another lost weekend

it was a typical saturday, i was rolling through the kitchen, maneuvering a tricky course of sleeping and unmoving dog, and an obstinate cat looking for ice. i was inches away from the haven that is my 7′ x 12′ space in the garage.

“should we take her?”, the swmbo asked in her hurtful little girl voice.

that’s the voice that tells you the only correct answer is, “Of course.”

i won’t recite the things, some reasonable, others…hopefully not indite-able’ that flooded my mind. i took a very deep breath…before i drown.

i shall be forever grateful for medical pot.

t’was but a scant 12 minutes; she entered my sanctum with her, the rejected pond pup – on her back to the pond – kona, now kaddie (i did not do that).

there was that feeling again, another deep breath, its all good. rested the fore plane on the bench, slide off the end into my chariot, looked at the pile of wood shavings, smiled.

after the 26 years spent with the swmbo i have learned this fact: any and all plans made a minimum of 7 to a maximum of18 days prior to the event (be it: travel, leisure [?] , or actual geld generating eork, hopefully); if those plans are on a weekend…the thursday before i know those plans will cease to be.

it will happen, the destruction,plans…shattered, again.

but…lovin’ ona new member of the family, make her feel special…not half bad, as distractions go.

i will get back to the shop…probably about the time i get to go fishin”.

Be good. Do good. Be ever so good to yourselves – you’re special.

Note for the day: dealing with depressed people

this is a note for all the sane, well adjusted people out there that have a friend, partner, and, god forbid, a relative that is for some inexplicable reason, depressed. no, this is not having a blue day, this is about depression.

the most common (as in knee jerk) responses are: “i love you”, “i care”, “you’re not alone in this”, “i’m not going to leave/abandon you”, “do you want a hug?”.

at this time, please take a deep breath in, exhale and reflect for a moment on the world we now live in, look at that list and throw that shit out; let’s get real.

doctors have been devising drugs, treatments…yeah. or should i say…yah!…?

the last year has been a fucking nightmare. on the bright side, some have discovered new talents: baking , painting, diying (whatever the hell that is), eating, bing watching well anything, and there’s loads of social media shit.

more than ten souls have discovered doubt on a level.

those ten souls, alone for…a period of time, remembering all the times others have said; ‘i love you’…and it is heard, as the twenty-first century for ‘thanks’, ‘have a wonderful day’.

sane, well adjusted schmucks may, hopefully, not have experienced the descending spiral of depression. not the same for all. hey we’re all unique…in every fucking way.

you can google or bing support for poor souls that are depressed, but, news flash: google (or bing) have never been depressed (or happy as far as i know) and neither have the authors of the platitudes ( i.e;when questioned on the origin of depression, a co-developer of prozac responded: “if the human brain were simple enough to understand, we’d be to simple to understand it.”). and just what the fuck does that even mean.

depression is hell. you can not imagine hell; it is beyond comprehension/imagination. there are an infinite number of hells.

i will tell you now, straight up, if you want to help some soul you think is depressed – cause you ain’t gonna really know right? – meditate on these and understand it ain’t gonna be over in a minute.

you might begin with some thing like this: “i’m sorry you’re in so much pain. i’m not going to leave you. i’m going to take care of myself so you don’t have to worry about your pain hurting me.” for those rare times when you can be there.

“i can’t imagine what you’re feeling, but i’m here i’ll listen, and i’ll try to understand. i will listen.” if you choose to use this: mean it; commit, be open, remember you have no fucking idea what that soul feels but you’re going to try. you will also understand love on a new level.

“you are so, wonderfully…you.” self explanatory.

“i’m here.” and fuckin’ be there; check in…laugh when you call, drop by (really, now).

forget the crap about ‘draw-them-out’ (fresh meat for dinner) be there for the time they invite you in – the object here, for all you sane/well adjusted simpletons, is a meeting of the minds…a doubt, a fear, a pain shared and for that instant you know that soul, that soul. and that soul knows yours. you are then there for that soul.

for all the wonderful sw-a folks out there – you be souls too. all souls trying to understand other souls…arrogant shits, as soon as the word “understand” enters the conversation (in this context) you may immediately insert the word “judge” and or “rate”.

the meeting of the minds we discussed, i discussed, earlier, that shared moment of a doubt, a fear, a pain…you have to examine/feel that all over again you have to expose yourself to your soul. take an instantaneous stroll through real ‘discomfort’ (you’re gonna know white hot searing pain – just for a tiny bit).

there you have the off the cuff, very non-medical perspective on dealing with those other souls that may be approaching or in depression.


wanting to ‘help’ a depressed soul is a shitty way to start…’you’ are looking for recognition/praise for your good works. in the words of the bard; “fuck you and the white horse you rode in on.” (Lenny Bruce)

you may reach out (that is not the same as ‘helping’, idiot), but only if you are real and that’s the hard part. you must,must put the shit aside look at you, the mistakes, the shame, pain all the real things that you hide away…and show them off. do all that you can…to be honest.

when you hit honest, there may be tears…that’s good, alone or in the company of that other depressed soul. it means you’re a fucking human, enjoy.

Shed the fucking shit, be you, do good.

Just For Balance

I have, in the past, come to this site to rant, dream, share, cry, laugh, and say good-bye (at least twice).

Last year I was diagnosed with terminal cancer, endured six months of treatment (designed to keep you alive a little longer and much more uncomfortably…my opinion), seven months ago I stopped treatments (and any and all medications). I just worked on me, me accepting, me living until I die, me being at peace.

Yesterday…yesterday, after blood work and other invasions it was determined that for all their searching they could not detect any cancer. I am in total remission.

Not the shoe I expected.

Now I have to drag all this contentment/peace around all the time.

In this new world with so much pain, fear, and confusion my minor problem (feeling…good) is out of place.

Its OK, I’ve got a plan.


Today, this morning I was confronted by my own frustration.

I went to the office and in the closet was all my camping and fishing equipment; all brandy new, never used; purchased 5 years ago, to be part of a celebration, I was ahead of the cancer (the other cancer) and I was going to spend time doing what I loved.

The SWMBO’s folks got sick and I moved in with them to help, and they moved in with us, and then a couple of years later, they died, and we moved.  And the brandy new fishing and camping stuff, moved from closet to closet.

At present, I am not getting the better of the cancer, the treatments are ripe with side-effects, enough that they have suspened all treatments.

The SWMBO asked if I had given up.

Yes.  A brief word to any that may find themselves on either side of the conversation. To fight, do battle, with any adversary requires confrontation, and part of that confrontation, is evaluating your resources.

In the 9 months since my diagnosis (Multiple Myeloma), no cure, treatments for up to ten years to keep me alive; and not one call to see how I”m doing, no cards, no visits, and there has to be much sympathy for the SWMBO (who suffers so).

I know thaty I don’t write well, my woodworking is shit…let’s be honest, my writting, sucks and there is not enough time, effort, or support to improve. My hands and legs no longer cooperate and there is less and less time that I have to improve, yeah improve, never gonna happen.

Ther upshot of this is: Lesson 1.

If you are going to offer support, encouragement, even a hug (and that goes much further that you think); give it, and mean it.  Say you care, and mean it…or don’t say anything.

Empty promises do more damage than none made.

I titled this piece “Goodbye”, this is the last entry. I will not be doing myself any harm, just accepting that I am in this alone, this is a battle that I can not hope to win and I have reviewed my resources and I am charging forward, alone, and knowing that I will not survive.

When you face an adversary with more kills than anyone, no weapons, no comradres, just the enevitable end.

I gave up.

Love your friends, love yourselves, hold your family close, and be happy.

And again, goodbye.



Merry Christmas

(Back to working with the phone, again, just so many ‘work-arounds’ available)

Long ago, long, long ago; in my youth (anytime before 1986, 40 or younger), when I was so afraid to express myself, I credited my grandparents, elder uncles, with having and instilling, well…values.

Geneticly, ideologically. hell, tempramentally my family has been all over the religious map – personally, I am not big on the rampent exclusivity – just me.

That being said, and it must, I created a character (again with the long, long…) my Jewish grandfather and when you approached his house, at this particular time of year, there will be candles burning in every window, wreathes on the doors, a fire in the dinning room hearth, and food there would be such delights.

And there would be grampy, in yam and prayer shawl, all smiles and Merry Christmases, greeting all, gathering any any all to sit, eat, be warm; and if you asked him why, his answer was simple: “Any holiday from any faith that celebrates peace, love, and goodwill one person for another, we will always honor in my house.”

I claim no organized religion, but from the bottom of my heart, I wish you all the Merriest of Christmases; I’ll burn my candles, for the lost, a beacon; the homeless, a shelter.

With much love.

Peace out, pilgrims

Being Honest

Had the opportunity yesterday to visit a marvelous, huge, used book store; that is, regrettably,  going out of business. But, they are haveing such a clearance sale – and I found that, remarkably, I had a little folding stuff in my pocket.

I found reference books, for all manner of subjects (I  purchased most), all centered, at that moment, on my quest.

I promised my son, a while back, that I would always be honest with him; that spills over into the rest of the world, ’cause something just may get back to him.

In the interest of keeping things honest, balanced as it were, in the universe…there is no way in hell I am ever going to be writting the great American (or Lesser Slabovian) novel.

I write silly stories that make me feel good, hopefully someone else along the way, as well.

It sometimes takes longer for the honesty/truth part to filter throught the universe and finally sink into my thick skull.

Got further adventures of Charly, Stephen and the Tijdelijke veiligheidstroepen (Temporal Security Forces) on one of their lesser, more important missions: Where have all the storytellers gone? That comeing to you tonight.


Peace out, pilgrims.

Nothing to see here, its just about me, again

“It is good to love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is well done.”

Vincent Van Gogh

I seem to vaguely recall a fool’s errand. How that errand brought me to this peak, I do not know.

It seems that I have out lived all those that would lead me, and all that would follow me…


Of all the things, ideas, ideals, (for want of a better word from my limited vocabulary) accomplishments I have pursued, aspired to, in love; only two have stood the test of time. The desire to write and the peace of understanding connection.

As for understanding connection, that requires…just acceptance. George.

George is my ever faithful, ghost companion. George came to me during the days of madness and loneliness of childhood. George rarely speaks, George is just there, and that has the transformative ability to change loneliness, isolation into just being…sometimes alone.

The desire to write. Objectively, I am weak in areas of dialogue, setting, plot, and a clear understanding of character development. aside from that, I’m pretty…mediocre.

I shall confess, in advance, that everything I write will reflect me, somewhere, without that touch of me nothing is genuine…genuine not “right”.

Here’s to aspirations, beginnings, marvelous middles with all its twists and turns, and the endings, sweet or sad, that inevitably come.


Interview with the Village Idiot

‘Thank you for joining us this evening, Mr. Idiot…”

“Please, just Idiot is fine. My dad liked to call me that a lot.” The Idiot smiled and looked around, “You did say there would be cookies.’

“George, cookies…do you have a favorite?”

“Oatmeal raisin.”

“George, oatmeal raisin…what, oh…and to drink?”

“Preference: dark roast coffee, black, in a nice heavy mug, and thank you George.”

“…got that?…yeah, yeah…George says, you’re welcome.”

“Thank you, again, for sitting down with us for this interview, Mr. excuse me, Idiot.

“For the benefit of our audience; it is difficult to find idiots that will admit they’re idiots or discuss what their world may be like…we can only imagine.

“Are the cookies – oatmeal raisin are the Idiot’s favorite – OK?”

“Perfectly devine. Thank you, George, again…and the little chocolate was very sweet.”



“I haven’t asked a question, yet.”

“Please do…ask your questions.”

“I’m curious, are idiots able to recognize each other, as idiots. Are there tell tale signs people should look for to know when they are dealing with an idiot?”

“Yes and yes.”

“Why don’t we take a short break…GEORGE!” The interviewer spun from his seat and walked in the direction of the voice (George?) that seemed to be coming from another room.

“Yes, here we are, again, with Idiot, and this interviewer’s drive to understand the secret underbelly of idiocy. Idiot, you’ve said that you can recognize other idiots. Not to ‘out’ anyone (yet), how many idiots are there in congress now?” An almost sinister grin came across the face of the interviewer as he relaxed into the back of his chair his arms crossing as he moved.

“None.” Idiot sipped from his second cup of coffee, smiled, lifted the mug in a salute to…and mouthed a “thank you.”

The interviewer’s back stiffened, his crossed arms momentarily holding him together, “None”, there was a slight rise in pitch in his response. Clearly not the answer he anticipated. “None, surely there are some…Mi…”

“None.” Idiot held his mug with both hands, resting on his right thigh; he enjoyed the warmth, the weight of the mug, the smooth enamel finish, Idiot smiled. He threw a nod again to some unseen person…; ”and that is a pity.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Preciously the reason I’m here.” Idiot smiled.

“How were you ‘outed’, excuse me,diagnosed as an idiot, how old were you, what are the long term ramifications of a diagnosis like this.” The interviewer thought a softer approach might yield the results he was after.

“That would be my family, that ‘diagnosed’ me. I can still hear dad, ‘This is my son, the Village Idiot. Stand up, Idiot. Show them what an idiot looks like.’” after a moment’s pause, Idiot continued. “In retrospect, that was the kindest thing dad ever did for me.”

It took the interviewer two seconds to register Idiot’s response, the statement and the text used. He leaned forward, “I don’t understand.”

“That is just a bit vague, would you please be a bit more specific?” The idiot asked. “You don’t understand what?, and how am I to contribute to your understanding?, I am after all, an idiot.”

A chuckle could be heard, that was George.

The interviewer was shaken, almost collapsed in his chair, head just above knees, the interviewer turned their head in the direction of the idiot, sipping his coffee, smiling all the while.

In an attempt to regain their right standing position, the interviewer pulled themselves up and squarely faced the smiling idiot.

“You don’t sound like an idiot.” The statement was fairly spit at Idiot, whose smile broadened.

“Did you think there was a distinctive squawk or grunt that was the ‘idiot sound’, or an annoying giggle perhaps?”Again a chuckle could be heard.

“No, no…you…you spoke clearly.”

‘Enunciation or syntax?”

George came through with a refill for the idiot’s coffee while the interviewer pulled themselves up from the floor.

Once more, holding on to the interviewer standing, the interviewer slid into a more relaxed pose. “Both, act…..”

“Thank you.”

The interviewer looked at the smiling idiot and thought…too quick…not an idiot…new direction for the interview. “Let get right to the point. Are …”


One sharp glance from the interviewer and there was silence, “Are you actually an idiot or an insignificant idiot wanna be?” The anger in that question seemed to even catch the interviewer off guard. “What I mean is…”

“Have you a dictionary handy?” The idiot accepted fresh coffee and a well used volume of Webster’s New World College Dictionary from the ever ‘on-it’, George. “Thank you and thank you…this will move things along.

The idiot thumbed through the tome to find the definition he wanted,“Here we are. Would you read the definitions that George has already indicated AND highlighted. George you are a wonder. Thank you.”

The interviewer took the pro-offered volume the idiot extended, “Would you please read the highlighted – thank you again, George – definition.”

The interviewer read the definition. “Idiot: ignorant and common person; idio: one’s own, personal, distinct 1] a retarded person mentally equal or inferior to a two year old. 2] a very foolish or stupid person.”

“What has this to do with our interview? Everyone knows the definition of idiot, Idiot.”

“Actually, idiots are the only ones that understand it; its a bit of a private joke.” a warm smile came across the face of the idiot. “All, everything is in idio; we idiots are all different, personal, distinct and I say, yeah. Mentally equal to a two year old.

“Children just discovering their worlds everything brand new, every taste a delight; discovering their own voice…trusting…incapable of practicing or understanding guile and only an idiot that has retained two for seventy years can relate to just how developed a two year can become mentally. Most children and their parents are trying to rush them as quickly as possible away from two. ” The idiot smiled his smile, warm, open, with a touch of Santa Clause tinkle around the eyes.

“The very definition, the label of idiot removes any expectations anyone might want to impose on you. You are free to make mistakes, without judgments. Understanding that winning or losing are both inevitable, eventually.’

The interviewer stood and walked toward the idiot. The idiot set his mug on the floor and rose to meet the interviewer. The interviewer extended a hand to the idiot. “You are always smiling.

“Tell me, Idiot, what is the secret to your happiness?”

A look of bewilderment came over the idiot’s face, “Secret?, I don’t understand. No secret.” The confusion passed, the idiot smiled, “Just be happy.

“and for the long term ramifications of being an idiot. Sometimes it’ll get you cookies and coffee.”

Be splendid – always.

Words of Wisdom

Learn from the mistakes of others. You can never live long enough to make them all yourself.

Groucho Marx


It was not long ago (just a couple of months past); i had the pleasure of a conversation, by phone, with a very, very talented photographer – during the call, i had nothing but questions – and no answers.

And after a bit, i got bold – “Jim, among the treasures, that are your pictures- would you find one for me. Something – colorful – just fun – unmitigated joy (and when you’re done with that – there is that thing about the stables). There is, still a place in my heart, in my life where that lives – and i really want to show that to the rest of the world. And shame on ‘um if they can’t take a joke.”

And I received this image. All – all and more.

Thank you, JAMES MICHAEL MOORE, thank you. there is a place in this world for a spastic old fart like me.

(Forgive the poor quote; read the T.S.Elliot, any T.S.Elliott)

There is a still point, a point between the up and the down, not moving to the left or right, to or fro, still. Dancing, that moment when – it is that moment – still – not glancing but seeing – still – it is a point in a dance – any and every moment of a dance and it’s all about the dance. And the still point – the still point – the still point is the dance.

for those that may not have known, Jim is my son