guilded complexities

empty again/ run -on

i'm thinking in reverse again. i want to write so bad, but everytime i take off on a story, i realize that there are too many details and it is just too hard. so, i'm really not empty, but in fact, overwhelmed.
not the usual run-on sentence today...
instead, i cheat you with the run-on word. a lazy way of handing you my brains in a bucket. this will require fast typing skills and a sympathetic reader. concentration. insight! patience and understanding.

saturdaygoldrushlatenightstupidmoneykidstalktoomuchtoosmokeyonemoreshawnalambdriveeasyquitstartmedicinecashbrainshowerjohnnybeersongtakeittoolongnowgetbetterdadsicktreebirdlovetimesdaysneverforgetgoingshoppingmarytimecorriekidscleanamendmenttoolateseetoolatechocolatemarydrinktotownwithmoneyreversefenderbuycarhophopshopgrafittipickupliedown.

and another...

bashcrashstayalivethinkgodothinkcleanmoneydaysameorganizethoughtgamefreemasonsshawnalambweirdguysideasshootgocleanhappy.

fuckin' tasty shrimp bowl.
see, there's just too much. i'll move in reverse for awhile, and quiet this mess down. i wanted to give you something better...
r.

poster contest

no, im' not having one, but that doesn't mean i won't.
there was this poster contest when i was in about fourth grade. it wasn't a school thing, but i think i got the entry blank at school. make a poster about ecology, you know, save the earth.
i really wanted to do it, i guess.
we were trying to come up with slogans, you know i had this big piece of poster board, and my mom says "hey, how about SEWER SKIING CAN BE HAZARDOUS TO YOUR HEALTH? you could have a guy water skiing through a bunch of garbage."
everyone including myself thought that was a great idea. i drew a purposely simple, confined and mechanical profile of this almost stick figure guy skiing through a bunch of trash. i made the boat with three straight lines and ruler. it was a poster contest, and it was real. i knowingly dumbed down my artistic ability 'cause i didn't want anyone to see me so vulnerable. i could have actually drawn a good picture, but this was a poster contest, and it was real.
i lettered the slogan carefully.
well, what do you think?
my mom won! we went somewhere one night thereafter, i got a special shirt, and everyone got dressed up. i got a plaque and the local newspaper even took my picture. apparently, my mom's great ideas rock, is what i was thinking. it wasn't my claim.

now, when i re-examine the situation, i realize that we all won the poster contest. me and my mom and dad and eric. and i didn't even really draw.

a moment of honor for the greilings.

don't abandon me now, reader, it could be your loss! i will gather my thoughts and soon give you something better.
r

cook's choice

that's what the cafeteria menu says when you're in fourth grade and your crappy school lunch is
going to be especially crappy.
i want to write a story, but i simply have too much other shit to do. tonight is "cook's choice", and you get to write your own story.
here are the rules...
write about the first thing that comes to mind after you read this.
you must include the words, "innocence, intelligence", and "greed".
it has to be mostly true.
if you make a real commitment to writing, you can change some of the rules as needed.

do your best, thank you, and good luck! use whatever you have.

r.

narnia

there's this retarded kid that goes to my son's school. they call him "narnia", 'cause that's what he calls one of the girls, actually named "daria" or some shit. i pray that rory isn't one of the kids making fun of him. rory says narnia's smart in different ways.

narnia apparently loves to play basketball, but the other kids seldom play with him. he's always looking for a pick-up game. so, the other day, narnia comes up to rory and one of his hot-shot buddies looking for a game. rory's chum mason obliges. i hate to say it, but i think that they were looking for a laugh.

well, according to rory, mason's pretty good and he got a workout. he won eventually, but narnia 'bout liked to kick his ass. it would seem that narnia knows his way around a basketball court. smart in different ways...

now, i'm not a gambling man, but you can bet your ass that my money is on narnia in the future. i'm so glad that rory told me this story. it makes me think that he has his eyes open.

reader, never, ever, make the mistake of judging a book by it's cover. i have done so myself too many times now, and i can't explain to you my regret. there's nothing worse than trying to do your best and getting knocked down. some people do it over and over, everyday. give 'em a break. o.k.?

oh so r.

squandered

kedra

kedra misseldine. she was jane's teenage daughter, tony's sister. sometimes when i was about 6 or
7, and was was getting too sensitive to play with the rest of the guys, she would come and rescue
me. she knew i was bored and wanted to do something better than kick a football or whatever. i
always hated that sports shit that the other guys were so into.
she'd see me moping around and say, "hi dickie. do you want to keep me company?" she had shiny blonde hair and cool looking teeth that made her pretty. her room was a magical place full of things that grown-ups and little kids didn't have. teenage things. girl things. interesting projects and lots of stuff to do projects with. she had moccasins. of course i wanted to keep her company.
we'd go up to her room and she would engage my imagination with tales of high school life, or a fun thing you can make with pipe cleaners, paper, and glue. i'd tell her about how i got bored, and everyone was mad at me, and i could tell that she understood. i think i understood her,. too. she was a square, but not as square as the rest of her family.
kedra had a chain made of wrigley spearmint gum wrappers that hung on her wall. a long green zig-zag neatly constructed little by little. a testimony to her patience and love of making wonderful things. i think she tried to show me how to do it a few times, but it was just too hard.
she never got frustrated with me somehow. if i got bored or couldn't do something, we would just move on to something else. in that stage of my life, i liked to be with kedra best. they were special times never frequent enough to me. eventually, kedra went away somewhere, to college, i suppose, and i'd just hang out by myself when i got bored and everyone was mad at me.

i'd like to say that i have thought of kedra often since then, but it isn't true. as weird as this sounds, she went her way and i went mine.

my mom mentioned kedra the other night. i guess she is still alive and has a family and all that shit. she must be pretty old. i didn't really even listen, i don't know why. right now i'm wondering if she ever thinks about me, and if she would be disappointed. i may have been easier to appreciate when i was little.

not sam's grandpa, but the same era.

o.k., so this isn't about sam's grandpa. but i had occasion to reflect. this is about neighbor teresa, boredom and curiosity.
one day in the summer, i was playing with teresa. i think we were walking around and around the big birch tree in front of my house. there was an elevated bed made of stones, and walking on them gave your body enough occupation to comfortably think and talk. we did it alot.
so this one day, i came up with this. i told teresa that we should go to the garage and pull our pants down. she, thank god, agreed that it was a good idea.
innocently, that is exactly what we did. it was exciting, mostly because we knew we weren't supposed to do that. we went back, i think, and walked around the tree some more.
well, what do you think, that evening she went home and told her parents what we had done. i may never know why.
my dad approached me and said something like, "dickie-bird, teresa's dad was talking to me, and he said there's been some "pullin' down the pants". i was fuckin' mortified. busted.
"don't do that, o.k.?"
"o.k."
"mom's making dinner, it's just about ready."
"o.k., dad."
i never said thanks.

logging and trading

when i was real young on garden st., there were two things that i absolutely loved to do: logging and trading. they were complicated systems of play developed by me and my brother and tony misseldine.
logging took place on the creek behind tony's house. it was steep, and the water formed a series of pools like tiers as it flowed into the gully. we would all collect sticks and break them into uniform pieces about the length of a matchstick . one guy would take them to the top and send them down the creek to the next pool. there, another guy would gather them up and perform a process on them, i don't remember just what. like peel the bark off of them, i think. then they were sent down the next leg of the stream to the next pool. here we would all eventually convene to gather up the logs, dry them and place them in designated box. it was maroon, about the size of a big bible. we repeated the process until the box was full. sometimes it took days to do, we were confined by the available hours of play. at that point the logs were discarded, and we would set about gathering a new batch. this activity took place on and off for months, maybe even years. when we were deciding what to do, i always voted for logging. it was a proven system, it was a fucking institution. and it was always rewarding.

my brother eric made up trading and continues to do it to this day, just a little bit different.
it started with us riding bikes by the school. at some point, some contractors had done some work on the big main doors, and left behind a number of what i believe now to be shims. they were "H" shaped flat pieces of metal about an inch tall. there were alot of them scattered about and the more you looked, the more you found. they were called "H's", and immediately became an item to be coveted. we all had our own cache. they were part of our kid wealth, our riches. i kept mine in a bag with other valuable treasures like poker chips, key rings and mysterious tiny things, usually made of metal.
eventually, eric realized that values had been assigned to our collected objects. if not, he would do so himself. the "H's" were good. they were fairly common, but held their value well...
at some point, eric suggested that we could gather in a circle and bid on one another's possessions. deals were made. the same objects changed hands dozens of times over the years. seldom were new ones introduced. some items grew in value. indeed, some became prized. you could get it if you were willing to pay for it. we were little tiny men in control of our worlds for one of the first times.
in the end, i think i squandered most of my stuff on a "snoopy" soap dish. jane misseldine was an avon lady, so tony had a leg up. it had a function and it was real. you can't put your soap on an "H", now, can you?

coming up next: sam's grandpa!

some trouble

and then, just for now , we go forward one million steps. eugene, oregon. nineteen, i guess. one day, when it was starting to fall apart, i was at my eugene girlfriend's house (apartment). i was cheating on my real portland girlfriend jayne, but it didn't feel like i was doing anything bad. i was so hungry and anne made some cream of mushroom soup. she put some spices on top. it tasted so good. we had been fighting so bad, unhealthy like, it was cold outside and it was time to feel better. she might have fed it to me. i loved her so much in a weird and special way. she knew i was cheating. it didn't matter to either of us.

i lived on garden street. a dead end in west linn. my friends were the people that lived there by geography. it was my long pursuit to make my parents happy. eric had trouble with his ears. he had six surgeries, every time my dad gave him twenty bucks for being brave. he'd put it up in the light. eric's twenty bucks.

i got in trouble quite a few times over those years. once for pulling down my pants. once for wrecking my dad's toolbox. and that paint by number thing. it was a model of a ruby throated humming bird. i wanted to paint. i colored over the numbers. that turned out poorly.

the story

now that i'm a writer, i intend to tell the story. and it goes a little something like this.

we had the play room, cement floor painted nicely green room. basement. i loved it. we had a cool slot car track that my dad put on a little table, also green. there was the "toy box", this big cardboard box full of all of your stuff, and you just threw it in there when you were done, so you could clean up real quick. it was dark blue with a yellow lid. i wonder where my dad got that.

jane misseldine raised me until we moved a few miles to the robinwood district. she was a staunch mormon, kind of a trip now that i really think about it. my mom was a teacher and an old school mom. dinner, a well contemplated healthy variety, was always on the table at five thirty. we talked about things, but it wasn't how you're picturing. but it was good. sometimes when we went to the store my mom would agree to buy one of those "sugary cereals". me and my brother, eric, would chat between our bunk beds about how excellent the cereal was gonna be tomorrow. the room was split with this wainscoating, white on bottom and robin's egg blue on top. and the top was curved. i had a picture of an old timey car that came as a kit from my mom and dad. it was one of those things that you spread out some glue and sprinkle colored particles on it, like ted sawyers "art". it had some shiny black cord with which you could define the lines. my mom helped me make it, and the feeling of that moment is still here. ironically, my dear mother has no artistic talent whatsoever. man, i loved my mom and dad and my brother. we had inside jokes. you know, maybe that's the luxury of family that some never have. i am embarrassed to say that i have taken it for granted. i have to go.
r.

next blog: chapter two.

trippin' and clickin'

outrageous trippin', crazy clickin'! one and all.

i think that i'm a writer. i just put on a special jacket to prove it. it's a plaid, loose weave blazer by armani. i put it on over my sweatshirt. man, i sure feel like a writer. i pause and inhale deeply. for a moment, my expression goes distant, as if i am consumed with thoughts not of the times. can i be a writer now? i smoke alot.

something makes me want to get drunk and punch away at this keyboard all the time. i think that i like to assemble the words. it's like a fun puzzle, you can change the shapes if you need to, but you still gotta follow the rules.

what did i mean by "clickin"? i get the trippin' part. maybe the keyboard, right?
oh yeah, i'm a writer alright. what the hell are you?

my tree on days like these

i just wrote this lovely entry about the tree outside, and my power went down 'cause i had the heater on.
alas, that original feeling is long gone now.
some things still remain. i love days like these, the saturday of the thanksgiving weekend. cold outside but not in here. early morning when most people are asleep or just getting up. i have virtually nowhere that i have to be, nothing that i have to do. i have everything that i need right here. there is still sunday before work. it is a free time for free thinking.

this is what i think...

most people want the same thing, it just comes up with different manifestations and names. i think we all want to feel like we're realizing ourselves, putting our best foot forward. we as humans crave the company and approval of others, and ultimately truly care about the well being of the people around us. we want to do our part, and do a good job of it. we are also inherently selfish and will always seek to better our personal situations. we feel best when we feel like we're doing both.

we all do alot of different things. some people run. some people work for charities. some people smoke. some surf, some bite their nails, and some vomit their last meal in hopes of staying thin.
some guys change their oil and keep the receipts. while they are all engaged in different activities, i believe that they are trying to do the same thing...hoping to get to that special place in their mind, that special way of feeling that is o.k. with them. self "pre-approved" good space. when everything is fine, they feel engaged and interested, and that they have something to offer.
balanced, if you will. they want to feel like life is giving something back.

that's what i think.
r.

lung funk.

it's tuesday and i haven't been to work for the las two days, four including the weekend. i am sick.
yesterday, early in the morning, i literally felt like i couldn't breathe (as much as i needed to.) i was gasping and panicking. i called my friend and she took me to the hospital.
the whole experience went incredibly smoothly. i was seen by a doctor and temporarily "fixed" almost immediately. it turns out i have the classic "lungus funkiest." the doc gave me a billion prescriptions, assured me that i would be fine, and sent me on my way.
which brings me to this. i forgot to add that she also wrote me a note for work saying that i shouldn't go back for four days. especially not the next 'couple. so, ive called work, i'm taking my medicine, i'm resting, and it is a really weird experience. i've gotta say, it's pretty nice. of course, that makes me feel guilty. i absolutely know that i shouldn't, but that's guilt for you.
with that in mind, it is 1:30 p.m. of "day two", which means my hiatus will soon draw to a close.
i close my entry at this point in hopes of guiltlessly enjoying my "get-better" time by getting better.
r.

good day, one and all.

top of the goddamned morning to you, one and all. this is MY blog.
i have been thinking about alot of things today. depression, disappointment, love, hopeful expectations, duty, responsibility. physical endurance or the lack thereof. did i spell that right?

it is saturday, so with great pleasure i inform you that you can do whatever you like. even if you're supposed to work today. it's true. you are free, you just may not realize it. would you like to know what's new?

i have lately been sharing correspondence with an old friend. we lost each other for awhile, but she must have felt my brain squirming, 'cause she called me the other day. she is Robin, and she is magnificent. anyone is lucky to meet her.

Sara is my friend through Blaine. she is talented artist, and recently got a tattoo gun. she's been putting images on everybody i know lately. Blaine just got this crazy walrus that i just love. i want a Sara tattoo, too, but my mom won't let me.

i think my children know that i'm crazy. come to think of it, they have probably been on to me for years. i don't know what their mother tells them, but i love her no matter what.

my daughter is going to college next fall! i want to try and remember to do what i can to keep her on track. it is a wonderful opportunity that i squandered myself. i know that she will enjoy the experience so much. she will be actualized at last. when Allie talks, people should listen and learn.

my main supporter (you know who you are) and i went out for some pills last night. i guess i thought if i went to the pharmacy and could accurately pronounce the name of the drug i wanted, they would give it to me. not so. i was being a little reckless. we got out before anything got ugly. went from there to taco bell. how do you like that?

i have slept in my clothes for at least two days running.

i have a dentist now, but i'm not sure that i trust him. he has pictures of his achievements in his office. him with his plane, him with his hot wife, him in a magical tropical place. hey, wait a minute dude, are you buying that stuff with my money? right?

since i can do whatever i want (don't forget, so can you), i choose to clean up my place and myself, and make ready to spend sunday with my son and daughter. armed with the new found knowledge that they know i'm nuts. they seem to love me anyway. i have low self-esteem right now, i mustn't let them feel that tug. that's the duty and responsibility talkin'.

everyone have a clean, free, liberating day. this is my new "blog". read it.

i am r., and you will come to love me. IT'S HAPPENING AGAIN!