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†May 3, 2010 to May 18, 2010

Watch for Children

       Journal... it's been a while since we last spoke.  A lot has gone down in my world and the world in general since my January 7th entry, where I struggled to express my disappointment in Mr. Obama.  Since that entry my disillusionment in Obama has abated somewhat.  I have replaced the picture in my studio of Obama in the recognition that he is doing the best he can, all things considered.  While spending some time in my studio I indeed did remove the sheet which was covering my opus, and finished painting the central character of the piece, the red rock formation.  That part of the project completed, I have now moved on to the foreground of the painting, the waves.  As it was I was simply going to continue painting, albeit with tones of blue rather than the reds which have occupied the space upon my palette for years now.  Having applied the last of the red to the final crack and crevasse, it was to be a welcome change of color and texture from the seemingly static rock to the free flowing movement of water.  But before I could move on I once again moved my work location from the canvas to the computer screen.  An idea which I had abandoned regarding the water has made its way back into the picture and some preliminary computer work is required.

     At this point I don't wish to go into detail about what I am working on within the planet of pixels except to say this, the preproduction element of this idea is taking longer than I thought... an endemic element when it comes to how I have always worked.  But the more pervasive reason it is taking so long is the element which makes working with the computer both positive and negative.  In the old days (which were not so long ago) when all preproduction was done with pencil and paper, commitment to an idea was made easier because options for change usually required more work then I was willing to do.  Now with the computer, a click here, a drag there, I find it harder to commit because I'm always left wondering 'would that go better there, here, or should I keep looking'?  There are just too many options.  And the ability to explore those options are seemingly unlimited.  I say 'seemingly' because no matter how wonderful our modern technological advances may be, we are all subjects of time.  To put it bluntly, one can only fart around for so long.  The day when this body I presently inhabit reaches its climax is unknown but inevitable.  No time to waste.

     As yet I am not done the preliminary work on the waves, but with spring here my focus was taken in yet another direction.  We live in black-fly country, and if one doesn't get yard and house upkeep done before their hordes make life outdoors intolerable, it's usually too late.  Not to bore you with domestic details but the house needed staining, gardens needed tending, and general maintenance was required before we open up our home and gallery to the public for the summer season on the May 24th weekend.

     My last project with regard to home and gallery upkeep were some signs which I have had on the back burner of my mind.  If you have read other entries in this journal you may have come across one or two where I spoke about a right of way easement issue I had with my neighbor.  Needing my property to access his house, he basically treated the section of my property designated as the right of way as his.  Needless to say, this did not sit well with me and tempers inevitably flared.  My vocabulary was boiled down to a few choice words when I happened upon him and they weren't, "Good day, how are you?"  The last thing I wanted was a pissing contest, but marking my boundaries was now required.  Rather than urinating I staked my claim through strategically planting trees and placing rocks, which made abuse of the right of way privilege more difficult.  Along with that I wrote a letter to my neighbor and his lawyer (Easement Issues) stating that signs would be placed at either end of my property line.   This year I will live up to that promise.  Today I put the finishing clear coat on two tastefully designed signs stating, "Private Drive, Watch for Children".  And to be honest they couldn't have been placed too soon and should have gone up last year before my neighbor's sister, unconscious of possible casualties, used the right of way and hit my dog with her car.  Of course, and to be fully forthright, my dog did run at the car and actually hit the car rather then the car hitting her, but still, it's a private drive and although I am constantly telling her to be aware it could have been my daughter on her bicycle.  One needs to be conscious of the danger, and I hope having a constant reminder in the form of signs will suffice.  As it was, Bodhi our Sheepdog Bouvier mix was no worse for wear and thankfully walked away with her blockhead intact.

     Hopefully that will be the last thing I need to do regarding safety issues upon my private property.  And hopefully (although the signs do serve a dual purpose of my family's safety, as well as defining property boundaries) my neighbor won't take it the wrong way and assume that they were put up solely for the purpose of pissing him off.  But hope (as I touched on in my last entry regarding the hope of Obama) is a fleeting and oftentimes fragile attribute regarding future events of planetary cohabitation.  If it is one thing I've learned in my fifty years of being an artist upon this old world, you can never tell how people are going to react, and hope, expectations and optimism should be tempered with reality.

     So with all that, one would assume that now I am ready to get back to work on my opus.  And with that assumption one would be wrong.  Because first of all, here I am adding to this journal.  A public journal that for all I know is more private than I mean it to be.  That is to say, who is really reading this besides me and my proofreader Stefanie?  It's a message in a bottle thrown in a dying ocean being pumped full with the remnants of long dead dinosaurs.  Yeah, "Spill Baby Spill".  Bill Maher is right on that one regarding Palin's energy mantra.  No matter what could go wrong on our planet, human economic concerns override all others.  But Bill Maher is wrong when he states in no uncertain terms that "their (USA) way is better".

     On the April 30th installment of HBO's Real Time with Bill Maher he ended his "New Rules" segment with a rant where he uncharacteristically defended Christianity and other religions, albeit, in opposition to the Islamic religion.  He was pissed off because the creators of the cartoon South Park received death threats over a depiction of Mohammed, or some such thing.  Personally I don't watch South Park, and not for what they say, but because like modern art I can't justify wasting my time looking at badly executed art.  Here's another drawback of the computer age.  Anyone can make a cartoon whether they can draw or not, and gone are the days of hand drawn moving images.  Oh well, that's progress for you.

     That's just who I am artistically.  I believe art should require some effort.  Before I lose my point of bringing up Bill Maher I must say that his peeve was more to do with free speech and the need of comedy to push buttons than a justification of any religion.  But he said some things (as he often does these days) that just didn't sit well with me.  Bill is always saying how he doesn't understand why the US Empire feels the need to permanently spread the troops far and wide within the borders of other sovereign nations.  I would hazard to guess that the main reason for that phenomenon Bill, is because the USA collectively thinks that it is and knows better than everyone else.  So when Bill professes that their system is "better", he misses the point entirely.  To say that the Islamic religion treats its women like second class citizens is probably true.  But to make that statement in self-righteousness is to ignore the fact that domestic abuse and male ego driven lunacy exists within the "better way" of the USA.  Typhoid Mary.  A word of advice to the wiseasses, not that any of them will hear it.  Before one judges the mess in their neighbor's yard you might want to clean up your own.  But then, that would take a certain amount of humility, and as far as the good ol' USA in this regard, I don't hold out much hope.

     Before I leave Bill to relish in his condescension I have one more thing to say to him.  I wish I could stick it in his inbox directly, but who am I?  I'm just an obscure artist eking a living out of black-fly country.  Like most who inhabit this planet my voice is small.  And that's not me putting myself down, that is just the truth.  I don't have an HBO show to spread my fundamentalist notions of what is reality and what is not.

     I truly appreciated Bill Maher's movie Religulous but I refuse to follow him down his atheist tangent of no doubt.  The Christian Fundamentalist self-fulfilling prophecy of Rapturous doom they pray for, has concerned me long before he made his movie.  For me personally it was simply corroboration of what I suspected to be true.  If that segment of US society gets a firm foothold (if it hasn't already) within the governing power which controls their weapons of mass destruction it would be bad.  So I agree with him on that one.  Another thing I noticed about Religulous was that the Buddhists were not mentioned or on his hit list of religious cults, and I appreciated that.  But of course Bill could not leave them alone forever.  Being the Devout Atheist that he is I guess he couldn't help himself, and during a recent Real Time he let loose on those peaceful non-proselytizing religious nuts who practice inner peace through meditation by following the tenets of Buddha.

     I can't even recall exactly what he said, but my level of respect for him definitely backtracked somewhat.  I think it started when Tiger Woods mentioned in his apology that he is a Buddhist.  From there Bill made some lame comment on how the concept of reincarnation is bogus because no one reborn as a raccoon ever spelled out the truth of it.  It also bothered him how the Buddhists choose their Dalai Lama.  How their spiritual practices have affected his existence in a negative way, or for that matter in anyway whatsoever,  is beyond me.  As far as I can tell the Buddhists are the least of humanities problems,  so my question for Bill is... why?  What purpose does it serve, other than pure ego fulfillment, to unleash your sarcastic venom on such a benevolent group of people?  I could be wrong but I can't recall ever hearing of a Buddhist doing anything to intentionally hurt anyone, or for that matter any thing.  In fact, the Buddhists are most likely one of the only religions where they actually practice what they preach, without preaching at all.  Not killing anything at all is a Buddhist tenet they take very seriously, unlike the Christians who adhere to the commandment of "thou shalt not kill" only when it is convenient... if at all.  Typical example of this blatant hypocrisy is thou shalt not kill the fetus while wishing dead any doctor who would provide this service of (for most women) last resort.  Don't get me wrong, I am not pro abortion, and of course unwanted pregnancy should and could be prevented.  In my own experience, only once has my seed found purchase, the end result of which is my daughter Samsara.  Abstinence rings are not the way to avoid unwanted pregnancies, sex education is.  But then, the religious among us have a problem with that too.

     Anyway, I find it strange how we can get caught up in our limited views.  From what I can tell through his rants, Bill Maher generally thinks that all that is wrong with the world is religiously inspired.  Like it is only the Islamists who force their women into servitude and hiding.  Whereas I am certain that there are a few atheists who beat their wives into submission, forcing them to hide their shame with Cover Girl and sunglasses.  In every group, religious and non, there are assholes, some groups just have more then others.

     Take the recent outings of Catholic Priests and their indiscretions.  I heard Bill say that he thought it had to do with religiously enforced celibacy.  There might be some truth to that, but the problem with that train of thought is it doesn't explain the countless buggerings which are perpetrated by those not of the Catholic faith.  Personally I think the sickness evolves from power or to be more precise the lack thereof when it comes to the male ego.  Male generated ego, of which Bill Maher is in no uncertain terms a member of the club.  With the way he continues to condemn Polanski of his sex crime twenty or so years past, which even the victim herself wants to put behind her, it makes me think that he doth protest too much.  Which is to say, Bill being the slut that he is, I would not put it past him if he has not once or twice found his manhood rising at the site of an under aged female of the species.  Any man who says that he is not attracted to the female form, because it happens to be slightly under the legal limit is lying to himself.  And that is where the problem truly resides.  Lying to oneself.

     Molestation, rapes and sex crimes do not exist within our society solely because of a chosen choice of celibacy by monks or priests.  They are a direct manifestation of powerlessness.  A man who internally feels himself powerless will take advantage of the weakest amongst us, in order to feed the insatiable and fearful male ego.  And beyond that, I believe the human race has most of its priorities of what is acceptable and what is not, fucked up sideways.

     I mentioned in another entry entitled "Nipples and the Politics of Fear", how while channel surfing I landed upon a show about breast implant surgery.  The wave I caught while surfing landed me on an image of a surgery in progress.  What I found most disconcerting was that the woman's nipple was censored through pixilation, while the open gash where the unnatural enhancement would be shoved into was clearly visible.  Am I the only one on the planet who sees how fucked up that is?  What's natural, real and beautiful is censored and hidden from view, as if anyone seeing a nipple will turn to stone and do untold harm.  Meanwhile, an unnatural and as far as I'm concerned absolutely unnecessary product of our technological advances in medicine is glorified and promoted as okay.

     I was raised Catholic, and beyond the enforced celibacy of priests, what I believe is screwed up with that religion is the shame and guilt it attaches to anything sexual in nature.  Condemning a natural act of nature as dirty and shameful fucks up the minds of the congregation along with those who preach this blasphemy against nature's way.  Simply put, if you convince the brethren that sex is dirty, you are going to get dirty sex.  Hence, priests expressing their sense of powerlessness through the buggering of altar boys.  Denial, denial, denial... where does this river take us?  Straight to hell on earth.

     Speaking of straight, another question this subject brings to mind is... why is it that these victims of their own religion, more often than not, sexually abuse boys?  Are most of these priests born gay or is it simply that the altar boys are handy and conveniently placed upon the altar?  Is it the don't bend for the soap in the shower while in prison experience?  If these priests are in fact born gay, (I've felt Catholic guilt for, to quote Tom Waits, "making the scene with a magazine")  I can't even imagine what that would do to their psyches.  The stigma the Catholic church places on heterosexual conception-less orgasms pales in comparison to the gay climax.  But this curiosity of religiously promoted persecution is not unique to those professing to know God and what he wants from us.  No, it is spread across all facets of our so-called civil society.

     Not long ago I happened upon a documentary called "Outrage".  It was an eye opener to what I already knew to be true.  You lie to yourself about who you are, and it is not only you who suffers.  Outrage documents the lives of closeted gay politicians who through fear and denial of who they are, systematically vote against the rights of all gay people.  It's a strange but undeniable phenomenon, deny who you are and you will deny all others for who they know themselves to be.  And it's not just a gay thing.  As mentioned with the Catholic induced hang-ups of all things sexual, most everyone of us are in shame's closet to a greater or lesser degree.  That truth is why I have an unwavering and deep respect for gays and their struggle for the right to be who they are.  Their fight for the right to be is not confined to the right for them to marry, it affects the rights for all of us to be who we are, gay, straight, black, brown, red, yellow, white, religious or not...  Underneath all the exterior differences are we all not human?  Are we not all children of one mother, the Earth?

~

     To whomever might be reading this, you may be wondering why I give so much attention to a big pigheaded pot smoking American slut like Bill Maher.  Simply put, he, like a lot of other American curiosities... Palin, Beck, Tea Baggers...  has influence upon the media stage.  Through this medium Bill Maher has had an influence on not only me but countless others.  The fact that he pisses me off points to my self deprecating nature and need to find someone to look to for confirmation of what I know to be true.  Never mind smoking, I, like most of humanity really must quit the bad habit of looking into other's eyes for who we are.  Freely giving our power to those outside ourselves, be it Bill, The Pope or Truthers, in the end only short circuits our sense of self and who we know ourselves to be.  I can think of no greater sin.  All other "sins" stem from that core human dysfunction.  Be true to yourself may sound like hokey new age spiritual mumbo jumbo, but it is no less true.  For example, part of my self identity is that I am an Artist.  When I let outside influences make me feel otherwise, I not only do a disservice to my self but to those closest to me and the rest of humanity.  If I don't stay true to myself then I will never be able to impart that quality necessary for a fulfilling life upon my daughter.

     I guess with his pigheaded view of all things spiritual, Bill Maher is being true to himself and who he thinks he is.  I give him that, but when he denies others the same right, like a Buddhist monk who does no harm to the rest of humanity, I must object.  I feel it is safe to say that Bill Maher thinks all that is wrong in the world is religiously or spiritually motivated.  And that is exactly what is wrong with most organized religions.  If it is a personal trip to god or self what's the harm?  Like the right for two men or woman who truly love each other to get married, how exactly does that affect me in a negative way?  It doesn't.  In fact, allowing that individual right to be, frees me to be who I am.  Curiously enough, Stefanie and I chose not to get married.  As far as the Pope's view and my Catholic upbringing is concerned this decision will condemn me to hell.  On top of that offense to god we had a love child.  My Fundamentalist Christian former neighbor, out of what I can only determine was her way to try to save us from ourselves, gave Stefanie and I a pamphlet of her religion's rules and regulations of being.  Contained within it was a list of things considered sinful in her and her congregation's eyes.  "Shacking" was on the list.  Seemed a personal swipe, since she knew that Stefanie and I were not or ever planning on getting married.  And I am sure when we had Samsara out of wedlock she said more then a few unwelcome prayers on our behalf.  Never mind that Stefanie and I love each other deeply and have a strong relationship built on openly sharing our truths with each other.  I'm sure In her eyes our daughter will be condemned to eternal life with Lucifer for her parents personal decision.  And who did we truly hurt by our choice?  No one.  In fact with his love for prostitutes I'm sure even Jesus would be kosher with how Stefanie and I express our love for each other and our daughter.

     So on the issue of marriage,  unlike my former neighbor, I guess Bill and I share some common ground.  He doesn't believe in the contract of marriage and also thinks that it is okay for anyone to grow a little herb, put it in your pipe and smoke it, to which I also agree.  These are personal issues which don't affect others in any way whatsoever.  And if the (largely Christian) Tea Baggers were true to their claims of the need for limited government, they by all the rights of their precious constitution should stand side by side with the pot smokers of the world, but of course you would be hard pressed to find one who would.  Hypocrites.  So my question for Bill Maher is this.  Do you really want to be lumped in with the rest of the fundamentalist thinking self righteous know it alls of the world?  Because when you hold on to your Atheist religion like all the other fundamentalists of the world, you are not "better".  You are fundamentally the same as all you despise.  In Religulous, Bill Maher lays claim to the dogma of doubt, meaning doubt of an existence beyond our physical form, yet he is fundamentally certain that it doesn't exist.  Yet another question for Bill, one he loves to throw at others.  How do you know?

     "New Rule"  Bill Maher must stop claiming to be better than the rest and and knowing with ego generated certainty how the Universe operates for all of us.

     Why is it that the assholes of the world seem to be so fucking sure of themselves?  I mean, I have had experiences in my life which point to a purpose of life beyond physical time and still I have my doubts.  I share my ideas of reality through my artwork, but I would never try to coerce others into seeing it the way I in my lighter moments sometimes do.  Yet all around me and everywhere I look others are doing just that.  Is this my fault?  Is this the reason why my life as an artist has been such a struggle to finance?  Should I just throw in the artistic towel?  Perhaps I could invent the next "manufactured necessity", complete with a predetermined and built-in obsolescence factor in order to maximize future corporate profit potential?  Perhaps an iPad to line woman's undergarments, when something so natural as a sea sponge will do the trick.  Or maybe I could go to Wall Street, get a job at Oldman Sacks and swing low to and fro with the rest of the retired billionaires.  They don't seem too worried with how their actions have affected those who are simply trying to keep a roof over their heads.  As for me, I still feel bad about hurting the feelings of a woman from my distant past when I left the relationship without a word.  Of course, after I performed that bonehead move I never did that to anyone else ever again.  And something tells me that if those at Gold Man-sacks had it to do all over again they would do it all over again.  "Let your conscience be your guide."  Whoever coined that phrase must have died a paupers death.

     Yet for all my struggles, financial, mental, spiritual, artistic, I could never do what some feel is holy justified.  I cannot manipulate anyone to buy my work.  I'm not even that interested in convincing others that what I see to be true, is.  As far as I'm concerned there is no need for Bill Maher to believe in an afterlife.  Someday we will all see and I hope that after he breathes his last breath that he will be pleasantly surprised.  Then again, it might just piss him off.

     When all the conspi-racists are done with this mortal coil, who will be left for them to convince that their theory regarding this blink of reality is absolute, or even relevant in the Universal scheme of things?  And what of the Oldman and his Sachs of gold?  A quote from the movie Falling Down* 1 starring Michael Douglas seems appropriate, "And you're gonna die, wearing that stupid hat.  How does it feel?"  To put it in context, Douglas' character in making his way through Los Angeles, and after encountering numerous morally obstinate individuals, tries to take a shortcut through a golf course.  An old guy wearing the most hideous plaid golfwear gets irate, and after yelling "fore", launches the ball, narrowly missing Douglas' head.  With that, Douglas' character, having collected an arsenal of weapons on his trek through the city of angels, yells "five" and fires his own shot, taking out the guys cart.  The golf cart, along with stupid hat's heart medicine rolls into a pond and sinks.  In all the excitement the old man has a heart attack.  "Now aren't you sorry you didn't let me pass through your golf course?  And now you're going to die wearing..."  Personally the last thing I want to be wearing when I die is a stupid fucking hat.  I don't want to be a member of any of the fundamentalist country clubs or proudly wear their attire like it defines who I am.  Because that's the problem with humanity's class, tribal, religious or nationalistic systems of thought and being.  Like something so transient and ultimately pointless as a game of golf, we take it all so seriously.  Seriously enough to actually kill another in order to preserve what's basically a figment of imagination.  It's not that these illusions of reality don't serve a purpose, it's that they should be put into context within a Universe where all life on earth could cease to be at the drop of an asteroid.  Considering "The End" might be a good place for humanity to start, to let each other be.  It's not religion, it's not politics, it's not any number of imagined human concepts of what defines reality.  It's thinking yours is the 'only shit that don't stink' and shoving it down another's throat.

     Humans are a strange breed.  Comedians and artists, for what passes as normalcy, appear on the surface to be the strangest among us.  Clowns can be scary, and artists who do their thing regardless of whether anyone notices and pays their way, can seem insane in this world measured by endless acquisitions.  I'm a Mac, I'm a Mercedes, I'm a Tudor mansion; I'm a Christian, I'm a Muslim, I'm an Atheist; I'm an American, I'm a Dutchman, I'm a Canadian.  In truth,  I am not any of these brand names.  Most days I don't even consider myself an artist, although I do draw and make paintings.  So perhaps humanity's problem is not in who we think we are, but in what we do with who we think we are.

     I'm beginning to feel like some kind of existentialist or Zen Buddhist and this train of thought is going to give me a headache if I don't get off at the next station.  Next stop, back to earth, specifically the Gulf of Mexico.

~

"I hear a very gentle sound.
What have they done to the earth?
What have they done to our fair sister?
Ravaged and plundered
and ripped her and bit her
Stuck her with knives
in the side of the dawn
and tied her with fences
and dragged her down.
I hear a very gentle sound."

† When the Music's Over ~ by Jim Morrison and The Doors

~

     I may have my anonymous and one-sided quarrels with Mr. Maher where I yell at the screen as if he can hear me, but I still appreciate his tele-presence.  Despite my misgivings with fundamentalist atheism, on Friday nights at 10:00 you will find me in front of the television waiting to see what his take is on the week's events.  I share in his genuine concern for the environment.  Whether one believes that global warming is man-made or a part of earth's natural cycle, that argument seems to me to be almost irrelevant.  Except for the fact that these days the argument against climate change has become denial of all human induced environmental catastrophes.  To think that we have no affect upon our home planet is to have one's head up one's ass.  If earth could be imagined as a sentient being in spherical form, humanity would be recognized for what it is, a malignant melanoma.  Cities would be viewed as tumors and the dams we build, fatty cholesterol blocking her arteries.  What I am saying here is, global warming or not, we are shitting in our own nest, and unlike birds we cannot build a new one to raise the next generation's chicks.

    Not unlike the mad scientist in Jurassic Park, compliments of BP, the dinosaurs would seem to be making a return engagement.  As in Jurassic Park, the balance of nature is being disrupted by their return.  This time not through the magic of Steven Spielberg and Hollywood, but for real and in their liquid form.  You see, that is what oil is, the liquefied remains of dinosaurs.  It was a fluke of nature that it even exists at all.

     A definition of irony.  I cannot think of a better example than this latest spill.  If one can call it that.  For it's not exactly spilling from a ship piloted by a drunken sailor.  No, this source of humanity's addiction is coming directly from the supplier.  The irony is, the Gulf which we are now polluting with dino-goo is what scientists believe to be the remnants of a huge asteroid impact crater.  Quite likely the very asteroid which instantly wiped those beasts from the face of the planet.  Is this scar of earth's history going to be the wakeup call, or will man's fate be that of the proverbial dinosaur?  Or perhaps a more accurate analogy would be the frog in boiling water, where the heat slowly increases and the frog is cooked, before he even realizes it's too late to jump.  At this point the earth getting pummeled by a giant asteroid appears to be a more humane end to humanity's reign.

     For example, how many of us realize that there are ocean dead zones forming off the shores closest to densely populated locations of the planet?  I was surprised to hear that fishermen could still make a living fishing the Gulf even before the oil rig blew up.  One of these dead zones is forming at the mouth of the Mississippi where it feeds into the Gulf of Mexico.  According to The Nature of Things* 2 as the Mississippi winds its way through the heart of the USA it collects all sorts of pollutants in the form of fertilizers, pesticides and human effluents.  When it finally reaches the Gulf it upsets the balance of life and the water's oxygen level plummets, creating a dead zone where nothing can live.  Dead zones, domes, this whole thing is beginning to sound like a Stephen King novel.* 3

     That's some depressing shit.  Add to that mix the oil combined with EPA approved chemical dispersants designed to break up the oil so it will drop to the bottom of the ocean.  I'm sorry for the fishermen, but I would not want to eat anything caught in that region, ever.  I could be wrong, but don't shrimp basically live on the sea bottom where all this crap is going to rain down on them?  I've seen some documentaries on the long term effects of oil spills, and by all accounts it's not good.  Those who bore the brunt of the Exxon Valdez DWI are, twenty years on, still paying the price.  We can sit on our high horse and lay the blame on drunken sailors, Exxon, BP, George Bush, Dick Cheney, or now Obama, but the truth is, all of us who complain about the high price of gas share in the blame.  We drive around and around in our ignorance of how high the price of oil truly is.  We can only hope that this ever expanding catastrophe will lead to a real change in priorities, but as I have mentioned my hope is presently doing the ropey dope.

     I am trying to get myself out of this slippery slick and turn my attention in a positive direction, but it seems there is no end to humanity's garbage heap.  Bury it, disperse it, pretend it's not there.  It's not working.  Maybe some Hollywood humor will pull me out of the sludge my mind seems to be stuck in.  Perhaps some Forest Gump* 4 dialogue will do the trick.

Bubba: "Anyway, like I was sayin', shrimp is the fruit of the sea.  You can barbecue it, boil it, broil it, bake it, sauté it.  Dey's uh, shrimp-kabobs, shrimp Creole, shrimp gumbo.  Pan fried, deep fried, stir-fried, fertilized, mercurized.   There's pineapple shrimp, lemon shrimp, coconut shrimp, pepper shrimp, oiled shrimp, toxic shrimp, dispersant shrimp..."

     Nope, no luck with that one.  How about another of my favorite movies, Raising Arizona.* 5

Hi's Cellmate:  "... and when there was no meat, we ate fowl and when there was no fowl, we ate crawdad and when there was no crawdad to be found, we ate sand."
Hi: "You ate what?"
Hi's Cellmate: "We ate sand."
Hi: "You ate SAND?"
Hi's Cellmate: "That's right!  And when there was no sand we ate patties of coagulated oil which washed up on the beach."

     Oh well, that one just led back to the same stream of thought.  "Run Forest run!"  But all we can do now is hide, because there is nowhere to run to Forest, and I sure hope there is a box of chocolates in this mess somewhere.  Maybe BP could use them along with the golf balls and junk they now plan to use in trying to plug up the hole, seeing how their dome idea turned out to be a dumb idea.

Bubba: "... shrimp soup, shrimp stew, shrimp salad, shrimp and potatoes, shrimp burger, shrimp sandwich.  That- that's about it."

     No more shrimp, thank you very much.

     What of the media coverage in all this?  I watch the comedians as they try to make light of a dark situation, and although at times I can chuckle, inside I cringe.  It's just not funny.  And CNN, well I can see why their ratings are dropping.  At least why they are dropping in my house.  Bill Maher said that as far as the terrorists are concerned, America is doing a better job of destroying themselves.  But despite that obvious truth, while the oil spewed, CNN focused their 24 hour cycle on the failed Time Square bombing.  When entertainment is disguised as news, your sponsors dictate.  The slow but steady moving oil slick was like watching mold grow, whereas, what turned out to be the most pathetic terrorist ever, was played up and turned into high drama.  Balloon boy has not taught them anything.  Again, this just highlights how screwed up priorities have become in our increasingly polarized society.

     As I write that I can hear the spiritual puritans saying, "Well, what are you doing watching CNN?"  And to that judgment call, my response remains the same.  I don't necessarily watch it to get my information of what is relevant to my life.  I watch it from a social scientist's objective perspective in how information is fed to the masses.  If I chose not to watch it I could not comment on it with any relevance.  If one wants to study the social habits of the dung beetle you will have to look very closely at the shit.  I'm interested in how all this works, or to be more accurate, how it doesn't.

     I hope that that will silence those who sit in judgment of my habits, but I will remind you of where my hopes for civil discourse have gone.  Up in smoke.  Pass the doobie, I need to take a trip and escape this shit.

     I will continue.  One thing I watched for in this recent news cycle was a particular ad.  If you watch any television, CNN in particular, you would have seen it.  With a background of solar panels and windmills, a woman walks out espousing the virtues of oil and natural gas.  Then through the magic of computer animation she rides the oil pipeline down to the bottom of the ocean.  All the while she is telling me how the industry can drill responsibly, and how it is responsible for creating countless jobs.  The actress seems to have no problem relaying this tale to the camera, but something tells me she would not be so comfortable if she came face to face with a Gulf Coast fisherman.  The ad was very pervasive.  It was on all the time, you would think CNN and the oil companies were in cahoots.  I guess they are.  Anyway, after the deep sea rig blew it's cork I wondered what would happen to her.  Well, unlike Sarah Palin she shut up.  I have not seen hide nor hair of her since this disaster began to unfold.  She must have moved on Beyond Petroleum and probably got a new job with the Pharmaceutical Industry lobby group.  Come to think of it, I believe I have seen her in some sort of Zanax or anti-depressant commercial.  Then again, it might have been Lunesta, yeah... she might have trouble sleeping at night.

~

     After emigrating from Holland at age six I grew up in a small town in Ontario, Canada.  Orono is situated a few miles from Mosport, an international racetrack which during my youth hosted Formula One and Can Am racing.  Having been raised within biking distance of a racetrack I grew up with the love of cars.  My hero was Bruce Mclaren and when I was young I dreamed of being a race car driver like him.  After spending a day at the races I would come home inspired, and along with my brother, we built soap box go carts mimicking the real thing.  He would push and I drove, hey... I was the lightest.  Most times these creations would fall apart faster then we could build them.

     To this day my love for nice cars and racing remain a part of my life.  I watch Formula One racing religiously, staying up until all hours of the night to catch the action live when the race is held on the other side of the planet.  Beyond that seemingly insane practice my PC is rigged up for simulated racing so I can intimately know the tracks they race these days.  With a base program called rFactor* 6 I have even downloaded Mosport, the track of my misspent youth.  Driving that track in an F1 car of today, although simulated, was a strange experience.  And since my lap times are put in through the computer at least I am not adding greenhouse gases such as CO2 to the environment.  Some choose to see my game as just that, a game, and that I am wasting my time.  I prefer to view it as living out an unfulfilled desire of my youth.  Also, it keeps my hand to eye coordination sharp, makes me sweat, gets my middle aged heart racing, and if anything, makes me a better driver in the real world.  Beyond that, the focus it takes to hit the apex of a corner just right is not so different than the focus it takes to hit the mark on canvas with a brush.  Listen to me, even at fifty years of age it sounds like I still need to justify what I enjoy doing.  Imagine that, an act which for all intent and purpose affects no other in anyway negative.  And I should feel bad for enjoying it?  Wow!  I should give a fuck what others think of me and what I do to survive this incarnation?

     Born in 1959, through my adolescence and formative years I narrowly missed the ecological 60s, hit the badly dressed 70s, and drifted into whatever the 80s were.  By the time 1984 rolled around I was well on my way to becoming just another victim of societal peer pressure.  Guided by music, my psyche survived, and in the (at that time ominous) year of 1984 (to be replaced with the year 2000 and when that didn't work out 2012 in our more 'modern' doomsday scenario) the Universe laid out it's plan.  I spoke in detail through another journal entry about this time of my life and don't want to rehash it here, except to say I saw the light, and as it turned out it was in front of me all along, I just missed the shadow it cast.  It's just more Zen shit and for the atheists in the room just call me crazy and be on your way, it'll be okay.

     I had what you could call "an awakening".  In searching for what to say with my artistic talent I found it.  Part of this awakening was becoming intimately conscious of our environment and how we affect it on all levels of our being.  My red 71 Pontiac Firebird had given up the ghost, and the 1980 black Trans Am I had bought turned out to be a nightmare I wish I had never seen, let alone purchased.  I sold it for 400.00 so I could buy a compressor I still use to this day, moved to Toronto, relying on public transit to get me from here to there.  At the time I came to the conclusion that I am not a Trans Am, I just am.  I've been driving a four cylinder ever since.

     Yet even through that profound life transition, the kid in the soap box remained.  I can still appreciate the lines of designed perfection which make a modern F1 car one of the fastest land vehicles on earth.  Except now, in the knowledge that they contribute to the destruction of our environment I guess I am my own hypocrite, addicted to a substance long past its due date.  A society motivated by oil is a hard habit to break, and few of us if any, can claim to be completely free of its hold.  In order to write this I am pounding keys which are made up of the stuff.  Our dependence on this substance can and will not last forever.  By all measure we are most likely past peak supply.  The thing is when F1 racing ceases to be, it will be a sad day for that kid who snuck in the back way to watch the races.  A sadness Jeremy Clarkson of Top Gear* 7 mused over while test driving a ten or twelve cylinder Aston Martin DB9.  Even he, a gearhead to the core, recognizes the truth of environmental concern and that these marvels of engineering cannot in good conscience continue to be made.  I guess he's got kids.

     Which brings me back to Bill Maher.  Sorry, but I find him an interesting human specimen to study.  It's good to hear but I wonder why the future of the planet is of major concern to Bill.  He doesn't have children of his own to look out for.  He doesn't believe in reincarnation so it's not like he has an oil slick to return to.  He must be about my age, and from where I'm standing I'm starting to see the end of my trip through time and space, so it's not like he will be there to enjoy the fruits or feel the full effects of humanity's misadventures.  I don't know what motivates him to care for our long term environment.  I guess under that sometimes hard exterior is a big ol' softy who cares for puppies.  In his line of work, where you lay it all out pushing buttons left and right, you need a strong ego just to survive.  The ego keeps us safe but it also separates us from each other and our environment.

     I have finally seen the movie Avatar.  I found that it basically reflects the story of the Native American.  Dances with Wolves in space.  Don't get me wrong, I am not criticizing it, I really liked it.  I can tell that James Cameron has had this idea for quite some time because Avatar seems to come out of another era of movie making.  It reminds me of movies Spielberg used to make.  And I often wonder, if I hadn't had the idea to create what I am presently working on sixteen or so years ago, whether I would be doing it or even come up with the idea today.  But the reason I brought Avatar up is because of its spiritually motivated environmental aspect.  And I can't help but wonder, could Bill Maher's ego look past the spiritual and appreciate the environmental message, or if he saw it would he just hate it?  If true, that would be sad because movies with environmental themes don't come around too often.  Especially ones which reach such a wide audience.

     As was expressed through the movie Avatar, I believe the only way that humanity will ultimately recognize and put the environment on top of the list of priorities is by altering the perception that we are separate from our environment.  Only when we can transcend our egos and comprehend the truth that the tree we are about to cut down is a part of ourselves, will the environment be respected.  So I find it truly disheartening when a professed environmentalist like Bill Maher nails Buddha to the cross for a laugh.  From what I understand of Buddhism, its all about the ego and transcending its reign of tyranny.  Its about moving past the ego's desires which keep us separate, not merely respecting the planet we inhabit, but becoming it.  A wise man once said, "When one wears shoe leather the entire planet is covered in leather."  And it's not like we all need to start walking around barefoot.  It's just that we need to remember that the ego which serves to define our individuality is merely the spacesuit we wear in order to do the work.  And the work is (at least for me personally) to express this truth through my art.  I'm not a Mac, I'm not a PC, I'm not a pencil.  Like the ego, a PC, pencils and oil on canvas are just the tools I use in order to tell my story.

     There I go getting all Zen again.  But while I'm here, and since I touched on my love of highly competitive Formula One racing, I'd like to share another aspect of its now dubious relevance within my life.  I might have mentioned it through another journal entry entitled "Hitting the Apex".  Some of the spiritual purists will disagree but I think that healthy competition through sport can point the way to that feeling of oneness we all seek.  Some call it the zone.  It's an inner dimensional space where you go beyond the ego and become not only the machine but the track itself and every corner is instinctively anticipated.  A truth of F1 racing is that the car travels faster than one can think.  If you move out of the moment and get caught thinking about going around the next corner, its too late because you are already there.  I believe the truly gifted drivers reach this spiritual climax and the racers edge of fear and fearlessness.  So there you go, Zen and the Art of F1 Racing.  Now if they could just do it without tires and the internal combustion engine.  Yes Mr. Clarkson, a sad day is upon the horizon.

~

     I was hoping to be done talking about the oil discharge but it just keeps on gushing, not only into the Gulf but into my head.  I heard Obama's head of the EPA talking about it and she mentioned that the problem was akin to what happened with Apollo 13.  And it might be with respect to the fact that trying to plug a hole in the earth's crust a mile under the ocean is like reaching into outer space without a paddle.  But we are not talking about three men fully aware of possible consequences in a spaceship here, we are talking about spaceship earth, which all life we know of shares.  That statement rubbed me the wrong way, but what really got under my skin was hearing David Axelrod say that they are going to follow the Palin plan of "drill baby drill", and that offshore oil exploration is a go.  It really is going to take an asteroid to make it stop, isn't it?

     We may think we have bigger brains than dinosaurs had, but it certainly doesn't make us any smarter.

     It's all about the economy isn't it?  Economic concern overrides all others.  Even this toxic discharge is measured through economic devastation.  If an asteroid of total annihilation was plummeting to the earth in a week's time and we had the wherewithal to stop it, the week would be spent in argument over whether we could afford to do it and who would pay.  The only time that trillions of dollars are thrown freely at anything is when that problem is the economy.  Economic devastation... Oh-My-God!  When are we going to put this shit into perspective?  Does anyone else see this snake eating its own tail?  Or am I the only one?  If I am, then we are in trouble, because no one pays much attention to what I think.  Nevertheless I will continue.

     Screw the planet and those who inhabit it, we need our Unobtainium* 8.  I heard that some people thought Avatar was un-American.  If corporate rape and pillage with no concern for the consequences defines what it means to be American then I guess they would be right.  The truth is, these days America is defined by creating nothing at all.  If the Dow drops, it's a catastrophe.  It's defined by a Wall Street illusion who's reality is based on mere perception of what is real.  It's not about creating something, it's about how many times we can sell and resell nothing at all.

     When I begin to question my purpose and wonder why, despite my efforts to the contrary, that I and my creations go largely unnoticed or actively and intentionally ignored, I figure I'm in good company.  For the earth gets afforded the same respect.  Like remembering that there are people on the planet who are worse off, a sad statement that makes me feel a little better about my own plight and keeps me going.

~

     Out with the dome, in with the "Top Hat".  BP's plan B.  That's right, that's what they are calling the new dome.  Plan B consists of putting a top hat over the hole and injecting golf balls, tires and whatever else they can find around the house into it.  You can't make this stuff up, although it seems they are, and now I best leave it to the professionals to put this into comedic context.  It's beginning to hurt when I laugh, so lets leave this oil thing and move into a subject everyone can relate to, sex.  Everyone likes and is comfortable talking about sex.  Right?

     Wrong.  Out of all the subjects one could discuss or contemplate, sex, the act which brought even His Holiness the Pope to life remains in large part taboo.  To be honest and no doubt as a direct result of my Catholic upbringing, it is a subject which even I don't feel one hundred percent comfortable discussing.  And this is the very reason why I have to delve into it with no positions barred.  One would think in our modern age and after the so-called sexual revolution of the sixties we would be past our sexual hang ups.  But we're not, and within the sexual realm of our being is where I see some of the most profound examples of humanity's screwed up priorities.  So finding inspiration through our gay brethren, it is time for me to put fear aside and move fully out of the heterosexual closet.  I hope no one will be offended, but as is the case when gay people make their true sexual identity known, hope for understanding and acceptance is all one can hope for.  Just don't expect it.

~

"Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding
Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind."

† Dawn's Highway ~ by Jim Morrison and The Doors

~

     I will begin this exchange through sharing a childhood experience.  It's one of those childhood memories which lay the foundation for future feelings of shame and self blame.  It took place in the tub, and I must have been fairly young, seven or eight, because my mother was still performing the duty of bodily cleanliness.  I clearly remember this event, which for me points to how strongly the experience affected my adult psyche.  My mother had left the bathroom and as I played in the tub my imagination drifted into thoughts of beautiful mermaids.  Bare breasted mermaids I might add, and with those thoughts my sexual nature was stirred.  I got an erection, most likely the first I had ever experienced, and it felt good inside and down below.  As I dreamed my dream of water nymphs my mother returned, and being the "good Catholic" she is, got very angry with me for experiencing what comes naturally.  She freaked and called me a dirty boy.  Since I was in the tub getting clean, my mother's reaction to my first erection was impressionably confusing on more levels than my prepubescent mind could comprehend.  I think it left a sexual scar.   A scar which I am intent on healing.

     I did not experience the worst of upbringings, not by a long shot.  Short of once cowering in a corner and having shoes thrown at me for not wanting to go to Church, or feeling the effects of a wooden spoon on the ass, I was never battered as some children are.  My mother loves me, and as with most parents myself included, she did the best she could with how she was raised.  The Catholic Church has played a large part in her life and I would not want to take that away from her.  No matter how screwed up I believe its dogma is, I know that it still gives my mother hope in existence beyond the life she likes to refer to as "a struggle".

    As for me, I could not leave its clutches of shame for just being human soon enough.  I hated church and spent most of the Sunday morning hour waiting for communion because I knew when that was over I could kick off the Sunday shoes and breathe again.

     Before I leave my church days behind, in reliving those days through this writing, I remember one time when it wasn't so bad.  My brother had stepped on a rusty nail the previous day and when we finally got to church there was no room and we had to stand outside.  In the heat, and most likely because he was suffering from a tetanus infection he passed out.  My father loaded up the car and we had to drive to another town to take him to the hospital.  Now you might think that just getting out of church service was what made this particular Sunday service the best, but wait, it gets better.

     At the time, there was a music festival happening at Mosport, the racetrack I frequented.  It was called Strawberry Fields.  I was too young and not allowed to go which was a shame, because I believe along with other bands Led Zeppelin was playing.  Nevertheless it brought the hippies to our neck of the woods and they looked for every possible swimming hole around to let it all hang out.  As my father raced to the hospital we came upon one such place, and hippies being the free souls they were, we passed by a hitchhiker wearing what you could say left nothing to the imagination.  Talk about contrast, stuffy church, naked hippie.

     Of course my mother was disgusted, but me, it blew my little mind man.  As for my older sister I think she was more than a little impressed.  I don't know what my brother saw because as I mentioned he was in a tetanus induced daze.  And my father, well he was on a mission and had his head down pushing pedal to the metal.  He had no time for picking up hitchhikers, especially naked ones, taking into consideration that my mother was in the car and my brother needed medical attention.

~

     Synchronicity happens when you manage to transcend the mind's habitual habit pattern and follow an intuitive inner knowing.  Sometimes synchronous events are mind blowing and life altering, and other times subtle and curious.  In my life I have experienced both, and when they occur I feel like I'm on the right track.  As I am writing this entry I have experienced one of the curious kind.  Nothing mind blowing, just... isn't that an interesting 'coincidence'.

     It happened when I went to rent a movie for Stef and I to watch in the evening as we often do.  Choosing a film to watch is usually hit and miss to the point where I could flip a coin in order to make my decision.  I hadn't been to the movie store recently, and after some consideration I chose Nine.  Personally, I don't much care for musicals but since my interest has lately been directed  towards humanity's sexual nature, I picked Nine knowing that who I consider to be some of the most beautiful women of today were cast.  Also, I appreciate the work of Daniel Day-Lewis, liked Chicago, and I thought... 'how can I go wrong with that?'  When I went to the counter to purchase my rental they had not put out the new releases, and Legion, a movie I had wanted to see, was available and I changed my mind.  Then on second, third or fourth thought, I said, "No I'll take this one."  Nine.* 9

     Nine is based on Italian director Frederico Fellini and his semi autobiographical film 8 1/2.  Daniel Day-Lewis plays Guido Contini, a director (artist) who as he approaches fifty is going through a midlife crisis.  All aspects of his life artistic, marital, extra-marital, spiritual... are in turmoil and he is unable to write the script for his next movie.  As I watched I thought 'that's interesting, I'm now fifty and short of counting success as simply the ability to finish a piece, my artistic "career" has for the most part been non-existent'.  Throughout my career I have endured more than a few days where I am left wondering why the fuck I even bother picking up a paint brush.  And if I wasn't working on an idea I had envisioned some sixteen or so years ago, inspiration for new ones seem as distant as my feelings of anything spiritual in nature.  The awakening I experienced in the eighties when I was twenty-four feels but a distant memory, and expressing the eternal without being there is riddled with fraud.  I could relate to Guido's plight.

     In my search for renewed artistic passion and inspiration I have focused my attention on the more basic realities of what it is to be human.  Finding some comfort in the knowledge that eternity is always waiting around the next corner, I have let go in looking for her.  Instead, through sketches and some of my latest drawings, Shades of Light, Last Glance and even the painting Enlightenment, I have returned to the beginning where I know passion exists, my sexual self.  But even there within my base chakra it seems the flame does not burn as bright as it used to.  I know that part of the reason for this is nature.  I'm not as young as I once was, and the sexual act is not merely a vehicle for pleasure but procreation.  Although through scientific means some still do it, beginning a family at fifty or sixty is not recommended as optimal by natural law.  I believe the natural course is that sexual desires wane as we grow older, to be replaced by other avenues with which to reach the high that sex induces.  However, I'm not dead yet and the last thing I want to experience upon my deathbed is a sexual desire, so this side of my being deserved investigation.  I thought perhaps in my zeal and search for the infinite I had left something or someone behind.

     First of all, you must know Stefanie and I love each other very much.  We in our relationship have endured many ups and downs, cancer, infidelity, homelessness, just to name a few of the lows, and interwoven through it all the seemingly constant wondering why we cannot make our artistic pursuit merely pay for itself.  Financial concern has been the justified cause for separation for more than a few unions, yet ours endures.  In fact, having endured hardships, our union grew stronger and through that strength absolute truth was welcomed.  So from the comfort zone of honestly I began my internal investigation into why the flame of sexual passion within me now flickered.

     When I met Stefanie I found the one, my muse, and the woman I would draw in inspired revelation.  To even look at another woman seemed to me a sacrilege.  I was wrong.  As it turns out, to not appreciate and acknowledge the unique gifts all women have to give is to deny what it means to be a man.  Simply put, if my eyes should happen upon the sexual attributes of another woman and I try to deny the stirring within, my passion for Stefanie's beauty suffers.  Not only that, but all feeling of passion for art, enlightenment and life itself dies.  Denial is the deadliest device known to man.  This might seem sexist but labeling a man as such, is to deny an integral part of what it means to be a man.  We are sexist.  Without that male quality human life would cease to exist.  So all feminists beware and unless you're a lesbian, ball busting your man or denying him the right to peek will only hurt yourself in the end.  For the man you initially met will cease to be.

     For me it was time to look for that lost little boy.  I found him sitting in the tub with his imagined water nymphs stimulating his young loins.  Inspired by the Catholic Church, the spell of shame was cast.  'Don't let me catch you doing that again' and from then on, he caught himself.  If he didn't, and let his imagination reign or his wandering eyes look upon the naked beauty of a woman, guilt was there to greet him when he climaxed.  If I was to find fulfillment in the years remaining I would have to help him see the truth.  The truth that all those men in pointy hats and dark cloaks, who deny their sexual nature for their false god, will never know.  How could they?  They believe the only way to god is to deny themselves, and who is god, but life itself?

     I watched as Guido struggled to come to terms with his own Catholic induced self admonitions.  As mentioned, I believe the guilt, shame, and denial which masquerades as Holy is what twists the priest's mind to to acts of buggery.  Depending on how pervasive and intense the denial, the opposite desired outcome transpires.  For Guido it was infidelity, lying to his wife and the inability to write the screenplay for his new movie.  For me it was a slow but steady death of passion.  A death within which muted the colors that make the life of an artist worth living.  I could not let that happen, but unlike Guido, I have no desire to fuck up my relationship with Stefanie by searching for passion in the arms of another.  I'm too old for those games, and besides that, the chances I would find another like Stef?  There's only one.  And besides that, I am not so selfish as to cause my daughter untold divorce induced misery.  Nevertheless, something needed to be done, so I turned to what for men makes the advent of the internet interesting.

~

     We had been connected for quite some time, but as mentioned, I had left the desire to appreciate the form of another woman behind and never really thought about it.  Then came a time when Stefanie and Samsara went to visit her mother for a few days.  Left alone with my mind the curiosity arose and I gave in to the temptation, removed the safety, punched in some key words and googled.

     I've gotten this far in actually writing my extra sexual escapades down and still I feel like I am dancing around the issue.  The guilt and shame is strong in you Luke Skywalker.

     I best remove my guilt laced dancing shoes and get on with it.  In my search through the pixel pleasure palace I was surprised with how prevalent and wide open this avenue of the internet highway is.  For the most part, I took the free tour.  To actually pay and become a member of one of these sites seemed a step too far away from my relationship, and on top of that, Stefanie is the accountant in our family.  She would see any unusual credit card transactions.  Which brings to mind the obvious question...  Why did I feel the need to hide this side of myself and through the act of omission, lie to the one I love?

     Was it the societal stigma attached to this side of masculine human nature?  Was I afraid that Stefanie would be made to feel less than and unattractive in my eyes through my admiration of flowers in other gardens?  Approaching fifty and raising a daughter of my own, did I feel like a dirty old man looking at young women in the flower of their youth?  The answer is yes to all these questions and more, but for me personally, this whole guilt trip started a long time ago in a bathtub.  And it is time for me to explain some things to this boy.

     First of all you have nothing to be ashamed of.  Nothing.  You are a good boy and don't ever let anyone make you feel otherwise.  Not your mother, not your father, not your brother... no one.  Number two, people are going to judge you from the place of their own hidden shame.  They will try to pass off on you and feed you full of their personal shit, disguising it as a gift of ultimate truth and great wisdom.  Under no circumstances are you to accept what they in their illusions of reality offer.  Thirdly, never let anyone make you feel bad for being good.  People will try to bring you down to their own level of inadequacy.  With whatever you choose do with the life ahead of you, do your best.  Nothing more or less is required.  Fourthly, accept your humanity while striving for your divinity.  It is your birthright.  Your spirit is nothing that can be bought nor sold through religious dogma.  It is who you are.  Be your self for you can be no one else.  And when the day comes that you will have a daughter of your own, relay this message to her.  Do not be afraid to tell her and her mother the truth.  Lies only serve to separate.

     In my time travels, I wonder, did the message in a bottle reach the shore as that little boy innocently dreamed of the hidden pleasures the ocean of life has to offer?  I believe it did, although it took more than forty years for him to understand its full meaning.

     Before Stefanie and Samsara came back home from her mother's, I had come to a conclusion of what to do with my little secret.  But before I share that side of the story, and without going into too much detail, I feel the need to share what I personally find erotic.  The key word here is erotic.  Hardcore porn is not of interest to me.  Others may find it sexually stimulating, and that's fine, but for me personally it creates the opposite effect.  To put it bluntly, watching Ron Jeremy mechanically pound the crap out of a woman is not something I have any desire to watch.  It would be akin to rubbernecking the scene of a bad accident.  I am an artist, and my tastes run more along the line of professionally photographed pictures of individual young women in their physical prime.  Beyond that, as with most men, I have my own taste in body proportions and who I find attractive.

     Having said that, I can hear the feminist that lives in my head telling me that I am objectifying women and I should be ashamed.  I have no doubt that (as in all other fundamentalist forms of thinking) hardcore feminists will not be satisfied until all men and women who participate in porn or erotica are banished from view.  I have given this some thought and here is my take on it.  Call it a justification of my sickness if you must, but before you do please hear me out.

     A woman's sexuality as expressed through her form is a primal power like no other on earth.  Few if any men are immune to the intoxicating prowess a woman's body encapsulates and projects.  I believe this to be the reason why throughout history, and to this day, women have been forced to walk two steps back.  For not only are men uncontrollably attracted to the pheromones produced by this power, but simultaneously it scares the shit out of them.  Now as a true feminist, would you really want to forfeit such a powerful weapon?  This internal male conflict is the very reason why burkas or (as Bill Maher likes to call them) Bee Suits exist.  Add to that any feminist who feels they have the right to preach their gospel and limit the choice of a woman to freely express themselves in the way they see fit, is in my view, anti-feminist.  I'm reminded of a very erotic scene from a movie about The Suffragettes who fought for the rights of women to vote in America, called Iron Jawed Angels.  Alice Paul as portrayed by Hilary Swank is shown masturbating in the bath.  I recognize this scene was included in the film to illustrate the fact a woman does not need a man to define who she is, or even his penis to reach orgasm.  Nevertheless, knowing that I, being a man, found this scene extremely erotic would undoubtedly cause the hardcore feminist some discomfort.  Seems I have some kind of fetish for the bathtub, good to know, thank you Hilary.

     Joking aside, I really liked that movie and not just for the bathtub scene.  I believe art should serve a purpose beyond itself, and the message of human rights that the film put forth spoke to my core.  When are the fundamentalists of the world going to wake up?  Isn't it obvious by now that the more you try to shove your stuff down people's throats, the more you will get spit back at you?  It's a cosmic truth that you will not find peace by killing for it.  You will not find freedom through repression.  As Willy Dixon said, when he dismissed the presidential cufflinks given to him by Ronald Reagan, "You can't make peace.  Peace just got to be."  Let it be.  You might be surprised by the result.

     Here is one last example of this phenomenon.  There are those among us, according to Bullshit with Penn and Teller, that without any doubt or hard evidence, are certain that violent video games are corrupting our youth and creating the Columbines of the future.  The truth is, since the advent of these games of gore, youth violence in the real world has dropped by half.  I am not surprised by this fact as stated on Bullshit.  Not only do video games keep kids indoors and off the streets, but they serve as a release valve for our inbred violent human tendencies.  Denial will be the death of us, literally.

    Enough of the bullshit, where was I?  Oh yeah, admiring the assets of pretty women.  Where have humanity's priorities transgressed?  Well photographed pictures of young women in their physical prime, what can be the harm?  If there is mutual respect for the service they provide by the photographer, and they are not coerced or forced into posing nude, who does it hurt exactly?  God and all the Popes and feminists forbid, if I should find pleasure in looking at the curve of a woman's breast or be sexually aroused and lose myself in the folds of a woman's vagina.  Today, when you hear how the archaic view of sexuality has worked out within the Catholic Church, you have to wonder how the truth alludes their grasp in understanding human nature.  How in all righteousness can the place or vehicle of our entry into this world be seen as something which needs to be hidden and labeled as dirty?  Unless one doesn't take care and wash properly, I can't see anything dirty about a woman's vagina.  To the contrary and in my voyeurism I am captivated by how uniquely distinctive the female genitalia is.  It's a beautiful part of a woman's anatomy and I believe men would do themselves a favor to spend some time getting to know it's every fold in the most intimate way.  I feel oral sex is an act that every man should perform with pleasure to satisfy his mate.  In my life and through my younger days I have been with more than a few women, but somehow I never truly noticed how unique and transcendently beautiful...

Maude: I should like to change into a sunflower most of all.  They're so tall and simple.  What flower would you like to be?
Harold: I don't know.  One of these, maybe.
Maude: Why do you say that?
Harold:  Because they're all alike.
Maude: Oooh, but they're not.  Look.  See, some are smaller, some are fatter, some grow to the left, some to the right, some even have lost some petals.  All kinds of observable differences.  You see, Harold, I feel that much of the world's sorrow comes from people who are this (she points to a daisy) yet allow themselves to treated as that (she gestures to a field of daisies and the scene cuts to a field of gravestones in a military graveyard...)* 10

     The more I write about the forbidden fruit, the less it feels like a big deal worthy of such discrimination.  Which just emphasizes how screwed up humanity's priorities of what is acceptable and what is not are.  On television I see the waters of the Gulf of Mexico filling up with sludge thinking 'look at what those unobjectionable eyesores upon the ocean shoreline have wrought?'  Not to mention ghastly smoke stacks spewing clouds of stink into the air we all have to breathe, and which our children haven't even begun to pay the future price for.  All the while mountaintops are sheered clean off, streams are polluted in order to mine clean coal.  And for what?  So obese Americans can have cheap electricity to power their televisions, in order that they can vote on the latest installment of American Idol?  The list of acceptable and oftentimes glorified horrors which man creates seems endless.  And I should even think twice admiring how the light cascades around a woman's nipple, or even worry that my daughter's eyes should happen to fall upon their grace.

     Hide those nipples under black bars boys, censor the gateway of our birth through a pixel blur, and don't say fuck for my nine year old daughter may be listening.  God forbid if she should know the truth of things.  Through historic domination, men in their contradiction have engineered this twisted system of perverted values.  The religiously motivated "healer" of homosexuality is a flaming fag, cruising rentboy.com.  The heterosexual zealot is afraid of a little pussy, because who knows what untold threats lurk behind the eyes of the beautiful young siren?  I say fuck to all that, and if my daughter should hear, I will explain to her why the expletive escaped my lips.  I see no point in hiding the truth and fucking around with misplaced niceties.  Last time I checked, the word fuck, nipples, vaginas, or even the male penis never killed anything of their own accord.  The same cannot be said for such socially accepted items as say a motor vehicle or a hand gun.  It amazes me that I should even feel the need to state what is obvious.

     Before these obvious discrepancies could settle in my mind, a shame based question surfaced.  Being a father of a beautiful young daughter, would I want her to pose nude on the internet showing all her treasures for all to see?  You have to admit our society has created some seriously disturbed individuals, and the internet holds few if any boundaries.  I have given this question a great deal of thought and the eventual conclusion I came to may come as a shock to some.  When my daughter reaches the age of womanhood, I would have to stand aside, for as an adult I would have to afford her the right to make her own choices.

     This question raised another.  Could I think of worse things she could do with her life and the body she inhabits?  The simple answer is yes.  Of course, there are the obvious which most everyone would consider, heroin junky, battered wife or axe murderer to name but a few.  Then I looked further at life choices which through society's eyes are accepted and even idolized.  I would be disappointed and council her against becoming a morally bankrupt corporate lawyer, working to short change the victims of greed.  I would not support her decision if she chose to become a soldier, sent to kill for a vague nationalistic agenda.  If she decided she wanted to become a Wall Street banker capitalizing on the misfortune of others, I would be miffed to say the least.  Sleazy car salesman, insensitive paparazzi, BP spokesman, self-righteous lunatic fringe talk show host...  need I go on?  Okay one more.  If my daughter was Sarah Palin, I would be embarrassed and look for the nearest rock to crawl under.

     What I want most for my daughter is for her to feel comfortable within her own skin.  When she comes of age I will have to let go, allowing her the freedom to express herself in the way that she sees fit.  From my own life's perspective, at the age of fifty I still get flack from people for what I do.  Take this writing for example, there are some people who are going to be pissed off about it.  My life's choice was to become an artist and in so doing, financial opulence, the societal measure of success has eluded me.  Now what parent or in-law wouldn't be proud of that?  Facetious tendencies aside, moral support for my adventures in self expression have been fractious at best.  Displays of support are usually tempered with, "Why don't you do this?" or "Why don't you try that?"  I am almost certain that there are some who have been waiting for me to give up my "pipedream" for quite some time now.  And knowing how those undercurrents of doubt affect my psyche, I do not want to pass that torch onto my daughter.  Unless she wants to start smoking crack or some such self destructive thing, I will support her in whatever she wants to do with her life and her body.

     As expressed through my self-portrait I take my art very seriously and it hurts when people refuse to see the truth in that.  This particular pencil drawing has met with more than a few misinterpretations.  At one show a woman who looked upon it walked away in a huff of vile contempt spouting, "You are despicable!"  I have no idea what exactly it was she found dis-pleasurable.  Perhaps she considered herself a Christian and upon closer inspection saw it was a self representation, and not a depiction of her Christ.  Her god only knows.  Regardless, such reactions are difficult to transcend particularly when I have not only spiritually but literally laid my self bare.

     Opening up by spreading your thighs or opening up by showing what's inside, I fail to see the difference.  Who is anybody to judge these lovely creatures of nature for sharing the gifts God granted them?  And who is anybody for judging those who through admiration show respect?  Some will undoubtedly see the women who pose as victims of male dominance and chauvinistic sexual desire.  Others will see my argument to the contrary as a mere justification of my shortcomings.  But perhaps things are not what they seem on the surface and if one digs a little deeper, moving past their ingrained judgment, they might find women unafraid to be themselves and through posing nude find a freedom of being, few experience.  Women not only unashamed to show the bodies they inhabit but women proud of the vehicle of self expression that nature bestowed on them.  And for their show of fearlessness and lack of shame they get my deepest respect.

     So who are the slaves of male driven perversion?  Is it the woman unafraid to show their assets to the world or is the woman trapped in a burka suffocating in the heat of Afghanistan?  Or perhaps it's the woman who undergoes painful surgeries in order to fulfill a false ideal?  I used to believe in romantic comedies until Meg Ryan injected her lip with collagen.  I guess its a matter of taste, but I have never been able to look at her the same again.  She used to have the full package but now all I see is a lip.  Personally, I think the body nature granted is the best one one will ever have.  I'm one of those guys who likes a petite breast and can't understand why anyone would want to add plastic in order to satisfy a particular male driven fallacious ideal.  It seems man's arrogance is to think he can improve on nature's design.  Not only does that egotism distort but if continued unchecked, will spell our collective doom on a global scale.

     Bringing religion back into the sexual equation, what was it that some Iranian Cleric said recently?  That all the recent earthquakes are caused by the promiscuity of women?  With inane voices like that being spread across the globe is it any wonder I feel the need to defend women comfortable within their own skin?  How long do they carry the blame and shame for man's insecurities and fear?  And how exactly did sex become anti-spiritual anyway?  I wouldn't be surprised to hear that there have been those who have fucked their way to enlightenment.  Strange but true, I have experienced a cosmic vision while in the throes of passion.  One my mate at the time did not share in.  It was like a dream in my head or mind's eye, yet I was wide awake.  Of course the experience may have been aided through marijuana but from what I can tell, herb only intensifies what is already inside.  The vision consisted of two alien like figures embraced while floating through the expanse of space.  So Mr. Mullah, don't try to tell me sexual promiscuity is the cause of our disgrace.  And Mr. Robertson, don't try to blame New Orleans' woes on the gays.

~

"I'm not threatened by every pair of legs you watch go by
I don't cringe when you stare at women it's just a thing called guy
I don't notice your sideways glances or where your loyalty lies
I'm secure and out of me it's hard to get a rise"

† Doth I protest Too Much ~ by Alanis Morissette

~

     So what did I do with my secret?  When Stefanie came home, I took a deep breath, and without knowing her reaction to my recent internet activity I told her.  Funny thing about the mind and how it can make the smallest of issues into obstacles of grandiose proportions.  I was nervous but I knew I had no choice and had to tell her.  We had been through similar situations before and through honesty our relationship was strengthened.  Except this time the shoe was on the other foot, and I was the one who needed to fess up.  If you can't guess by now, to her credit, she had no problem with my extra sexual exploits.  Like before sharing the truth brought us closer together.  In fact she was curious to see and I showed her where I had been and who I saw while I was there.  In that moment I felt such love for her.

     As anyone who is in a long term relationship can tell you, through household duties and such, sexual passions can wane.  Through appreciating the fruits of another, even from a distance, one can revitalize the libido.  What I noticed was that through leaving shame and guilt behind and moving out of the mind's habitual patterns our passion for each other reached new heights.  There was a new level of freedom to explore.  I bring it home and what can be wrong with that?  I can be totally honest with Stefanie.  Lying and hiding in fear is where the troubles fester within a relationship.  But it has to work both ways, no fear in spilling your guts, and no judgment when you get covered by your partner's sometimes gory entrails.  I'll warn you it can get messy but then you work together to clean it up.  As John Lennon said, "Clean up time..."

     I mean really, who cares how many women Tiger fucked?  It would seem more than is required.  The only person who has any right to be upset or even interested in his infidelity is his wife, and not for fucking around but for lying to her.  Again, and as I have explained, I'm no Tiger Woods and what I do is no big deal.  Stefanie will not find out about my secret harem of pretty girls because I don't have them stashed away in the back of the closet.  I don't think she even realizes herself how profoundly freeing her acceptance of who I am truly is.  Some will undoubtedly find this all wrong and think I just coerced her into being subservient to my dictates.  They will think, 'look how beautiful she is (and she is) what more do you want?'  They will think that I treat the woman I love badly.  Of course, that would be a total insult to Stefanie if they should think her so insecure as to stay with a man who doesn't respect her...

~

"You see everything you see every part
You see all my light and you love my dark
You dig everything of which I'm ashamed
There's not anything to which you can't relate
And you're still here"

† Everything ~ by Alanis Morissette

~

     As I wrote that last line it was getting late and unusually enough there was a movie worth watching on the Movie Channel.  Something with Charlize Theron and Kim Basinger called The Burning Plain.* 12  If you haven't noticed by now this entry has taken up much of my time.  Stefanie walked by and she snidely snapped, "I guess I will be watching the movie by myself."  The remark got under my skin, I thought I was doing good work and here it was again, I should feel bad about what I'm doing.  I was fully planning to quit writing and watch it with her and I shut down the computer to go downstairs.  There was a kafuffle between us where I threw in the towel, deciding to go for a walk.  I'm a weirdo, I do that sometimes when tensions rise.  Walking clears my head.  As I walked towards Jack's Lake I could hear the door of our house close to be shortly followed by footsteps running after me.  When she reached me, Stefanie told me she was sorry and could I please come back.  She's good.  And although I had set my sites on a good distance walk I gave in and we walked home.  We watched the movie, which ironically enough seemed divinely timed and synchronous, although at the time I didn't realize how poignant it truly was.

      The movie allowed us to escape although later I learned that Stef saw herself and identified with the main character played by Charlize  Theron.  More on that later.  For now I will share what followed after the movie.  The tensions had not been fully dealt with and through some lame unimportant exchange over who somebody was I felt the energies between us shift and we were back to where we started before the film.  I got up, took the dogs out for their nightly pee and went to bed without saying much.  Stefanie came in the bedroom and said, "I think everybody likes the idea of me, and not the real me. " and then she asked, " Do you just like the idea of me and not the real me?"  I had no reply to that, but the phrase got stuck in my head and sleep would not find me.  All I knew was that I needed to get out of our bedroom so I went to find sleep up in the studio, but the sandman was not there either.

     The idea of me not the real me, the idea of me not the real me, the idea of me not... all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, all work and no play...

     Who is the real you and who do you think you are?  Are you the loving mother?  Are you the devoted business partner?  Are you the artist?  Are you a woman?  Are you a little girl?  Are you my love?  Or do you think you are the bitch, who through snaps and off hand comments causes me to feel less than?  Because if that is who you truly think you are, you would be correct, I don't like her.  The question is, is that the real you?

     In the morning I awoke out of my fractured sleep at six in the morning to watch the race in Monaco at eight, still contemplating the phrase but it had moved.  It had moved from the real me to the real us.  Did I have an illusion going on in my mind of who we were as a couple?  Were we really as close and honest with each other as I thought we were?  Were the last few paragraphs that I had written before the snap, bullshit?  Had we been living a lie for some time now?  Do I ask myself too many questions?  Probably, but that's my nature, and blaming nature is always a good excuse for justifying insanity.  Anyway, the answer to my question of us living a lie was... yes.

     I found this answer way back where and when Stefanie and I had first made our home.  But it was also present before we had ever met.  A big fat juicy lie.  Was it familial in it's conception?  No doubt.  But we are adults now and the old familial origins of the species argument feels somehow more an excuse than a reason for behavior.  And creationism (do I dare say) seems to hold more truth, otherwise we remain the eternal victim of our own design.  In other words, it's good to know where the shit came from but from then forward it comes out of your own ass.

     A brief history.  When I met Stefanie she was going out with a complete asshole.  Not a judgment on my part (although considering where the statement is coming from, some would assume that), just the truth.  This story is relayed in another journal entry in some detail and I will do my best to make this brief.  I will give an example of how big a dick this guy was.  When Stef and I first met he threatened to literally burn down the family farm and kill me.  Need I say more?  You have to wonder, what was the attraction?  She might have been young and naive at the time, but I believe there was a deeper reason why she chose to fall into the clutches of an older dictatorial man.  As the fairytale goes I rode into town on my steed to save the day.  A day Stefanie's family had long hoped for.  But this guy was relentless and would not go away, so it was up to Stef to leave town, which she did when we moved in together.  Trouble was, I had a dickhead of my own who we call "the landlord".  I know most  landlords are dicks but I considered this one a close friend.  Within three years of living in an apartment next to the landlord's house, Stefanie told me she had betrayed my trust.  After numerous inquires as to how, she finally said that she had slept with the landlord, and not just once.

     Since I had considered her my soulmate this news hit me hard in the gut, but at the same time I thanked her for telling me the truth, hugged and forgave her.  Believe it or not, that is the truth.  I forgave her.  Thing is, and to this day I don't believe she ever forgave herself.  And all the forgiveness I instantly bestowed upon her in that moment of enlightened unconditional love amounted to shit.  You know what they say, you can't love someone who doesn't love themselves.  This may sound all new-agey, gay and cliché, but it is true nonetheless.  And it's all true.  You can't like someone who does not like themselves, and you cannot forgive someone who has not forgiven themselves.

     Again, with the judgment I now bestow upon the landlord you might wonder about the source, namely me.  When someone fucks the love of your life, it's hard not to have a jaded opinion of their character.  So let me enlighten with a few examples.  He was of the sort (much like Tiger) who would fuck all that stood still long enough, to the point where his wife and the mother of his three boys split the scene.  Which is bad but not something relevant to me per say.  What is relevant, besides the fact that he was an utter and complete asshole, was that he had witnessed my ten years of solitary living waiting for the love I believed was out there somewhere.  We talked.  He knew how I felt.  And what does he do when I finally find her?  He fucks her.  And what did I do?  I forgave him.  Of course when he wouldn't quit and give up we had to leave and that was how we became deliberately homeless in Arizona.

     All that was bad enough but if you want to know the one which I still have trouble understanding fully is the fact that it was Stefanie who made the first move of infidelity.  With the guy who had the well earned title of town slut, you could almost understand him making a move.  He wouldn't be the first to take advantage of a friend's show of kindness and return the favor by fucking his wife.  But Stefanie?  Why?  We were head over heels in love.  Or at least I thought we were.  Was I just a fool?  And in forgiving was I a bigger one?  Is it foolish to even think that you can forgive?  And does forgiving guarantee a brighter future?  There I go with the questions again.  Please forgive me.

     I have had my experiments with forgiveness.  One thing I found out was that you cannot forgive someone who thinks that they have done nothing to harm you in anyway whatsoever.  And when you can't take it anymore and are left with no choice but to walk away, you get accused of being unforgiving.  But the inability to forgive someone who hasn't forgiven themselves, that one I didn't quite understand fully until today.  I feel like an idiot for not seeing it sooner.

     I have a theory as to why Stefanie made the first move.  For some personal reason Stefanie berates herself by getting involved with men of no respect, or as I call them assholes.  This is not unique to Stefanie for this behavior can be seen in women the world over.  I believe it is inbred within human societies across the board.  Battered wives, burkas, the abortion of children because they are female, June Cleaver, you name it.  Women have been put down like dogs since Eve was fucked up the ass by Adam.  And today what's the cliché?  'She goes for the bad boy", like it's the cool thing to do.  It's time to wake up girls.  I know it is true for I have been dumped more than once for the bad boy because my mother taught me to be good.  Ironically enough, my first love was snatched by someone who's sexual exploits were borderline criminal.  In my youth, I was witness to some questionable behavior on his part and the irony is, he was the landlord's brother and my childhood friend in which I confided.  When this pattern reemerged with Stefanie, I was determined not to let it leave me alone again.  Trouble is, old habits die hard and in her persistent feeling of unworthiness she seemed bound and determined to make me the bad guy.  The problem with that is, I'm not, and from this day forward refuse to fulfill that role in her mind's melodrama.  Another question.  What am I to do?  If I stay I have to play the part, if I go I become the part, and now with Samsara, doubly so.

     In the movie The Burning Plain, a daughter is aware of her mother's indiscretions.  She gets to know the son of the man who her mother is having an affair with intimately.  For some strange reason the partners of those who are engaged in extra marital activities know of the infidelities of their mates, but when they find out about the son and daughter's sexual escapades, through misplaced anger and guilt they are furious with them.  Forgive my ignorance but I didn't understand that, because they were doing nothing underhanded or wrong in my eyes.  In that misplaced blame game I could relate to their plight, for I have felt the same thing.  (Spoiler) The daughter is very upset with her mother and follows her to the trailer where the mother and her lover make out.  She lights a fire to force them out of their love shack, it goes out of control and the whole works blows to kingdom come.  She gets pregnant, runs off with the boy to Mexico, and shortly after the birth of a daughter she leaves them.  For a good portion of the rest of her life she does the asshole routine, because she hates herself and is unable to forgive herself for her mistake.  Sound familiar?  It did to me in the morning, although in the movie the daughter did finally let go of her self loathing and some twelve years later went back to her husband and daughter.  The last scene symbolically shows her walking through a door.

     If only life was like a Hollywood movie, all would be well in the end.  I no longer believe in romantic comedies and life does not portend a happy ending.  The synchronicity of that movie being on in such a timely fashion was not lost on Stefanie.  Yet the question remains, can she forgive herself and allow the grace of a decent man, or does she need more assholes to drive home the point?  I cannot provide that avenue of experience for her, simply because I am not an asshole.  I can not help her to like herself.  And it is impossible to like her if she doesn't do it first herself.  Even today, after I told her what I see happening she still asked me, "Do you really hate me?"  To which I replied, " I don't hate you.  You hate you."  At this point in our relationship (I know it sounds strange) the best way I could be of service to her would be to leave.  In effect making me the bad guy, only now with my daughter Samsara I will be an asshole laced with guilt.  Irony I hate you.

     Is this my fate?  To be misinterpreted as the proverbial dickhead?  Even back in the landlord days, family and friends saw the whole episode as being my fault.  I couldn't believe it then and I surely don't believe it now.  Even though I had not done anything to hurt anyone I guess people figured I did something to drive her into the arms of another.  Personally, I felt like the woman who is blamed for the rape, by being sensual and sexy.  Then again, maybe I am not alone in this curious human game of blaming the victim.  I see it everywhere.  In seeking truth, all you find are liars.  And since few want to face the truth of who they are, you find yourself alone.  That's why I write in this journal, my friend.  I have no other place go.  All my friends are gone.  Then again, I probably wouldn't trust them if I had any, and to be truly honest, that is probably why I have none.* 13

~

"Well, my friends are gone and my hair is grey,
I ache in the places where I used to play.
And I'm crazy for love but I'm not coming on.
I'm just paying my rent everyday in the Tower of Song."

† The Tower of Song ~ by Leonard Cohen

~

     As I look back over the years of our relationship from my present day perspective, I see the pattern over and over again.  It's subtle, and because we are together more than most people are (most days the full twenty-four hours) it gets hard to distinguish where one stops and the other starts.  I guess it's what they call codependence, and like couples hooked on junk the only way to quit and end the patterns of habit is to go separate ways.  I in my arrogance thought we were above such modern day labels.  Before I began this section of this entry I was nearing the end of it on a positive note, and now it all tastes sour.  Stefanie was right.  I was in love with the idea of our relationship.  "It's love's illusion I recall."

     Sorry for the downer but this ain't Hollywood and besides, I've been there and it isn't anything like they say it is.

~

     I can't believe it myself but it would appear that after I shared this writing with Stefanie through our usual proof reading session, I'm not done yet.  I began on May third and now it is May eighteenth but I really can't leave it on a sour note.  Hollywood or not, that just doesn't seem right.  I have found something in the middle of stay or go which Stefanie and I can work with.

     One dysfunctional aspect of all human relationships is in how we avoid personal responsibility for our habit patterns and hang-ups by turning the other into the scapegoat.  For those who consider themselves above, and judge video game gamers as being morons wasting their lives, I have news for you, we all do it.  The original computer game of Pong is the game of choice for those who think they know better when it comes to human relationships.  That is to say, it is much easier to hit it back and blame the other for our own shortcomings.  I will repeat myself.  We-all-do-it.  If one thinks that they are better than that and deny this fact to be true they most likely do it more than most.

     Here is where it gets tricky.  Because having said that, one could be judged as judgmental by judging other's judgments and my previous observational insight would implode in upon itself, leaving me nothing to  discuss.  Now the Zen Buddhist is quite happy with that concept but for the sake of argument I ask for some grace so I can state my case.

     What I see happening within my relationship with Stefanie (and relationships in general) is what amounts to a game of Pong.  For example, if I say to her, "You attract assholes into your life because you think you deserve it."  She can throw it back at me by saying, "You don't know me and you are an asshole for thinking you do and saying so."  To which I can counter with, "I'm not an asshole and blah blah blah..."  These games of relationship Pong can go on for years, if not decades, and some never get resolved until one of the players dies of exhaustion.  How do we prevent that inevitable result (usually in the form of separation leading to divorce) from happening?  I can see only one way.  One of the players has to move out of the drama's allure and into an objective position beyond themselves, the relationship, and their ego's need to be right.  This is not an easy thing to do.  We all have our egos (a necessary evil) and they all want to prove themselves to be right.

     But for the grace of God go I.  Or to be more specific, through my awakening in 1984 I found this truth to be self evident.  There is an I or eye behind the ego and from that place or perspective we can observe, free of judgment's trappings.  From this place or inner space I saw that I had to remove myself from the playing field in order to allow Stefanie a clearer view of herself, free of any distortions I might inadvertently add.  But where could I go?  Through financial constraint Stefanie and I are in effect trapped within our home.  Beautiful that it is, not all prisons are made of concrete and iron, and some exist merely in the mind.  I don't have a car of my own.  I don't have money to go anywhere if I had my own vehicle, and even if I did, we have invested too much into this relationship to give up on it now.  Besides that, we owe it to our daughter to make this work and set an example.  One she can integrate into her own life when or should the time come when she finds a mate of her own.

     Through my observational insight I came up with a plan of action.  An experiment if you will, because if our relationship is to work we both need to be free of our historic neurosis.  As mentioned, total honesty is required if through relationship one wants to reach the freedom to be their true selves.  So following our night of kafuffles I wrote the previous segment of this journal entry well into the wee hours of the morning, finally making my bed in the studio.   In the morning with tensions still present I told Stefanie that I thought it would be a good idea if I made my bed in the studio for a while.  The idea being, and since there is nowhere else to go, to give us both some space to reflect.  It's more of a symbolic separation but one we must take seriously if we are to achieve the desired result.  Having told her that, I asked her to read what I had written.

     As with all my journal entries Stefanie is always the first to read them, but I knew that this one would be felt on a personal level beyond anything she had ever proof read before.  Some of what I had said pushed her buttons and I know it wasn't easy for her to read.  Nevertheless, she soldiered on, correcting my grammar, adding commas and sharing her opinion of historic mis-recollections and exaggerations on my part.  Through the initial draft I was in a sour mood and some of what I wrote had a hard edge which I admit was undeserved.  After proofreading was done we played some more Pong, followed by a time out to reflect.

     Then it was back to work and I must say the tensions have eased.  Stefanie has recognized and accepted that she does take things out on me, basically because I am conveniently placed within her sights.  She realizes that I don't deserve the wrath of her unforgiven shame and feelings of inadequacy.  That said, I am not totally innocent within the game of misplaced blame.  The shit wouldn't stick if I did not feel that I deserved it.  And from the observation deck, I saw that through the pattern of my being seen as an asshole, I must take responsibility and dump the feeling of unworthiness I still suffer.  Where did it come from?  For starters, I had to listen to these words every Sunday morning, "Lord I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the words and my Soul shall be healed."  To that, I now say bullshit, and worthy I am.  And if the Soul is representative of our Divine Essence, why would it need to be healed?  I am... with no more words need said.

     For now, I remain bedded in the studio, sleeping with my painting, and the work on all levels continues...

     Thank you for your time and patience.  Sixteen days of writing and open heart spillage, but it could be worse.  Instead of enduring my spew of words you could be feeling the effect of poison filling your veins.  Toxic oil, unnatural gas, and chemical dispersants spew their cancer causing brew into the life blood of our planet, the ocean waters.   It flowed before I began this rant and continues...

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Just one more ...

Click on Image to View at 7mb

Lost Hope by Petrus H. Boots © 2010

Please Mr. Obama, a full moratorium on offshore drilling.  Now!
Don't let the sins of the father become that of our daughters.

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PS:  Thank you Cory Booker, Mayor of Newark New Jersey for nailing Bill Maher on his own show, May 14 2010.  Bill showed his true arrogance when Booker called him on the fact that in relentlessly pushing his Atheist agenda he is no better than those he admonishes.  I watched as Bill Maher, through a stream of constant interruption barely let Booker get his point across.  If Bill Maher is so secure in his concept of reality why was he so afraid to just let this guy finish a sentence?  Not even when Booker tried to quote Gandhi would Bill shut the fuck up and listen.

Credits

* 1 Falling Down: 1993 drama starring Michael Douglas and Robert Duvall; Directed by Joel Schumacher, Screenplay by Ebbe Roe Smith.  In an interview, Michael Douglas said this movie was the one he was most proud of.  That was good to hear because it is one of my favorites.  For me, the most poignant line in the film is when Bill Foster (played by Douglas) asks Detective Prendergast (played by Duvall), after encountering countless assholes in his LA adventure, "I'm the bad guy?"

* 2 The Nature of Things with David Suzuki: Canadian CBC nature documentary television series.  Although I don't catch it as much as I used to, recent relevant episodes I have seen include:  One Ocean: The Changing Sea serial, and another on the lingering aftereffects of the Exxon Valdez oil spill on the environment and Alaska fishermen eighteen years later.

* 3 Stephen King.  One of my favorite authors.  At this moment I am reading "Under the Dome".  The story of small a town which one day finds itself surrounded by a transparent dome, making it impossible for anyone or anything to get in or out of town.  What happens to the people within is a microcosm reflecting humanity's polarized path we now travel upon.

* 4 Forest Gump: 1994 drama starring Tom Hanks, Sally Field and Robin Wright; Directed by Robert Zemeckis; Based on the novel by Winston Groom; Screenplay by Eric Roth

* 5 Raising Arizona: 1987 comedy starring Nicolas Cage and Holly Hunter; Written and directed by the Cohen brothers Ethan and Joel.

* 6 rFactor is a base computer racesim game created by Image Space Incorporated.  The beauty of this open game concept is that anyone who has the capabilities to design or create cars and tracks can upload them on the internet on various sites making them all available for download by anyone for free or donation.  I think this was originally what the creators of the internet had in mind.  A digital community.  How long this will last until someone corrupts it with profit motives, is anyone's guess.

* 7 Top Gear:  English BBC gearhead television program, Jeremy Clarkson, James May, Richard Hammond and The Stig.  Along with Mythbusters, the Scottish cook who likes to say, "fuckin' ell!", F1 racing, Moto GP and iCarly, it's one of the few television shows I watch with any regularity these days.

* 8 Avatar: 2009 sci-fi fantasy starring Sam Worthington, Zoe Saldana and Sigourney Weaver; Written and directed by James Cameron.  Unobtainium is the substance humans are mining on an alien planet which threatens the native population.

* 9 Nine: 2009 musical drama starring Daniel Day-Lewis, Penelope Cruz, Sophia Loren, Nicole Kidman, Judi Dench, Kate Hudson, Stacy Ferguson (Fergie), Marion Cotillard; Directed by Rob Marshall, Screenplay by Michael Tolkin and Anthony Minghella.

* 10 Harold and Maude: 1971 comedy starring Ruth Gordon and Bud Cort, Directed by Hal Ashby, Screenplay by Colin Higgins, Music by Cat Stevens.

* 11 I would have preferred to have given credit to the photographer and the site where these images came from.  I became a member of this site and truly thank all involved in producing it.  But because I have to protect my sources of artistic inspiration, names have been withheld to protect the innocent.  Namely me.  For some unknown reason (I half suspect the owners are aware that I am an artist) after I cancelled, my membership remains without any further payments required.  If continued access is a mistake, sorry, if it is not... thank you.

* 12 The Burning Plain: 2008 drama starring Charlize Theron and Kim Basinger, Written and Directed by Guillermo Arriaga.

* 13 As for friends it is not entirely true I have none.  Not to mention those who live with me, some others on a very short list include Gus, Glenson and May.  I hope I did not offend anyone through dramatic license used in emphasizing a point.  Truth is, I don't talk to anyone that often, and this journal is the friend I have in common with all.

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Disclaimer:  Use of images and quotations on this page are meant to illustrate and enhance a personal point of view and in no way indicates or infers the individuals depicted or the photographer's or artist's support of any opinion or statements expressed by the author.

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Note:  To reach other entries of the past just use the Index on the right by choosing the date, a flyout title will also appear to help in your inquiry.  Or click here for Page 15 of the Journal.

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Except for individual private use, all rights reserved Copyright © 2010 by Petrus H. Boots