Busy Morning...

I've been sleeping around the clock lately which gives me little to write about. I have to get up and get going this morning, though. I have to take Rich to the pawn shop so he can buy a DVD. Then, I take them to Walmart to buy some more groceries. I am looking forward to seeing my friends this morning. I will take a nice long nap out in the car as they do their business inside Walmart.

I don't know what has gotten into me, but I have slept this week away. My eyelids feel like lead these days and soon I am back in the bed. I am pretty sure it is medication related.

I have also seemed to have lost my muse as far as writing goes, I immensely enjoy writing in my journal so I hope this is just temporary.

In France, They Kiss On Mainstreet...

A little language and writing help is needed -- inquiring minds want to know.   When you write french fries is the F in french capitalized?  How about Vienna sausages?  Should the V in Vienna be lower case?  I tend to lean towards both of them being lower case when used as food items.

A Bright Aspiring Young Shopper...

Every time I go to the grocery store, I forget something, and it is usually something important and pertinent to what I am cooking.  I made a point when I was at my parent's house this afternoon to get some pens and paper. The Secretary was happy to depart from some of her paper and pens for such a noble secretarial task. Now, I have no excuse if I forget anything unless I just forget to write it down.

Hardscrabble Times…

Sir:
Do you ever give any more thought to working at writing a novel? Or pursuing some form of art that you could sell on eBay or some such place? At one time previously you had been very focused and gun-ho about such a type of pursuit. Both of these pursuits would not necessarily be hindered by occasional bouts of "unwellness", and in fact they may even flavor your work in some creative, unique ways that could make your writing or art shine uniquely. Look at Hemingway, or Faulkner, or Steinbeck, or Van Gogh. Each gentleman had his own struggles with "unwellness" and yet they created and gave masterpieces to the world. I think you could too!
All of them were also pipe smokers! That also adds to their worth too... just saying. :)
PipeTobacco

Pipe, you’re such a kind soul and a good friend to boot.  I always appreciate your comments and insight. I wrote a book called Hardscrabble Times about my grandmother’s life and family experiencing the Great Depression in a poverty stricken South a few years ago. I just have never sought out a publisher and it needs some serious spit and polish as well from a good editor. Its got that The Grapes of Wrath vibe going on. 

Remember that time I lashed out at you saying you were not who you said you are?  I wish I could take that back so much, but you didn’t abandon me.  That was a paranoia induced aspect of my mental illness. I apologize profusely. It still worries me these days and I cringe to think about it.

Comfortable Obscurity…

I can remember distinctly the day the blog got 2200 visitors in one day.  That was my high point, and I also made $600 dollars that month off of my Google Ads on the blog.  It about drove dad crazy that I was making money writing a blog and he had no control of it! LOL  Times come and times go, and the blog has settled into this comfortable obscurity these days now that I am no longer able to write about my, George’s, and the gang’s exploits down at the shopping center.  We have all moved on from those days.   I hope the blog is still interesting.  I try to write about my mostly mundane life in an interesting way. 

A few days ago, I reinstalled a site meter just to see what kind of traffic the blog was getting.  I had no idea and comments are a poor indicator of the actual amount of people stopping by.  I was pleasantly surprised to see quite a few people still reading.   This greatly encourages me to keep on writing and sharing my life with others.   Here is a look at the stats since I put that sitemeter on the blog a week ago…

Thoughts for the Day…

I am impatiently waiting for mom’s call to tell me to come take my medications.  I am not feeling up to snuff today.  Not bad.  Just not my normal self.  I am experiencing that old nemesis of mine, anxiety.   It all started when someone’s car broke down in front of my house and they knocked on my door.  I let them call someone to come get them.  Now, I have this maroon Cadillac stuck in front of my house on the street and it is bothering me.  All that about drove Maggie crazy and she is still on alert. 

More Computer Hell…

I have a limited functionality version of Photoshop that came with my digital camera.  Well, today it stopped working and the install became corrupted.  No about of uninstalling and installing would solve it.  I had to completely reinstall Windows 7 to get it to work again.  It seems I am stuck in this long string of bad computer luck.  Now?  My DVD-rom drives aren’t showing up in My Computer.  I am currently activating iTunes Genius which can take an hour and hope a restart will fix the drive issue.  It is always something.  If I get everything sorted on this computer today then that’s it.  I am not installing anything else or changing anything about this computer.  No more over clocking either as much as I want the extra CPU power.

Writer’s Block?

Some days do you feel like not writing?  I had the hardest time today coming up with something to write.  It has been a completely uneventful day as far as my social life goes.   I’ve been all alone today other than Maggie and not a single known soul has come by.  I didn’t even go eat breakfast with George and Mrs. Florene as I wasn’t feeling well after getting up at 2 AM.  Well, I am off to install more programs and to get my computer situated.  Email is next to tackle.  I have three different accounts to set up. 

Something's Missing. Something's Interesting...

I've been reading over some of my old posts - posts with Carolyn and Rosa.  Maybe I write better with a woman in my life, but something seems missing on the blog these days.  I mainly only write about food and family.  I miss my life being so vibrant and alive.  And my writing is horrible and hurried these days including this post.  I thought the old saying was that you get better with practice?  Certainly not regarding me and my writing.

I wish you all could have seen Maggie strut her stuff on our walk this morning.  She is truly in her element on these walks.  She will also continually look over her shoulder to see if I'm still there.  "I'm not going to leave you," I will constantly tell her.

They are tearing down the grand old cotton mill for scrap.  It saddens me and fills me with melancholy.  It's been there for 150 years and been such an icon of our little town.  I feel as if we are being raped and pillaged by carpetbaggers.  The company still exists.  Just overseas.  That saddens me as well as American workers weren't "cheap" enough.  Lives were uprooted and destroyed when they shipped everything over the pond so to speak.

In other news, my neighbors have chickens.  I've been hearing a rooster crow all during the day lately as I sit in then den.  Well, yesterday, my neighbor asked me to jump off his car and I saw the rooster with a brood of hens in a big pen in the backyard.  This is highly illegal within the city limits.  I admire his pioneering spirit and panache, and total disregard for that silly law.

Hermit Version 7...

I already spend an inordinate amount of time on the computer.  I wistfully thought tonight that I could withdraw from the real world and take on a full time online persona much like The Homeless Guy has done with Second Life.  Online life and relationships are so very easy to control.  If I don't like what you have to say, I just don't read it.  If I have a question, I can search via Google.  I can live vicariously through the many hundreds of blogs I read daily, and I do to a certain extent.  People lead such fascinating lives. 

I wouldn't have anything to write, though.  Much of my writing lately stems from my personal interactions with people.  It was the same when I was writing about George and the gang.  I made it my job to go down to the shopping center daily to garner up a post for the blog.   I had grand dreams of being the next Waiter Rant. 

I also crave human contact.  I went and got Mom tonight and despite all her recent problems, I was overjoyed to have her here.   I easily overlooked her suspicious behavior for my own selfish gain of company.  Joyce being home has also brought me immeasurable joy despite tenuous and dire circumstances surrounding her living arrangements.  

I guess what I am trying to say is I have a story to tell -- a story of the people in my life.  I wouldn't do this if it was like a job or tedious.  I love to open Windows Live! Writer and craft a post.  The icing on the cake is when others enjoy it as well and share in on my tales.   I have an impetus to continue doing something so scary to a person with social anxiety and mental illness, and that is to go out into the big wide world and intermingle.  Scary, but so rewarding for me. 

Trains Galore...

I spent another long morning down at the rail yard.  I hiked all the way from where the old train station used to be to the end of that old dilapidated cotton mill.  One thing about walking the tracks is you get to see the backside of town.  I did get to see two trains which thrilled my soul.  I waved vigorously at the engineer as one train passed. 

Good Helen is already here.  She is washing my sheets and comforters.  Soon, she will get supper started.  She is frying pork chops and preparing rutabagas, mashed potatoes, pear salad, and cornbread muffins.  My mouth is already watering. 

Folks, I really don't know what to write these days.  This is the first time in the life of this blog that I have nothing to say or write.  Hopefully, this writer's block will pass. 

Off to a Good Start...

Rosa fixed a big breakfast this morning.  She scrambled cheddar cheese eggs, and made some toast, bacon, grits, and coffee.  I was enjoying not having to cook.   I did do the cleaning up afterwards.  Rosa and I learned that Maggie loves cheese and grits. 

"Boy, I bet she is constipated in a few days," I said of Maggie. 

Rosa laughed and gave Maggie some more bacon.  My dog is spoiled. 

I sat on my porch smoking this cool morning as Joyce came bounding outside her door.

"Who's car is that?" Joyce asked being nosey.

"It's Rosa's new car," I replied.

"That car is cute," Joyce said walking over to look at it.

"I'm gonna wash your car today," I told Joyce.  Joyce's car looks like it hasn't been washed in over a year. 

Today, I have to get Joyce up a mouse for her computer.  She is writing her memoirs and I am going to edit them.  "I want to tell everyone about my psychosis and bi-polar disorders," she said.  She eventually wants to sell her story to Reader's Digest.  I thought it was a noble effort if somewhat gargantuan task. She has already written one chapter and it looks promising.  

From a Addled Writer's Mind...

I was writing to a friend tonight via quick email about blogging. I wrote...

I put myself out there everyday and write about some pretty embarrassing stuff. Somehow I cannot draw a line between what is appropriate and not appropriate to share. I can't believe I divulge all that in this moment of lucidity I am having now. I don't understand why I let my readership know how helpless I am and how dependent upon my family I am. They will only know what I write. It's disturbing to me. It invites derision. I've thought about quitting blogging, pondering over it intensely. A long time friend quit online journaling tonight and it made me ponder... "Can I live without journaling?" "Do I live for comments?" "Should a simple pen and paper journal suffice?" "Why do I feel the need to share such intimate details of my life with total strangers?"

I get so much advice from well meaning people (and it is appreciated for the most part). The same drum is beaten over and over though. Take your meds. Take your meds. Take your meds. They don't understand my reality. I take nine pills a night. My head is swimming in mind altering chemicals to where I don't know who the real Andrew is. I've lost me. When I was un-medicated at least I knew what to expect. Paranoia. Delusions. Hallucinations. But it was real and not some chemically induced candyland for what ails me. I long to be alive, sexual, emotionally vibrant. As it stands now, I am flat -- a cardboard cutout of a human being. It is sad and disparaging. I don't know what to do, but it is my life. Life is precious and you only get one chance. I don't believe in reincarnation and I don't want mine to pass me by. I would rather have a thousand schizophrenic nights than a single night of drugged complacency as if I am constantly in a stupor. The drugs destroy my creativity and my personality. They have taken away my sexuality and my manhood. My mental illness has also severed the bonds to the people who read my blog and I am pitied. It is so frustrating!

My friend emailed me back and suggested I take a break from blogging to gather myself so I won't post such personal stuff throughout this time of coming off my medications. I live to write though. My days are spent writing and editing what I write. I do believe that online journaling was one of the best things I have ever found despite all its warts: The incessant well meaning advice -- the negative anonymous yahoos who spill their bile all over my blog. There are good things, too! Emails from people who get it about mental illness -- people who are not on the outside looking in. Wonderful people I've met and to whom I've aspired to emulate. The vibrant online communities that sprout up around blogs and their readers like a garden of growth.

It still amazes me people want to read what I write. I am in awe and humbled and thankful. It makes me want to write forever and onwards like some addiction -- like some adulterous joy. Maybe that's why I blog. The friendship. The camaraderie. The adulation for my writing and artistic endeavors. Friendships don't come easy for me and I have found a safe place to harbor them -- a detached kind of friendship where I can be anyone and anything. An everyman. To bad I blather on about my problems. Think of what this blog could be if I didn't write about alcoholism, or mental illness! If I portray to the world a healthy, happy writer who shared his simple tales, I would have been published by now. I harbor deep regrets for the callousness with which I've handled this online journal -- always airing dirty laundry like some gossiping spinster. Embarrassing myself and my family.

My good and very cherished friend, Pipe Tobacco, harps about moderation being the key for me. But I have to ask, "Would a moderate me really be me?" I wouldn't display or have that same intense passion and zeal I have for things, writing, and life if I were middle-of-the-road. This blog would be just another milquetoast rendition of daily life of which there are millions to read. I would be swimming and writing in a sea of banality and blandness. It is something to ponder over. Good night as I go burn my candle at both ends.

Blah about Blogging

I have just been so blah about blogging lately. Usually, it is something I immensely enjoy. But lately, it has been hard to write -- everything feeling forced and unnatural. I swear this is a side effect of the numerous medications I am taking. My mind feels buzzy and discombobulated. I read what I write and even I find it uninteresting and milquetoast, and I can usually be very narcissistic about my writings.

I put the advertisements back up to make a few more bucks as well. My father would shit a brick if he knew this. I want to get up the money to buy a new computer. A computer that will last me for another five years like this one has. I have to thank my ex-wife for this wonderful computer that is still fast, but showing it's age.

Seriously considering going invite only. Been really paranoid about comments lately. I haven't even looked at them in days for fear people are writing negative things about me and that everyone is giving me advice on how to live my life. Should I look? I am not sure. I feel so wary about it, scared of what other people think of me and my life. I had an actual physical reaction or anxiety attack about a comment a few days ago and it makes me scared to read them. I wish I would just write a bunch of bullshit and never wrote about having a mental illness or about being an alcoholic.I could just put on a grand facade for the world to see. I blunder on like the proverbial bull in the blogging china shop.

I have a ton of email to respond to. Don't fret. I will get to them soon. My social phobias extend to the online world as well making me not check email very often. I promise I will tackle them in the order they were received. I appreciate those of you that take the time to write me and also to comment.

Checked the tracking online and Clara's sleeping bag should be delivered today. The bag I ordered for her was only $120 dollars, but it's rated down to 20 degrees. It should keep her toasty warm until the coldest part of winter hits. Hopefully, she will have a home by then.

Technorati Tags: Paranoia, Blogging, Writing

Manifestations

We shared the same parents. How had I managed to become a lost man? Homeless. Addicted. Living in the woods. We come from a nice family, well respected in this small town. Wealthy, and with means. My brother would go on to be a doctor. Married. One child and another on the way. An officer and gentleman in the Navy. He followed my father's directions for his life to a T. I took a left turn at Albuquerque. I'd try so hard only to fail and to complicate things. I wanted so much to please my father -- to make him proud. I ended up alone, mentally ill, and bereft of friends and family.

I remember when my niece was born. I was an Uncle. I heard through the grapevine about it. Not from my family. I cried. I sobbed. I was jealous. The evening would find me in my tent drinking beer and feeling intense emotions. Why did my brother get all the lucky breaks? He had the perfect life of a loving wife and a prestigious job. I was left with nothing. "I didn't ask to be mentally ill," I would cry out in anger as I got drunker. That was when the thoughts of suicide would sneak into my mind. Maybe I could drink myself to death, I would think. I would eventually pass out to wake up freezing cold and still alive. It was terrible times -- like some horrible rendition of Groundhog Day. Times I want to forget, but temper the man I am these days.

That is what I just wrote in my memoirs and deleted. I am shying away from all things analytical. I felt uneasy about it as if I shared too much emotion. I talked about the dreaded suicide that so escaped me during those days. I think I have run talking about homelessness into the ground as well. Like some apparition from a dark past, it haunts me. Calls me. Come back to your old ways it seems to say. I am drawn to it like a moth to a flame. It inhabits my every waking thought like some penance I am doomed to pay.

The hardest part of writing a memoir? The past. It hurts to relive those memories. I want to go on with my life with some pollyannaish mentality -- forgetting where I've come from. For me to write these memoirs, I am going to have drudge up old, tired emotions and family dirt. The mental illness that all effected our lives for years. It is scary, but something I feel I must do to put the past behind me. Here's to hoping I would learn and grow, and not become some bitter soul living in the past.

Midnight Oil

I do my best writing late at night and early in the morning. That purgatory of the day when most others are sound asleep, curled up with their loved ones. I'm pecking away upon this keyboard burning the midnight oil. Coast to Coast AM is on the radio and Maggie is preening upon the floor. I lift a cup of hot, milky sweet coffee to my lips in between paragraphs and savor the taste and aroma. Lit cigars and wafting blue smoke complete the ambiance -- the air in my computer room a foggy haze. I feel like some strange Steven King laboring upon his next bestseller. The words just seem to come at an ease unbeknownst during the day.

My best friend in high school wrote beautiful poetry. She would sit in our English class writing and would hand me what she wrote. Her way with words always made me jealous. She would go on to forego a career as a writer to join the Army out of high school. I thought that was such a waste. She taught me how to put emotion and feeling into my writings. It seems we are taught to disguise our emotions as if we are imposing on others. Her poems were filled with angst, joy, love lost, and love lorn. Her writings were an experience and not just mere words on a page. I often think of her when I write. Anybody can write down what they did today, but it takes a writer to make you feel it.

My mother called me last night just to talk. The conversation was heartwarming...

"Julia asked what you do these days," she said.

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her you're a writer and actually make money at it."

"Tell her I want her to come smoke on my porch and read some of my writings."

"I will tell her Monday night," mom said. "She is so proud of you."

For the longest time, I never thought of myself as a writer. I thought of myself as a "blogger." Hearing mom say it last night was so exciting. To think my parents are telling people such things.

"What should I tell them when they ask what you write?"

"Non-fiction," I replied. "I have found that is more understandable than just saying I am a blogger."

A moment ago I looked at the top 100 most popular blogs on Technorati. None of them were written by writers in my opinion. They were all pop culture, regurgitated news, technology gossip, politics, or other subjects I would consider mind numbingly boring. I realized then that I would never have a popular blog because I don't write about such nonsense. My writings are going to appeal to a very small cross section of blog readers. Those with mental illness or addiction struggles will be drawn. Still, it will be interesting to see where this will take me. Could it open doors? Could my prolific eagerness in which I write pay off? I certainly do try to hone my skills as a writer on a daily basis. Only time will tell as the old saying goes. Only time will tell...

To Post, or Not to Post...

I was seriously thinking of quitting blogging today. It was the first time in ages I sat down after a busy day and couldn't just write. I decided to write about what is going on with me instead, in lieu of the usual "day in the life" stuff I post.

I have been blogging with only very short breaks since 2004 when I was homeless and discovered The Homeless Guy's blog by accident which was wildly popular at the time. I was trying to find tips on the Internet about making homelessness in the winter more survivable and comfortable. I didn't find much that could help a homeless person on his blog, but he did encourage me to write about my own experiences with homelessness, and they were nothing like his. It was then that I discovered the joy of writing and keeping a journal and joined the homeless blogger's webring and immediately gathered a few readers such as Pipe Tobacco. I would sit in my tent on cold, cloudy days as I drank beer and thought of things to write when I would sneak over to my deceased grandmother's house at night to get on the Internet. I still have that written journal and treasure it. My scribbled writings are such a tangible reminder of those interesting times I experienced and lived through. I was reading through an entry in that journal today and I think my skills as a writer have vastly improved.

I realize a lot of writings bring up questions. I seem to get a lot in the comments these days from the anonymous bandstand. You would really have to start at the beginning of this blog to follow along with my life for the past few years and understand what some of these recent posts mean and the profound change my life has undergone. It always amuses me when someone accuses me of making this stuff up when I could write vastly more interesting blog posts of fiction and make this a much more popular blog. I would have never shared my alcoholism, mental illness, or the tenuous relationship with my father as well. As that, I fear, alienates a good portion of the people that might read.

I have read some of the most popular blogs on the Internet and could easily emulate what they do if I wanted. I took writing dialogue from Waiter Rant for example and another homeless blogger named Michael Hussey who wrote an infinitely hilarious journal about homeless people in Tampa, Florida. I would go down to the shopping center to gather stories about George on the vein of Michael's posts about his homeless friend who was a crackhead whose jovial excuse for every screw up in life was, "Cause I'm a crackhead!" My friend, George, was far more tame of an individual than Michael's homeless friend, George. Proving to be not so exciting writing material, but I think many enjoyed the posts about George and the gang.

Do I worry about all I've shared and put up on the web? Yes, sometimes. It could take a moment of irrationality on my part to put my real name and hometown up to have the whole world having access to a play by play version of my life for the past three years. My anonymity affords me a certain amount of comfort in writing this blog and makes me feel like less of an ass for sharing such intimate details of my life. Hopefully, I will write again in the morning and am just experiencing a malaise today.

Work is Never Done

I'm rewriting Hardscrabble Times. I started after lunch and a nap. It is more fun this second time bringing these written scenes to life. I am adding more descriptions, adjective goodness, and dialogue. All the while trying not to make it too wordy. Writing makes me admire the authors that can pump out books annually like it was just another day at the job.

I starting writing this book the first time with a grand plan. I have an elaborate outline written down on a back page of my paper journal. The story evolved and took on a life of it's own. I want to make it more interesting and vibrant with this second writing. It is slow going though.

The memoirs of summer camp are also going well. I wrote a four page story late this afternoon of one of my less well liked cabin mates during the summer of 1987. I was a counselor in training. Queef as we called Keith was stealing from his cabin mates. We concocted an elaborate plan to throw him in the canoeing lake at midnight. Into the water poor Queef went. It was a form of community vigilante justice commonly found in a boy's summer camp setting. We took care of our own and dished out punishment when necessary. It reminds me of that book: The Lord of the Flies.

The Better of Medicines

I always believed the best medicines hurt. My mother would pour that brown bottle of peroxide on my scrapes and it would fizz and burn. It felt like it was working - killing all those nasty germs. Getting sober can be the same. First comes terrible boredom as you spent all your time drinking. There is this huge void in your life you now have to fill. Then comes the incessant urges to drink. "One drink will not kill you," you try and tell yourself. Us alcoholics can't have just one drink as they always lead to more. Finally, it hurts to write or talk about it and to admit I was that way. You want to forget that chapter of your life, but to forget is to repeat. God knows. I don't want to repeat the pits of despair that was once my homeless, alcoholic life. The best medicines hurt and you learn and grow from the pain.

I've noticed a pattern to my writings lately. When I am happy, I write of Maggie, relationships, cooking, and food. All joys in my life at the moment. I think this pisses some people off when reading the snide anonymous comments I get. It is easy because of my schizophrenia to get paranoid about those comments, but I have long since learned to ignore them. All the popular or well read blogs get them. There are people that would love to tear you down - to disparage your writings and your life because they have little else to do. And yet they still read. I did the same with The Homeless Guy after he threatened to sue me. I never liked him again, but would still read his blog like some sick attachment I couldn't let go of. He finally quit writing anything interesting and I quit reading as well.

I've just come from a very early breakfast at the Waffle House. I quietly sat in the restaurant eating my omelet and toast as I sipped piping hot coffee and thought of things lately. That is when I came to the revelation about my writing and how I write when I am happy. I am at my most vulnerable moment where I am sharing my most intimate thoughts and desires. That is when the detractors step in like wolves in a wolfpack over a carrion carcass to tear apart the muscle, sinew, and bone that are the blogs of my life. My point is that this is all a learning experience and the best medicines hurt. I can allow others to take away one of my greatest joys of writing and sharing it, or I can continue to share my life everyday with those that have grown to care about me and have become my blogging friends. I think I shall choose the latter. To hell with the detractors.

A Teacher Then and Now

Mrs. Hawking was my first grade teacher. I thought she was ancient at the time, but she is still living today. She was a widower and would wear her beautiful white/gray hair pulled up in a bun in the Pentecostal fashion. She would also wear long flowery print dresses that she made herself upon her sewing machine. She was a teacher from a different era - a kinder, more gentler time when everyday life moved at a slower pace. This kinder, more gentler time was reflected in the way she would sit with me after school in the afternoons helping me with my spelling and reading. As with most things in life, I was late to the party for these things as well. I struggled with the simple Sally, Dick, and Jane readers that most kids had long since moved on from. "Try to associate the words with pictures in your mind," Mrs. Hawking would tell me as she patiently guided me through reading these simple little books. Slowly, but surely, I would grow to read with aplomb by the end of the year due much to the diligence and guidance of Mrs. Hawking.

Many years passed and I was a grown man. The scene was my grandmother's visitation for her funeral. It was a sad time and many tears were shed as we said our goodbyes to a great woman. I was standing next to the casket as I reached out to hold my dead grandmother's cold and clammy hand. I felt an arm wrap around me as I turned to look. It was Mrs. Hawking. "I thought I should be here for your father and you," she said with a reserved smile. I was so glad to see her and those long ago days of staying after school with her came flooding back.

"What are you doing with yourself these days?" she asked as we stepped aside, away from the coffin.

"I am a writer," I said, but the main reason I said that was I was out of work and I didn't know what else to say. It felt pretentious. I didn't really think of myself as a writer at the time although I wrote everyday in my paper journal and had been dabbling in short stories for years.

"What kind of writing?"

"Nonfiction," I said, having learned that saying this in response to that question seemed to satisfy most people without further questions.

"You always had it in you," she told me, so proud of how far I had come from those hard after-school sessions of slogging through the English language.

"I couldn't have done it without you," I replied, and she left me to go sign the guest book and leave after a few more moments of reflection and reminiscing.

I watched as she walked out of the funeral home and remarked at how she still had an aura of teacher about her. She had long since retired and was in her eighties now. She was still teaching in these advanced years. Not of simple things like dotting your I's or crossing your T's, but of lessons in life and kindness, and being there for your fellow person in a time of need. Her legacy lives on after all these years in my just being able to write this. I wish she could read my writings today. I think she would be proud.

Messy Life

Sometimes I want to just post everything on this blog. I have already shared so much. So what would writing about almost everything else matter? I'm learning for the first time what it feels like, regret in writing. I regret I ever revealed my mental illness or alcoholism. Because, I believe, it has alienated me from so many readers and friends over the years. I'm learning what to keep to myself, and I've never felt this before. Before, I believed putting everything out there was brave, novel, and unique. I was going to break from social norms and carve this interesting little niche out for myself in the blogging world. It is actually not brave, or novel. It is young, naïve, and embarrassing. Because when I open my life that much, it leaves me open to more criticism, not of my writing, but in judgment. And humans are rife with judgment. My life has been messy enough.

Formulaic

Formulaic. Certain things just are. Rap songs. They all sound the same to me. I am sure a rap lover would say the same of the Pearl Jam and grunge I grew up listening to in college. I catch it in my writing as well. Something happens and it is so easy to just write in my familiar dialogue style as I remember in my mind's eye what was said. I rarely edit much and most posts only take a few minutes to write so it is the easy way out. I can be a terribly lazy author most of the time. I am working on it, though. When I sit down to write these days, I want to come up with something interesting, introspective, and unique. I want to be creative. Comments on a post are a good way to judge whether something was hit or miss. And it also helps that I am mainly writing anonymously so I can write freely and expressively. I don't have my real name, email, or address plastered upon this blog. I learned that lesson long ago when my cousin googled me and was calling my father and complaining about everything I was writing. She always was the paranoid sort, but she was right. Most people don't stand on a downtown corner crying out to the whole world about their mental illness or drinking problem, or the embarrassing discussion with your doctor that day about m-a-s-t-u-r-b-a-t-i-o-n. "Crazy, I tell you," would be what a bystander would say and the police would soon be along to shoo you away or send you out for a psych evaluation.

What brought this on was that I was just reading this week's writings. These writings, for the most part, are distinctly different from the way I wrote for months about getting to know Rosa or the antics of George and the gang. I have been reaching into the creative grab-bag and pulling out better stuff these days. I think. I know some of you have commented on the positive tone my writings have generated, and yes, this is a reflection of my real life. "Things are better now than they have been your whole life," my father told me yesterday. And he was right. Things are better and I think it is coming out in my writings upon this blog. My only regret? That I hadn't toiled so long and hard on my book without being in the better frame of mind and life that I am in now. Just think of how better it could have been.

Excuse me. I have A LOT of editing to do on a labor of love of mine. My book. I may even start over. I have nothing but time on my hands these days.

Missives

I will never forget the time my ex-girlfriend, Carolyn, asked me, "How do you do it? How do think of something to write every day?" I had built her a computer, got her on the internet, and had made the mistake of letting her read this anonymous blog. "I can not, not do it," was my reply. Writing is part and parcel of who I am.

People think they know me from what I share on this journal. I have said often that you are getting little snapshots of my life. Little missives I care to share. I didn't write about staying up all night drinking diet coke, or the call at 11:50 PM from Rosa about her fears of being a bad grandmother and mother that was too intimate to share. Some things are best filed in the rainy day folder in the writing memory bank. I do probably share more than most, though.

I was so worried when I moved into this house, far removed from my usual haunts, that I wouldn't have anything to write about – the blog would just wither and die. No George and the gang. Little of Rosa as she can no longer just walk over. I couldn't write about my daily journeys and walks into downtown, or over to Rodger's Barbecue to eat lunch. I can't just go camping because I have to be hand-fed my medications every night. The exact opposite has happened. This move has forced me to be more introspective and creative with my writing – trying to make each little moment I share with you count and to be an enjoyable-to-read anecdote of my life. I hope you enjoy the next chapter in this journey and of my writing career as I share it upon the blog. And thanks for reading.