Quiet: A quiet or peaceful quality; freedom from turmoil or agitation.
I always have a quiet time to start my day. I'm using the word "quiet" loosely here. My quiet times wouldn't adhere very closely to a strict interpretation of what most normal people would consider quiet. Behind my closed eyes World War III: The Mutants Attack! is taking place. It's very noisy and loud and violent. There are a lot of explosions and people running about, yelling at the top of their lungs. Sometimes there's blood. People don't make it out alive all of the time.
At least, I'm sitting down. I'm still jiggling feet and arms and everything, trying to ignore my hyper-engaged brain and all of its nonsense. Really, I'm ready to go at the drop of the hat. I used to put my car in neutral and race the engine, then pop it into drive. It wasn't very good on the transmission but it got the thing going in a hurry.
I was on retreat last weekend with 60 or so other guys in recovery. It's a lot more fun than it sounds, and very productive. I can sit in my chair and levitate in a spiritual ecstasy for a couple of hours after I leave, anyway. Then I'm back to normal.
One of the things I like most about it is that I'm living in a 5' by 12' room for two days. There's a bed and a sink and chair, and room for the door to swing open. There's nothing that I have to do. No TV, radio, papers, chores to do or places to go beyond walking the grounds or having a meal. It's always surprising to see how relaxing it is to be unchained from the cares and worries of all of the trappings of my world. I sit there for an hour. I don't turn the motor off, exactly, but I take my foot off the gas. It makes me realize how much of my worry is generated by my external life.
All of it, actually.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
"If we work it."
Work: In this context, the general word for effort put forth in doing or making something, whether physical or mental, easy or difficult, pleasant or unpleasant, etc.
I think at some point somebody in charge should have explained to me that good, long-term relationships require work from time to time. Sometimes a lot of work, like chopping wood or breaking up concrete, which appears to be a lot of work although I have never personally done either. The thought of breaking concrete makes my shoulders hurt and I'd cut something off if I so much as picked up an ax, hatchet, saw, or knife. Even the word "concrete" looks meaty. The guys that I see smashing things or cutting thing up or down are as a general rule pretty big so I'm going to go out on a limb and say it's hard work. It would be hard work for me, anyway, and that's all I care about it.
I talk to boys and girls young enough to be my children but plenty old enough to be in a serious relationship, who are just starting the process. They don't seem to be too hip to the idea that work will be involved.
SuperK and I were marveling at the ebb and flow of 21 years as a couple the other day. Mostly, it has been good and easy, or at least comfortable as an old shoe, which SuperK apparently thinks I am.
"A little worn out, though," she said.
"Do I at least have good support?" I asked.
"Oh, yeah, great support," she said, breezily, exiting the room.
We calculated our time together as follows:
Really great: 5 years. 25%.
Really fucking awful: 2 years. 10%.
Very nice: 13 years. I'm assuming this is about 65% but I'm not going to do the math, exactly. I just added 25 and 10 and came up with the 65. I don't want to reach across the desk for a calculator or figure out anything in my head, which only bolsters my position that I won't break up concrete.
We keep going back to the long version of The Serenity Prayer with all that crap about being "reasonably happy" and "accepting hardship as a pathway to Peace."
It's worth it. That's the point. Anything worthwhile takes some effort.
I think at some point somebody in charge should have explained to me that good, long-term relationships require work from time to time. Sometimes a lot of work, like chopping wood or breaking up concrete, which appears to be a lot of work although I have never personally done either. The thought of breaking concrete makes my shoulders hurt and I'd cut something off if I so much as picked up an ax, hatchet, saw, or knife. Even the word "concrete" looks meaty. The guys that I see smashing things or cutting thing up or down are as a general rule pretty big so I'm going to go out on a limb and say it's hard work. It would be hard work for me, anyway, and that's all I care about it.
I talk to boys and girls young enough to be my children but plenty old enough to be in a serious relationship, who are just starting the process. They don't seem to be too hip to the idea that work will be involved.
SuperK and I were marveling at the ebb and flow of 21 years as a couple the other day. Mostly, it has been good and easy, or at least comfortable as an old shoe, which SuperK apparently thinks I am.
"A little worn out, though," she said.
"Do I at least have good support?" I asked.
"Oh, yeah, great support," she said, breezily, exiting the room.
We calculated our time together as follows:
Really great: 5 years. 25%.
Really fucking awful: 2 years. 10%.
Very nice: 13 years. I'm assuming this is about 65% but I'm not going to do the math, exactly. I just added 25 and 10 and came up with the 65. I don't want to reach across the desk for a calculator or figure out anything in my head, which only bolsters my position that I won't break up concrete.
We keep going back to the long version of The Serenity Prayer with all that crap about being "reasonably happy" and "accepting hardship as a pathway to Peace."
It's worth it. That's the point. Anything worthwhile takes some effort.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving: an annual United States holiday instituted by the Pilgrims to give thanks to God for their survival.
Ah, yes, Thanksgiving.
Here's the thing about Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries, and any other day buried under a mountain of expectations the size of Godzilla's big brother, Herb: it's Just Another Day. It's not even A Very Important Day. It's certainly not THE MOST IMPORTANT DAY EVER.
I personally don't like turkey or stuffing or pumpkin pie -- why does pumpkin get a pie, anyhow? Vegetables shouldn't get to be pies. We don't have potato pie or zucchini pie. Green bean casserole is tasteless, and corn bread pudding and candied yams are desserts that have infiltrated the dinner table illegally. I don't dislike these foods to be ornery, although I really enjoy being ornery. I really just don't like them. I find them unimaginative. Anything tastes good with a stick of butter and a pound of salt.
Several years ago SuperK and I traveled to New Orleans over Thanksgiving and went out for our holiday meal. We got dressed to the nines in jeans and comfortable shirts. Mine was comfortable, anyway; I can't in good faith speak for her, but she looked pretty comfortable. I remember peering across a table full of gumbo and jambalaya, and saluting her with a raw oyster swimming in hot sauce and horseradish.
I said: "You can take all the dried up turkey in the world and stick it where the sun don't shine."
"Pass the dirty rice," she said.
"That's what I'm talking about," I replied.
We hosted Thanksgiving a few times and tried to bookmanize it with a lot of non-traditional foods. Did not go over well. Did not go over well at all. I remember watching people pass on my homemade 8 grain bread for those little soft, white rolls that probably don't have any actual human food in them and thinking: "I am not controlling anything here."
And we try to make people confirm to stereotypes on these days. We think these days should go a certain way. For some of us, they do. There are a lot of nice, normal people out there who enjoy participating in traditional events. There are also a lot of toxic, dysfunctional families. Fistfights and arguments occur, and sometimes blood is spilled, gravy clumps, and the cops are called.
Moreover, a lot of us aren't particularly close to our loved ones. I hate pretending. I don't want to try to generate a lot of false enthusiasm on demand when I'm around people with whom I don't have a deep personal connection. I don't want that to sound bad. I want it to sound like the truth. It doesn't make me a good person or a bad person. I think A.A. has spoiled me in that regard. I have so many close friends. It's really a different dynamic being with people who are engaged in my life at that level.
I had a good time today, in spite of myself.
Ah, yes, Thanksgiving.
Here's the thing about Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries, and any other day buried under a mountain of expectations the size of Godzilla's big brother, Herb: it's Just Another Day. It's not even A Very Important Day. It's certainly not THE MOST IMPORTANT DAY EVER.
I personally don't like turkey or stuffing or pumpkin pie -- why does pumpkin get a pie, anyhow? Vegetables shouldn't get to be pies. We don't have potato pie or zucchini pie. Green bean casserole is tasteless, and corn bread pudding and candied yams are desserts that have infiltrated the dinner table illegally. I don't dislike these foods to be ornery, although I really enjoy being ornery. I really just don't like them. I find them unimaginative. Anything tastes good with a stick of butter and a pound of salt.
Several years ago SuperK and I traveled to New Orleans over Thanksgiving and went out for our holiday meal. We got dressed to the nines in jeans and comfortable shirts. Mine was comfortable, anyway; I can't in good faith speak for her, but she looked pretty comfortable. I remember peering across a table full of gumbo and jambalaya, and saluting her with a raw oyster swimming in hot sauce and horseradish.
I said: "You can take all the dried up turkey in the world and stick it where the sun don't shine."
"Pass the dirty rice," she said.
"That's what I'm talking about," I replied.
We hosted Thanksgiving a few times and tried to bookmanize it with a lot of non-traditional foods. Did not go over well. Did not go over well at all. I remember watching people pass on my homemade 8 grain bread for those little soft, white rolls that probably don't have any actual human food in them and thinking: "I am not controlling anything here."
And we try to make people confirm to stereotypes on these days. We think these days should go a certain way. For some of us, they do. There are a lot of nice, normal people out there who enjoy participating in traditional events. There are also a lot of toxic, dysfunctional families. Fistfights and arguments occur, and sometimes blood is spilled, gravy clumps, and the cops are called.
Moreover, a lot of us aren't particularly close to our loved ones. I hate pretending. I don't want to try to generate a lot of false enthusiasm on demand when I'm around people with whom I don't have a deep personal connection. I don't want that to sound bad. I want it to sound like the truth. It doesn't make me a good person or a bad person. I think A.A. has spoiled me in that regard. I have so many close friends. It's really a different dynamic being with people who are engaged in my life at that level.
I had a good time today, in spite of myself.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
The Emperor Who Had No Clothes, At Least Not Any That He Was Wearing.
We alcoholics think that we're fooling everyone when we're drinking. We're fooling almost no one. I was the guy walking around with a gash on my forehead, courtesy of a door or a sidewalk or someone's fist, and a blood-soaked shirt, thinking: "Nobody seems to notice this. I think I'm pulling it off." I figured I could conceal the smashed windshield if I parked my car at the end of the lot. I'm missing my front bumper, you say? How about that.
One night I came home after a long bout of drinking and drug use -- which is a redundant qualification in my case -- and decided to listen to a little music before passing out. I put on an old LP and started to rock or groove or chill or drool. Almost immediately, the door to my room swung open -- my bedroom was right next to my parents; I'm sure they couldn't hear the stereo at 3AM -- and my mother stood there a minute, glaring down at me.
"Are you alright?" she asked.
"Yes. What? Yes." I said, cleverly.
She lingered a minute before going back to bed. I probably didn't turn the music off, or down. I was probably angry at being interrupted, in the middle of the night, in her house.
"Fooled 'em again," I figured.
The next day I cued up the record that I didn't remember listening to. A weird, syrupy drawl came out of the speakers, like Darth Vader singing punk rock in slow motion, underwater, with a mouth full of Novocaine. Apparently when I placed the album on the turntable in my drunken state, I bumped the switch which changed the speed of the turntable, slowing it way, way, way down. It reminded me of Hal losing power in 2001: A Space Odyssey.
Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do.
One night I came home after a long bout of drinking and drug use -- which is a redundant qualification in my case -- and decided to listen to a little music before passing out. I put on an old LP and started to rock or groove or chill or drool. Almost immediately, the door to my room swung open -- my bedroom was right next to my parents; I'm sure they couldn't hear the stereo at 3AM -- and my mother stood there a minute, glaring down at me.
"Are you alright?" she asked.
"Yes. What? Yes." I said, cleverly.
She lingered a minute before going back to bed. I probably didn't turn the music off, or down. I was probably angry at being interrupted, in the middle of the night, in her house.
"Fooled 'em again," I figured.
The next day I cued up the record that I didn't remember listening to. A weird, syrupy drawl came out of the speakers, like Darth Vader singing punk rock in slow motion, underwater, with a mouth full of Novocaine. Apparently when I placed the album on the turntable in my drunken state, I bumped the switch which changed the speed of the turntable, slowing it way, way, way down. It reminded me of Hal losing power in 2001: A Space Odyssey.
Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Principles
Principles: A rule of conduct, especially of right conduct: as, the principle of racial equality.
Principles before personalities. Try asking someone what that means sometime. Most people don't know. I think I know what a personality is but I'm a little hazy on the principle concept, even though my sponsor brings it up every time I call. I mean, it's only our 12th Tradition, the summing everything up into one neat package tradition. Why would I know about that?
To me, the big implication is that when I'm sitting around the table at a meeting, no one is any more important than anyone else. When I was drinking I always made sure to judge everyone. You were less important than I was (this was a very small crowd) and therefore not worth my notice or more important, and the object of my envy.
The Program strips away these titles. I run into a lot of More Important People (MIPs, for short) who don't have that much to say despite their belief that they do. That's what money and power and a fancy degree or title does, frequently: makes boring people think that they're profound. And, man, do I hear a lot of great stuff from people I used to ignore: the Less Important People, the LIPs.
It's great going to meeting chaired by someone who spent a few years in prison or living on the streets, and look at all the people successful by society's yardsticks sitting in the crowd. It doesn't make any difference who is doing what. Principles help us rate our fellows impartially. Just because some of us are born into wealth or with great natural intelligence doesn't make us better than someone else, any more than having blond hair does.
It's our obligation to use our gifts wisely but they don't make us better than anyone else.
Principles before personalities. Try asking someone what that means sometime. Most people don't know. I think I know what a personality is but I'm a little hazy on the principle concept, even though my sponsor brings it up every time I call. I mean, it's only our 12th Tradition, the summing everything up into one neat package tradition. Why would I know about that?
To me, the big implication is that when I'm sitting around the table at a meeting, no one is any more important than anyone else. When I was drinking I always made sure to judge everyone. You were less important than I was (this was a very small crowd) and therefore not worth my notice or more important, and the object of my envy.
The Program strips away these titles. I run into a lot of More Important People (MIPs, for short) who don't have that much to say despite their belief that they do. That's what money and power and a fancy degree or title does, frequently: makes boring people think that they're profound. And, man, do I hear a lot of great stuff from people I used to ignore: the Less Important People, the LIPs.
It's great going to meeting chaired by someone who spent a few years in prison or living on the streets, and look at all the people successful by society's yardsticks sitting in the crowd. It doesn't make any difference who is doing what. Principles help us rate our fellows impartially. Just because some of us are born into wealth or with great natural intelligence doesn't make us better than someone else, any more than having blond hair does.
It's our obligation to use our gifts wisely but they don't make us better than anyone else.
Monday, November 23, 2009
What Did I Do With My Tin Foil Hat?
Sane: Showing good sense; sound; sensible.
I'm not all that sure what the big attraction to sanity is, anyway. I admit that initially I was offended by the implication that I was bedeviled and beleaguered by some type of "insanity, " as I sat by myself in my apartment, compulsively cleaning or organizing something, or talking to monsters or people who weren't actually there, with the blinds pulled and Black Sabbath's "The Wizard" cranked up to 11 on the stereo that cost more than all of my possessions combined, including my car. Insane? Not me. Pay no attention to my tin foil hat. It's medically indicated.
There's way, way too much credence given to sanity. I figure most people are sane so it can't be that hard to do. It's just herd mentality, groups of lemmings all running together and diving off the cliff into the sea for no logical reason.
Reminds me of the time I jumped into Crater Lake in Oregon from a ledge 50 feet up with no idea whether the water was 20 feet or 20 inches deep. Made sense at the time. I do remember how cold the water was. I almost had a seizure.
There's still a part of me who wants to swim against the current. All of me, when I think about it. If everyone is doing it, then I perceive it as "normal" which holds no fascination for me. I don't know why I do half the stuff I do. I amuse myself. Spandex says that he calls me "Tall Steve, you know, with the hats." I have a lot of hats. I don't particularly like hats and they don't make me look any better, with my horseface and everything, but nobody else wears hats so I'm always buying a hat. I have a sock cap, bright yellow, with a fringe of fingers protruding from the top that I like to wear. I look like a big chicken. I ask strangers: "What do you think of this hat?" Everybody is so nice. No one yet has said: "You look like an idiot," which is the whole idea of course, to look like an idiot. Anybody can buy a nice hat. It takes guts to wear a hat like that. Shorty's wife was driving by as I was taking a walk one day. She told me she thought: "Wow, that guy has a lot of self-confidence" before exclaiming: "That's Horseface!"
I do think that most of the normals out there look at me askance most of the time. Or they think I'm some kind of goody two shoes, a reference gleaned from a morality story written in 1765 about a ragamuffin who was was grateful that a wealthy merchant replaced her one shoe with a pair. I'm not sure how the definition changed to indicate someone who is smug, coy, and self-satisfied, but it's a pretty old story.
Really, all I'm talking about is being silly, most of the time. I'm not too insane anymore. Not get arrested or beat up insane, anyway.
I'm not all that sure what the big attraction to sanity is, anyway. I admit that initially I was offended by the implication that I was bedeviled and beleaguered by some type of "insanity, " as I sat by myself in my apartment, compulsively cleaning or organizing something, or talking to monsters or people who weren't actually there, with the blinds pulled and Black Sabbath's "The Wizard" cranked up to 11 on the stereo that cost more than all of my possessions combined, including my car. Insane? Not me. Pay no attention to my tin foil hat. It's medically indicated.
There's way, way too much credence given to sanity. I figure most people are sane so it can't be that hard to do. It's just herd mentality, groups of lemmings all running together and diving off the cliff into the sea for no logical reason.
Reminds me of the time I jumped into Crater Lake in Oregon from a ledge 50 feet up with no idea whether the water was 20 feet or 20 inches deep. Made sense at the time. I do remember how cold the water was. I almost had a seizure.
There's still a part of me who wants to swim against the current. All of me, when I think about it. If everyone is doing it, then I perceive it as "normal" which holds no fascination for me. I don't know why I do half the stuff I do. I amuse myself. Spandex says that he calls me "Tall Steve, you know, with the hats." I have a lot of hats. I don't particularly like hats and they don't make me look any better, with my horseface and everything, but nobody else wears hats so I'm always buying a hat. I have a sock cap, bright yellow, with a fringe of fingers protruding from the top that I like to wear. I look like a big chicken. I ask strangers: "What do you think of this hat?" Everybody is so nice. No one yet has said: "You look like an idiot," which is the whole idea of course, to look like an idiot. Anybody can buy a nice hat. It takes guts to wear a hat like that. Shorty's wife was driving by as I was taking a walk one day. She told me she thought: "Wow, that guy has a lot of self-confidence" before exclaiming: "That's Horseface!"
I do think that most of the normals out there look at me askance most of the time. Or they think I'm some kind of goody two shoes, a reference gleaned from a morality story written in 1765 about a ragamuffin who was was grateful that a wealthy merchant replaced her one shoe with a pair. I'm not sure how the definition changed to indicate someone who is smug, coy, and self-satisfied, but it's a pretty old story.
Really, all I'm talking about is being silly, most of the time. I'm not too insane anymore. Not get arrested or beat up insane, anyway.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Half-Measures Horseface
Minimum: The smallest quantity, number, or degree possible or permissible.
It's funny how few of us are willing to put very much effort into our recovery at the start. We don't run into the adult pool, screaming with pleasure, and do a big cannonball into the deep end. We sneak in the back door and stick one big toe into the kiddie pool and run screaming with fear back into the locker room. It's cold! The water's too deep! I forgot to put on my bathing suit!
This is why the literature makes reference to an "easier, softer way" and "half-measures." My nickname for about two years was Half-Measures Horseface. I tried to do the least amount of work possible to get by. This is my modus operandi for life. I drank like this, too. I take everything right up to the edge. It's all or Nothing. It's stopped, or full acceleration. In fact, my current nickname is All or Nothing Horseface.
I have heard this thread in a number of meetings lately. People say: "I was staying sober but I wasn't very happy until I really became part of the Program." For me, this is a way of life, not medicine I have to take every day. A.A. isn't Castor oil or an enema. It's supposed to be fun, sometimes, anyway.
I figure if I'm working my program diligently - meetings, phone calls, quiet times, some reading and writing - I spend a couple of hours a day on recovery. Let's be generous and say 15 hours a week, on a good week. Sounds like a lot of time until I compare it with my pre-recovery. I figure on an average week I spent 6 hours a day Monday through Friday drinking, throwing up, getting bailed out of jail, looking for my $&#!! car, stuff like that. Then Saturday and Sunday; let's be conservative and figure on two 12 hour days. So on a typical week I'm looking at 50 to 60 hours of drinking infused activities.
No wonder I didn't get anything done.
That 15 hours doesn't sound too bad any more.
It's funny how few of us are willing to put very much effort into our recovery at the start. We don't run into the adult pool, screaming with pleasure, and do a big cannonball into the deep end. We sneak in the back door and stick one big toe into the kiddie pool and run screaming with fear back into the locker room. It's cold! The water's too deep! I forgot to put on my bathing suit!
This is why the literature makes reference to an "easier, softer way" and "half-measures." My nickname for about two years was Half-Measures Horseface. I tried to do the least amount of work possible to get by. This is my modus operandi for life. I drank like this, too. I take everything right up to the edge. It's all or Nothing. It's stopped, or full acceleration. In fact, my current nickname is All or Nothing Horseface.
I have heard this thread in a number of meetings lately. People say: "I was staying sober but I wasn't very happy until I really became part of the Program." For me, this is a way of life, not medicine I have to take every day. A.A. isn't Castor oil or an enema. It's supposed to be fun, sometimes, anyway.
I figure if I'm working my program diligently - meetings, phone calls, quiet times, some reading and writing - I spend a couple of hours a day on recovery. Let's be generous and say 15 hours a week, on a good week. Sounds like a lot of time until I compare it with my pre-recovery. I figure on an average week I spent 6 hours a day Monday through Friday drinking, throwing up, getting bailed out of jail, looking for my $&#!! car, stuff like that. Then Saturday and Sunday; let's be conservative and figure on two 12 hour days. So on a typical week I'm looking at 50 to 60 hours of drinking infused activities.
No wonder I didn't get anything done.
That 15 hours doesn't sound too bad any more.
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