Window Into My Soul

It's existed for as long as humankind has drawn breath.  Poets and playwrights have printed pages upon pages about the concept of love.  Defined, it is described a plethora of different ways, all culminating in one general theme:  It is an emotion that trumps all else, an overwhelming feeling that pushes past superficial components.  It's that feeling that hits you like a sucker punch, that convinces you that life cannot be any better without that person sharing your life.

I realized I possessed that feeling this morning.  As I gazed into their loving eyes, I realized at that precise moment, that I was exactly where I needed to be and that I don't desire to be anywhere else.  I wanna scoop this person up and smother them with hugs and kisses.  I wanna shout from the highest rooftops.  Climb the highest mountain peak.  Hire a pilot to tow a banner declaring what is causing my heart to burst at it's seams.  I want to grab a ghetto blaster, like John Cusack in Say Anything, filling the air with "In Your Eyes" by Peter Gabriel, a song also composed for a true love. 😍  I want to jump on a sofa, like a crazed Tom Cruise on the Oprah show, screaming with excitement.

I cannot fathom a single moment without this lovely personality in my life and have found myself soaring into complete despair and depression when I think of my life before they graced me with their existence.  This morning, as I was serving them their breakfast, it hit me.  I grabbed a hold of them and squeezed.  I was overwhelmed with emotion and failing to stand on a soap box in the middle of the town square, I will use this venue to declare my overwhelming true love for....  My cat, Monkey.  He is truly the greatest entity to enter my life.  I love that kid with every fibre of my being.

I love you, Monkey.
You're simply the best!

💘

 

Break A Leg

As a child, my dream was to grow up to be an actor.  Not a movie star, but a working actor.  As a troubled youth, I'd find solace in watching movies and TV.  It was my escape from the horrors I'd face at home and as a result, I hoped to, one day, be allowed to permanently escape into the world of pretend by becoming interesting characters.

Alas, as I revealed my hopes and dreams to those around me, it was told unto me, that I'd never be able to do that, as I lacked the skill or the talent to do so.  Resist those words of negativity all I wanted, eventually the negativity will break down those barriers of resistance and belief sets in.  Look at me now.  Today, I still have my face pressed up to the proverbial glass window, peering in at what might have been, rather than what is.

"Break A Leg" is an idiom used by amateur and professional theater folk. It's a term affectionately used to wish someone luck.  Wishing someone ill will, tricks the trickster gods into granting the opposite and as a result, good things will happen.  Superstitious?  Perhaps, but given what's happened throughout my life, I can't deny the logic.

This past winter, I was unemployed.  Like previous winters, ever since I slipped on that patch of ice, that fateful evening in March of 2018.  So for the past few years, I've been employed at a job that was seasonal, so I'd be laid off in the winter.  Perfect for a guy who has some form of PTSD, when it comes to icy surfaces.  That company I worked for, went bankrupt, last year and I had to scramble to find another job.  As luck would have it, the job I had, sucked and they let me go after about a month and a half and I'd, by then, accrued enough hours to go on E.I. for the winter.  Come spring, though, I had some trouble finding work.

Every interview I'd set up, I'd get excited and post to Facebook that I was about to embark on this interview and there'd be a slough of friends and well-wishers sending love and 'good luck'.  Then as well as I'd do in those interviews, I wouldn't get the job.  This happened a lot.  A LOT!!  I have one friend, bless her, who would always send a loving message of "Good luck!  I believe in you."  As grateful as I am to have a friend who cares that much for my well-being, I feel that sentiment was the biggest curse of them all.  Whatever Gods overheard those thoughts of positivity, sought to quickly shit on my parade and prevent me from any sort of success.

Tuesday, I officially become a professional driver.  A bus operator for the City of Saskatoon.  It's a job that I've wanted for many many years.  So much that I almost faced charges of Grand Theft in my pursuit.  At the time, they gave me a choice, resign from my job or face prison.  The choice was a simple one. 😂

I'd had job interviews in the past for civic transit, but failed to get the position.  I can't recall if anyone wished me good luck on that interview, but suffice it to say, probably.  So this time around, when I got the call, I never spoke a word.  Nothing, not to anyone.  Not even my mom.  I wanted this shit more than anything and by keeping my mouth shut and not receiving all the words of positivity and luck, I managed to lock down the position.  Next came five weeks of classroom lessons and practical driving and now, come Monday morning, I'm about to be unleashed on the world.  I hope that I don't jinx myself by releasing this blog a day early and have some kind-hearted soul, inadvertently f*cking me over and having me crash into a pole or a f*cking school.

I had a dream last night or maybe it was early this morning.  Doesn't matter.  In the dream, I set out on my first day of driving alone.  I was given the articulating bus, like the photo seen here.  In training I drove it and loved it.  In the dream, my affection was short lived.  For some reason, while stopped at a traffic light, the bus malfunctioned and the bus began pulling back in reverse.  The transmission was in drive, but the mechanisms had failed and the bus was now pulling in the opposite direction.  I quickly put the emergency brakes on, but to no avail.  The pulling power was stronger than the brakes and screeching tires were being dragged backward, up the street, against oncoming traffic.  All I could do was to attempt to steer the bus and avoid catastrophic collisions with one hand and scream into the phone calling for supervisors to help me out of this jam.  Oddly, the supervisors weren't the competent folks I've been interacting with for the past few weeks, but Kev Dogg (Kevin Schiele from TVs "Bitchin' Rides")

I can't remember what happened next, but suffice it to say that the articulating bus came to rest on a patch of grass, off the road and professionals were on their way to investigate and tow the vehicle back to the garage for further investigation and repair.

In the dream, I was shitting bricks, fearing I'd lose my job after one single day, but Kevin, Kev Dogg, assured me that my job was safe and that I'd reacted properly and in a safe manner.  I hope this dream was one of luck.

When I was a kid, growing up on a farm just west of the city, we had horseshoes hanging over the doorways into the barn.  You always hang a horseshoe with the tangs facing up.  This is to contain the luck, rather than allowing the luck to spill out, if hung upside down.  If I ever move back to an acreage or am in a position to hang another horseshoe, I'd like to recreate this practice.  

I don't necessarily believe in luck.  I've been lucky in life, not in love, but in life in general.  As bad as shit gets, I've always known I'd bounce back.  I don't know if you'd call it lucky or just fate.  I know that when I won that $1000 on that scratch ticket, a couple years ago, the vendor who sold me the ticket, was rude and never uttered anything to me.  I know that when I buy tickets and I'm greeted with a smile and a wish of good luck, I never win.  All circumstantial and coincidental, but I don't believe in coincidence, either.  Only cause and effect.

So when you see me out and about, don't wish me "good luck", because chances are, you're pushing me one step closer to the grave.  Instead, tell me to "break a leg".  I'll know what you mean and that maybe, you actually read my blog.  For which I thank you. 🙂

Hopeless

Truth be told.  I should have written this last night, amidst one of the most intense feelings of dread and hopelessness.  If we're being totally honest, though, I was in no shape to be doing anything last night.

I can't describe it, but I've been feeling overwhelmed as of late with feelings of dire hopelessness.  I'm lost.  I am truly lost.  A castaway in a sea of possibility, yet I feel like I'm a million miles away.  I feel like I'm on an edge, afraid to look down.  Like I'm being needled forward, inch by inch, to ultimately fall into a pit of obscurity.

My mom recently told me that when she dies, she doesn't want a funeral.  Despite having so many friends, she believes no one would show up for her funeral.  This saddened me.  In part, because my mom feels this way and selfishly, perhaps, I think if she feels this way with all the friends she has, then no one's going to attend my funeral.  It's not that I don't have friends, but these days they seem more like acquaintances than definitive friends.  I mean, my phone's not ringing off it's hook.

Last night, I watched a documentary on Robin Williams.  For years, I found myself unable to forgive Williams for ending his own life by suicide.  There was no booze of drugs in his system, other than his prescription drugs, so his decision, by all accounts, was lucid, which makes the act even more sad.

Selfishly, I never truly understood his life.  What was going on in that brain of his.  Outside of all the crazy antics, I could see the shell of the man inside.  That the zaniness he displayed on the stage, never truly reflected the man he was inside.  In the documentary, Robin Williams: Come Inside My Mind, the late comedian was often described as quiet whenever he was home, away from the glitz and glamour of show biz.  I think that was when Robin was truly himself, but speaking from my own experience, this isn't always a good thing.  If I'm out and about, I rarely think about myself or what's going on in my own shitty life.  It's when I'm home, alone, with my thoughts, that all hope escapes me and I feel truly lost.  No amount of TV, music or movies, what I used to rely on for escape, now leaves me feeling dejected.

Turns out that in addition to anxiety and depression, the late Oscar winner, was diagnosed with early onset Parkinson's Disease, as well as Lewy Body Dementia, which is believed to be a major contributor to his suicide.  Selfishly, given my thought processes as of late, I understand now, why the man felt suicide was his only choice, despite having such a strong base to lean on.  Last night, reliving some of those happy memories of Robin, I found myself forgiving him for exiting stage left.

I should have written this last night, when my mind was swimming in despondency.  With my cat, nestled up tightly against me, I still felt alone.  Feelings of dread and impending doom.  I can't explain why I'm feeling this way and I think my cat is feeling it too.  He knows something is afoot with his daddy, but doesn't know how to bring me out of this funk.

Depression is nothing new for me.  I've suffered Seasonal Depression for years.  It's only recently that I had discovered that cannabis can combat those dark feelings and the Seasonal Depression that threatened my very livelihood for the better part of my life, had gone by the wayside.  For the first time in literally decades, I was smiling and laughing my way through those darkened months sprawling from late-October to mid-April / early-May.  That is, until this year.  As much as I detested working at that RV company, being fired for absolutely no reason, really shook me.  I didn't mind being off of work for the winter, as I have a real phobia about snow and ice, but to be cast away, like vermin for no justifiable reason, simply blew my mind.  Maybe that's what blew the gasket to my sanity.

I'm in constant pain.  My ankles hurt SO much, that it often brings me to tears.  My hands are the same way.  A handful of times (pardon the pun), I've awoken abruptly as my hands, usually the right hand, my dominant hand, is cramping up into a ball.  The pain in unequal to anything I've ever experienced, and considering I've broken my back and squashed my brain, both immensely painful experiences, the pain I feel in my hands and ankles, rival those pain levels, if not more.  As a result, I've been relying on the cannabis for pain relief, as well.  I've gone to my physician on the matter.  She ran a series of blood tests and has informed me that I do not have arthritis.  When asked why everything hurts, she has no solution.  Only that I should stretch before bed.  Sorry doctor, but what the fuck?!?

These days, my ankles hurt 24/7.  Not a moment goes by where my feet don't hurt.  My hands hurt, but usually only when I grab something.  If I grab a jug of milk from the fridge, my right hand immediately cramps up.  My knees hurt.  My hips both hurt now, although the left is still worse, by far.  My back hurts, as does my neck and my fucking migraines have returned, although still not at the frequency they once did.  The only thing relatively good is my blood sugars.  Small victories?

I am without work.  For the past half decade, I haven't been working throughout the winter months.  At first it was because of my TBI, a traumatic brain injury that I'd gotten when I slipped on a patch of ice at work, knocking myself out for close to a half hour, which was the beginning of a life altered.  I've managed fairly well, I believe, to come out the other side of that accident, with only damage to my short-term and long-term memory.  The long-term comes back in spurts.  I'll see or hear or smell something that triggers a memory and no matter how miniscule it may be, I celebrate it.  My short-term memory is an ongoing problem.  It may have been a contributor to loss of employment from the RV job, as the morning of my dismissal, I found myself wandering around the parking lot, struggling to remember how to do the next task of my job.  I recall almost collapsing in tears.  Everyone is quick to dismiss these struggles as "getting old", but those people fail to see the scenario from my side of the proverbial fence.  I've always prided myself on my memory.  I was always able to remember even the most finite bits of information, but these days I can stop abruptly in the middle of a task being performed and not have a single clue as to what I am doing, nor why I'm doing it.  This is not a factor of getting old.  This is a real fucking problem.

I am without work.  I want to have something to do.  To have a purpose.  I want to have a job with the city.  To work in the park system, ideally, but I have my name in with some other departments, too.  The downside to this is, I know the city will likely demand a drug test prior to any employment, so it will be discovered that I have THC in my bloodstream.  I don't smoke in the morning or during the day, despite how painful my ankles get.  I smoke only in the evenings.  To help with pain management, depression, anxiety and to help me sleep.  However, in my research of the plant, I discovered that daily use, means the THC that is in the cannabis, stays in a person's system for a very long time.  I know not what the city's policy is on cannabis, since it's legalization.  The philosophy of many companies and people, even, casts a dark shadow on the misunderstood substance.  It's absurd.  A person could be a fall down drunk and it's acceptable, but if a person lights up a doobie, suddenly they're a liability and a menace.  Part of me thinks I should speak with my physician about it, but I've attempted to broach the subject with her many years ago.

A friend of mine, years ago, alerted me to acquiring a Medicinal Marijuana prescription.  They were using it to combat anxiety and other ailments.  I knew from my own experimentation, that cannabis helped me with my own battles with anxiety and depression.  It even helped my asthma, remarkably enough.  So I broached the idea with my doctor.  I had always seen my doctor as a forward thinking, try-anything kind of physician.  Hell, she's one of the top doctors in the city.  I'm often commended by other physicians for being so lucky as to have her as my personal physician.  So when I brought up the idea of getting a prescription for cannabis, the idea was shot down immediately and with extreme prejudice.  My doctor was not going to have any of that, citing that marijuana is a "gateway drug".  That is horse shit.  It's my own personal belief that if someone is going to try a hard drug like cocaine or worse, then they were going to do it anyway.  They didn't need an introduction to it by Mary Jane.

I wish I had a rock.  Someone to bounce ideas off of.  Not someone to solve my problems, but who'll be there for me.  To listen to me.  To hear me.  To...  I don't know.

My friend's kid found love on the interwebs.  He is or was a closed off individual.  I worked with him, side-by-side, and it was difficult to bring him out of his shell to even say hi, but somehow he found love on the interwebs. Perhaps I should do this?  Nah.  I'm too broken.  Physically.  Another contributor to my sorrow, me thinks.

I should have written this, last night.  My head racing with thoughts and disparity.  These days.  I am truly lost.  I don't know where to go.  What I should do.  I just want to curl up in a ball and disappear.

My cat, Monkey, is twelve years old.  I pray that he lives to be thirty, because the idea of living in this house without his fuzzy little face staring up at me, is unbearable.  I broke down into full on tears, last week, thinking about him, my cat, being in his twilight years.  My mom, who I've been spending a lot of time with, is seventy-five and talking about when she dies.  When they're both gone, I'm going to be truly alone.  No one to care the least about me.  It was the first time in a very long time where I thought suicide was a legitimate choice.  That without these two pivotal components of my life, I couldn't possibly move on.  This coupled with the fact that I'm susceptible to getting dementia or Alzheimer's Disease because of my multiple concussions.  I've had at least fifteen, to the best of my knowledge, if not more.  Three of which were fatal enough to knock me out and cause permanent damage.  My future looks bleak.  Bleak and alone.

There's no danger of my taking my life.  Not anytime soon, but when these loved ones make their exit...  I'm not a religious person, by any means, but I hope that whatever powers that be, can deliver me through what will likely be the darkest patch of my life.

I was thinking the other day.  Counting how many Christmas' I had left in my life.  How many more birthday's.  I don't have that many.  More than what can be counted on both hands, but less than the amount including my toes.

My feet hurt SO much, right now and I feel fucking helpless.

I should have written this last night.  I may have had a way to end this thought process.  To wrap it up with a neatly tied bow.  Maybe even talk myself into a solution.  A glimmer of hope.  End on a positive note, but I can't.  It's not in me.  It's nowhere to be found.  And will it matter?  Will anyone even read this?  Probably not.  Nobody gives a shit.  People just interject enough on social media to pat themselves on the back with the belief that they contributed.  That they cared, but...  My phone isn't ringing off the hook.

I'm surrounded by so many people, but I've never felt more alone. 😔

Dreamscape

Sometimes life just seems more fun and interesting on "the other side".  When I close my eyes at night, I'm whisked away to a distant, yet sometimes familiar place, where I'm everything I ever hoped I'd be and am accepted by all as an equal or better.  Unlike my waking hours when it seems like all I am is a number.  Something, not someone, to be used and abused for all I'm worth, then discarded like a piece of trash or a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of their shoe.

I'm not crying up a storm, here, sobbing "woe is me".  I'm satisfied, somewhat, for my lot in life.  I find my job fulfilling, though unappreciated most days.  It's just everything else that I wish I could have different.

When I dream at night, it seems like all my hopes have come true.  I'm popular with the ladies, even sought after on occasion.  Hell, I'm popular with everyone.  My opinions and ideas matter.  It's freakin' awesome.  Sometimes I think, if I didn't have so many responsibilities here, it'd be nice to slip into a coma.  Life seems more fulfilling and interesting "over there" anyway, and adventurous.

I remember a dream I had a few years ago, where I was white water rafting with the WWE's Undertaker (whom I was referring to by his real name, Mark Callaway), Stephanie McMahon, and Triple H (Paul Levesque).  We'd stopped for lunch at a small cafe along the river, and when I went to use the restroom, I was jumped by three hoodlums who wanted my ball cap. (I guess not all is perfect in this world...)  Mark, or I mean, Undertaker was quick to help a buddy out and stomped their asses into the ground.  Yahoo!

My dreamscape is a wondrous place.  It sort of resembles Heaven in the movie "What Dreams May Come", a far and spacious place, uncluttered by modern amenities, yet there are pockets of familiarities.  City streets that somehow exist but don't clash with the beauty of the landscape.  They're invisible until you look around and see you're surrounded.

Last night, for some reason, I dreamed about work, but it wasn't my workplace that I recognized.  It was completely different, yet my co-workers were all there.  I was working along side one of the blokes I worked with this week, and instead of treating me like a useless f*ck as he was doing yesterday, he treated me as a equal even requesting my opinion on a pending project.  My ideal scenario, wouldn't be to dream of work for the rest of my existence, but there's worse things to be dreaming about.

For instance, there's a recurring dream I have from time to time, where I'm stuck in this house or building.  The structure itself changes ever once in awhile, but the premise remains.  I can run, walk, whatever, there's no getting out.  No matter the route I choose, different every time, there's no escape and I end up back where I began.  Of all my dreams, this one, I fear, is the closest to my real life.

Not to mention the nightmares that I have sometimes.  I'm fast asleep, but an uneasy feeling wakes me up.  I look up and see a small girl clad in a white dress, standing in the doorway of my bedroom.  She's motionless, quietly staring at me as I sleep.  My cat is usually nowhere to be found, which is understandable, as I don't really want to be there either.  I don't do anything and I say nothing.  I close my eyes again and go back to sleep.  Now I'm fairly certain this is a dream and not an actual occurrence.  As far as I know, there's never been a small child who resided in this house.  Plus, I've had this dream on a number of occasions at a number of my residences.

I guess I just view these dreams as a form of escape.  When life gets me too down, here, I can close my eyes and escape to someplace wonderful.  I did the same as a kid, too.  My childhood was not that easy.  Growing up in an alcoholic home, life is rarely easy.  I didn't have it as bad as some kids, but I felt the brunt of a lot of hate and mistreatment.  I guess that's why I fell in love with the cinema, as a young kid.  I saw it as a way to escape from my day-to-day life, and be somewhere or someone else.  I guess that's why as an adult, I continue the practice, watching way too much television and viewing a f*ck-of-a-lot of movies.  At last count, I can't remember how many movies I have in my collection.

That being said, I can see on the wall that I need to get some shit done and bills to pay.  After all is said and done...; Life is but a dream.., sweetheart.

CHEWBACCA - What a Wookiee!!!!

According to Wikipedia, Chewbacca became Han Solo's first mate and sidekick after Solo, then an Imperial Captain, disobeyed a direct order to kill the wookiee, who was at the time a slave for the Empire. Solo was discharged from the Imperial Navy, who would go on to become a smuggler throughout the galaxy. Chewbacca, owing Solo a life debt, would serve Solo for the rest of his life.

I've always thought Chewbacca had sad eyes. Even when vexed, he maintained a certain sadness about him. I could never quite put my finger on it, until recently. Unrequited love. It wasn't until I suffered some heartache, that I was able to recognize others going through the same turmoil. Chewbacca is sad, because his love for his life companion has not been reciprocated.

Life debt or not, Chewie had the freedom to say "f*ck it", grab his purse and go home. He never did, though. Why? He was secretly in love with Han Solo. The man who saved his life all those grimnals before, was this wookie's "one and only".

There may be many naysayers who would quickly feed me to the Sarlacc for suggesting such blasphemy, but when all the pieces of the puzzle are placed together, I would venture certain speculation that many doubters will quickly become supporters.

First of all, check out Chewbacca's well-coiffed mane. In the first movie, Episode IV: A New Hope, Chewbacca's hair is slicked back. He looked confident and comfortable in his role as Han Solo's sidekick and first mate. Not a single hair was out of place. Who else has perfect hair like that? Italian mobsters and homosexuals, and the last time I checked, there was no Italian mob on the wookiee home world of Kashyyyk.

By the second movie, Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back, he maintained that sidekick role to Han Solo, only he was no longer the proverbial "apple of Han's eye". The Corellian has set his attentions on Princess Leia. The jealousy he feels towards the princess is only surmounted by his love for Han Solo. It is his love and respect for Han that prevents him from tearing her limb from limb.

Gone too, is his attention to detail. The well-groomed hair that was once slicked back, is now dishevelled and in general disarray. He figures that as long as Han Solo has his sights on Leia, he doesn't stand a chance, so why bother.

In Episode V, Han also announces that he and Chewie would be departing from the Rebel Alliance, looking to settle terms with Jabba the Hut. This is why Chewbacca is working day and night to get the hyperdrive on the Millennium Falcon back up to speed. His efforts are thwarted momentarily, when that "hero" Luke Skywalker nearly gets himself killed by a Wampa on the ice planet of Hoth. In the scene where Han, Leia and Chewie are surrounding Luke in the medical bay, and Leia leans in and plants a big kiss on Luke's lips, if you look at Chewie, you can see a look of complacency wash over the seven foot behemoth. He knows that once he and Han leave these freedom fighters behind, he will no longer have to cry himself to sleep at night, whimpering silently to himself wondering "What does she have that I don't?" Try a vocabulary that doesn't consist of barks 'n' growls..., not to mention a vagina.

By Episode VI: Return of the Jedi, we've learned that Han Solo has been captured by the Empire and Boba Fett, who have frozen Han in carbonite and was then whisked off to Jabba the Hut. On display in Jabba's palace, an elaborate rescue was put into play, plopping Chewbacca right in the middle. Released from the carbonite, Han Solo was blind and frigid. Chewbacca put up no resistance in pulling the haggered man close to his bussom. Han pays no mind as he's literally freezing, but Chewbacca is clearly in a state of bliss.

The wookiee is clearly gay for Han Solo. I mean, it's SO obvious. He has a purse slung over one shoulder. He fires a crossbow laser rifle... Why the f*ck would you need a crossbow laser gun, if you can't shoot anything from the bow? It's clearly a fashion statement on the part of the gay wookiee.

Kind of like how Smithers is gay for Mr. Burns. Both dropping desperate hints of their affection all the time, but neither object of their love, can see it. They simply are unable to see the forest for the trees.

I don't know what comes of Chewbacca in the grimnals following the fall of the Empire. I don't live in my parents basement and I'm able to talk to real girls, so I haven't followed up with any books on the subject, and as far as my getting some of the terminology correct, I must credit Google with everything.

However, if I had to put money on it, I would think that one quiet evening, while transporting Glitterstim Spice from Kessel to an area south of the Si'Klaata Cluster, perhaps. The two old friends might get to reminiscing over a bottle of spirits, about life before the rebellion and before Leia and Luke complicated their lives. Maybe the spirits will help to break down some of his inhibitions and in a quiet awkward moment, Chewie will softly moan and grunt his true feelings for his patriarchal companion. Maybe it will be in those fleeting moments, with the once tropical paradise of Rion in the background, the two will engage in their forbidden tryst... Either that OR Han Solo will be so put off by the gesture, that he would pulverize the wookiee with a shot from his sidearm, just as he should've done and those decades before, then jettisoned his furry ass into deep space.