Nice. Nice.

Nice:  Charming, delightful, friendly, kind, lovely, pleasant, sweet.  

The other day my Old City sponsor - my "This, too, shall pass" sponsor, my "Have you had your quiet time today" sponsor - threw me an early morning curve.

"What have you done nice for someone else today?" he asked.

It gave me pause.  Now there's a 3 hour time difference between us so he got me fairly early in my day.  Not that I would have done anything nice had I been given a few more hours.  I'm up and at 'em by 5:30 or 6 on most days and after some old man stretching and that goddam quiet time, I almost always either go to the pool for a swim or to a meeting before diving into other tasks.  Still . . . . 

I  know the guy who cleans the locker room at my club.  I know his name.  I know how many kids he has.  We always talk for a bit.  I think he appreciates it - a lot of people look right through him.

The women at my coffee ship know me.  "Seaweed!"  they shout when I come in.  I know their names and what they're studying in school.  I'm pretty sure they like seeing me.  They're pretty good actors if they don't.

I make it my business to know everyone at my morning meetings.  I know the regulars and I know who's new.  I make it my business to ensure that nobody stands around with their hands in their pockets when the meeting is over.  I'm the last one to leave the parking lot - if you've got something on your mind I'm happy to listen to it.  I'm pretty sure this is appreciated.  I know damn sure that I'm loved at these meetings.

I felt good going over these things in my mind.  I'm such an egotist that I forget nice is often small and unnoticed.  It doesn't have to be a big show.

I've always liked the saying: "Don't sweat the small stuff because it's all small stuff."

!!!!

There:   In a place or location (stated, implied or otherwise indicated) at some distance from the speaker.  

It's pretty amazing how many other "I'm not doing it right" people are out there.  It can lead to a lot of angst or discomfort, unhappiness, anxiety, whatever you want to call it.  A syndrome of not measuring up, of not lining up with the majority.  A sense that it could have been done faster, better, bigger, mucher.  

It doesn't have a lot to do with what has been done, either.  It's a failure to have a little balance, a little restraint in our expectation of what the world expects or delivers or is.

I've been thinking about a friend of mine in The Program.  This guy has been sober about 10 years.  He's hard on himself.  I think he's looking for more than life is going to be able to supply him.  I think he's looking for more happy than he's going to be able to get on a regular basis.  There are a lot of us out there like that.  This guy is much loved by the group so I know he's doing something for someone, just not all that he thinks he could be doing.

I figure that in a good week I'm really happy about 20% of the time; I'm borderline homicidal about 5%  of the time; and then there's the 75% of my life that, when I really look at it,  is no big, fucking deal.  It's frustrating for a Big Deal guy like me.  I want everything to be Amazing!  So Amazing!!  All the Time!!!

!!!!

Chatter Fills the Airwaves

Chatter:   Talk, especially meaningless or unimportant talk.

I'll tell you what else - I've almost always got  a head chock full of chatter.  The number of voices talking to me is without number and not because I haven't counted them or am unable to count to a number so large - a not unreasonable supposition given my tendency to lose focus after the number 2 or 3 - but because there are a lot of them up there.  They are whispering; they are shouting; they are shrieking; they babble on and on.  It's not like they're always pissed or discontented, either, like they were when I was sobering up.  They're just dominating the airwaves, filling it full of noise.  It's no wonder I can't get my thoughts lined up with all the babbling. 

It's like trying to have a normal conversation about a good, quality tofu product at a Black Sabbath concert.

This is perfectly normal.

I'll Tell You What

Introvert:  One who focuses primarily on their own mind, feelings, or affairs.

I'll tell you what: I need a good chunk of time on a daily basis by myself for myself and I'm not talking about moving around, doing something time, either.  I'm talking about idling time, time where I'm awake but not in motion.

The battle cry of the introverted alcoholic.

I seem to get a lot done when I'm not getting anything done.  Thoughts organize themselves, answers come, solutions appear from out of nowhere.  I solve most of my problems by not trying to solve my problems.

$15

When I was in The Old City I thought that a few sessions in the swimming pool might help me keep a tenuous grip on my sanity.  I had some frustrations to release.  Little Westside Jonny chipped in by offering me some guest passes at his gym.

"Just give them my name," he said.  "I have a lot of free passes."

Free is good so one morning I get up and head to his club.  I drive right by another gym that charges $5 for a guest day pass.  Because this place was literally in the shadow of my parent's apartment I waved at it forlornly as I passed by.  I probably used $6 of gas to get my free %$!! guest pass.  

I leaned in at the reception desk when I arrived.

"LWSJ," I said quietly, in a conspiratorial tone.

"That'll be $15," the gatekeeper said, totally unimpressed by my name-dropping.

I was miffed.  I was ticked.  I started to say something that was going to include the adjective, the noun, and the adverb %$!! but thought better of it, kept my mouth shut, and forked over the cash.  I could see that if I continued to move restlessly forward in this peeved state of mind that the day was going to deteriorate quickly, the curse of LWSJ following me like an evil wind.

A few days later I called the gym next to my parent's place.  I figured I'd stay local.

"How much for a day pass?" I ask.

"That'll be $15," they said.

Yes, that was an amount I was familiar with.  I drive over and slap down my credit card, noting that the club prominently advertises a "lap pool" above its reception desk.

"I'm going to swim laps," I tell the attendant.  "So I want to make sure there's no exercise class or anything tying up the pool this morning."

"We don't have a pool," she replied.  I hesitated, wondering about pointing out the inaccuracy of their %$!! sign, grateful when the woman gave me directions to another club in their chain, ironically located about 10 miles away.

"I'd like a day pass so I can use your pool to swim laps," I wearily informed this attendant.

"That'll be $5," he said.  I began to suspect a giant Seaweed-centric mind-$#!! going down at this point.  People were following me with cameras and walkie-talkies, trying to fry my already damaged circuitry.

On my Last Day I noticed the key ring on the car that I was borrowing had a membership tag for this particular chain.  I handed it to the attendant, who scanned it, and cheerfully waved me in.

"That'll be $0," I said.

Bob The Spider

Spider:  Any of various eight-legged, predatory arthropods most of which spin webs to catch prey.

In the Seaweed household, I - Little Stevie Seaweed - have been banished to the guest bathroom. SuperK has spoken - she has flexed her considerable muscles and she roams the large master bathroom like a caged beast, alone and in control.  Sometimes when I'm in the guest bathroom I use the facilities.  Sometimes I stand and sometimes I sit down.

That's all I'm going to say about that.

One day - while sitting, if you must know - I noticed a spider peeking out from the space created where the flooring veers away from the bottom of the wall in my well-made home.  On a whim I blew on this spider and he backed further into the space.  I could see him there.  He was hiding but not completely hidden.  

"I can see you there," I said.

I'm fond of spiders.  Anything that can make a living finding something to eat in my sterile home is OK by me.  I figure the odds of a spider inflicting grievous bodily harm on me is going to be less than any damage caused by whatever said arachnid is catching and eating.

I named him Bob.  He looked like a good, spider-of-the-earth spider.  He wasn't particularly big but he wasn't small, either.  He had long legs and he was black, black, black.  Sometimes when I blew on him he vanished back into the wall and sometimes he held his ground.  Usually he was half-in, half-out but then again it wasn't unusual for him to be skooched out completely.  From time to time: No Bob.  But he always came back.

I began to look for him eagerly.

"Hi, Bob," I'd say.  Sometimes I'd shout out with great enthusiasm: "Bob!" I wanted him to know I was glad to see him.   Sometimes I'd say his name with an inflection meant to convey that I knew he was up to something.  I didn't know what, exactly, but something was going on.  It was admonishing and affectionate at the same time: "Bahhhhhhhbob?"

I couldn't decide what his deal was exactly.  He never built a web which I thought was spider Job One.  Was he a stupid spider?  Was he a lazy spider?  Was he a visionary, certain that he had a system to lure his prey right into his floorboard home?  It crossed my mind that he might have been tasked by a more managerial spider with protecting something of great value in the spider world, although what that might be I couldn't say.  Bob could have been spider muscle, a spider bouncer as it were.

Maybe he was a great spider preacher, trying to convince other spiders to follow his teachings.  This became curiously attractive to me.  Spider the Baptist, roaming the desert, eating locusts and dressed in whatever passes for spider rags.  I mean: c'mon, he was hanging out on the floor.

I never saw him catch anything but he was there for several days, which surprised me.  I thought spiders lived for a few brief, shining moments.

On the last day I walked by the bathroom and Bob was on the move - he was making a run for the door.  Across the linoleum he skittered, dancing up and over the rim of the hall carpet, vanishing in its pattern.  "Bob's on the move!" I shouted to SuperK, alarmed.

He has not been seen since.

Nor has SuperK.

Maybe they're one and the same.   I've never seen those two in the same room at the same time. 

I'm uncertain as to what this has to do with recovery.  I don't think Bob was a drunk.  He doesn't attend the same meetings as I do.

Godspeed, Bob.  I hope you find what you're looking for.

A Statement Of Fact

It has been helpful discussing The Old Town and parents with people who never left and also with expats.  The former may drift into a sense of outrage at my abandonment while the latter feel some sense of resignation and powerlessness.  I mean: if being a caretaker was important to me - and being taken care of - I wouldn't have left.  It is a statement of sorts.  If those relationships were critical on a daily basis I'd still be there.  Obviously they're not - and this doesn't imply a lack of love rather a lack of need.