the brain, and not a regular old malignant tumor, either. A bad, aggressive, inoperable tumor. I'm surfing the net, trying to find symptoms that confirm my diagnosis, using my degree in Someone Who Was Kicked Out Of Optometry College and the web site http://www.soyouworryabouteverythingtoo, out of the former republic of Azerbaijan.

It's one thing to worry when there's a reason to worry. I no longer walk down dark alleys in bad sections of town in the middle of the night to buy drugs, and if I did, I'd worry. Good worry. The problem is that I worry about things that may happen and it doesn't always help if I know intellectually, rationally that these things rarely happen. They may not even be real fears: bogeymen and monsters in the closet and weird diseases.

Excuse me for a minute. I think a monster got loose upstairs.