First Jam of The Day:



I was considering sharing my journaling on here, thought it might provide some interesting content. Thing was though, I realized how much I would start to self-censor, and not tell the truth, thereby voiding the purpose of the journal. I have kept a semi-regular journal, notepad, for a few years now. I am almost through my second journal. I will definitely be getting another one. Considering it, I currently self-censor in my journal, which I recognize will probably never be read by anyone, except for perhaps my progeny, or my progeny’s progeny, who might see it as a novelty, schizophrenic ramblings of 21st century Great-Grandpa. That would be awesome.

Perhaps even more reason to journal on the blog. Journal on the blog, blog on the journal, we respect no noun verb delineation. It’s easier to type, I have sloppy, half retarded left handed penmanship. I can salvage some respect in the fact it may be evidence of Asiatic, or African genetics, ancestral imprints from a time when they read from right to left. Remember cursive?

So I didn’t want to blog about fighting with my wife, which was the subject of my journaling last night. Not that she would mind. I suspect she would encourage it. It is self imposed censorship, which is worse I think.

I take this approach because of that old line about, don’t do anything you wouldn’t want your Grandma to read about in the paper, or on a blog in our case. I know you’re probably a bad-ass anarchist type who doesn’t give a shit about social norms, salute, but I’m frankly still a broken coward.

It’s a challenging thought though, right? If you couldn’t even put your behavior and ideas honestly on the page, wasn’t that so much evidence of your wrongness, your monstrosity? My wrongness, my monstrosity, I mean. You’re fine, I assume. Tell me otherwise.

That’s what the fight was about, communicating, good and evil, projection and clear visions of the other. Baboon and Demigod. Note, words hide the truth.

I filled up two pages of journaling last night, as I sat on my makeshift bed in the downstairs dog den. It was night two of sleeping on the couch. Again, for the record, totally self-imposed, and a passive aggressive act of injury and self-injury. I’m sure it bugs me more than her (my back aches as evidence). Something clicked though, maybe it was the journaling, maybe it was the stinky dog couch, but this was stupid.

I moved upstairs to the better couch, but still it wasn’t right. The bedroom was just a few steps down the hall, nothing but my own self imposed negativity stopped me from enjoying it. There was plenty to enjoy too, numerous soft pillows, foam mattress, air conditioning, and most importantly my beautiful, forgiving, mostly centered wife.

I woke up snug on my side of the bed. Everyone slept in, almost to eight o’clock, evidence the storm had passed. Oldest encouraged burritos from Wackdonalds, definitely not top breakfast choice for this fellow, but in the mood of reconciliation I obliged. Followed Mom out and waved her off, domestic bliss returned.

Set up a room in the basement, with a TV, where the dog couch was, cooler in the summer. We got a big table down there, the gang can use for arts and crafts. Two oldest were super excited to hang out in the basement. I went to let the two dogs out, Dante and Cujo, and was bombarded by the smell of hell itself. With wafting remnants of a subpar breakfast burrito in my throat, and naive hopes in my heart, I discovered the horror before me. Spread out two rooms ahead of me was varying portions of dog shit and shit-vomit. Forty minutes, three pairs of plastic gloves, half a paper towel roll, two dry heaving sessions, later, the room smelled of vinegar house spray and the mess was clean. The universe giggled at my muted sense of self control.

I recovered, but it was the bittersweet recovery which seems to mark adulthood. The rest of the day was a blur of parenting, dishes, dinner prep, naps(theirs not mine), barbecuing (mustard marinated pork loin, potato pack with spring onions and garlic scapes with dehydrated espolette pepper flakes, mixed greens), kids hid in the air conditioning, probably watched too much television (we are erecting the pool this weekend!). Oldest, see how I’m doing that self-censoring, don’t want to put my kid’s name out here for everyone to see, but send him to public school, and who really gives a damn? Yes, oldest son, Chay had a little league baseball game.

It’s the first of a best “two out of three” series to determine the “real” champions of his division. I had planned on going, was thinking of even taking him up there myself, coach requested he be there an hour early, that way I could sneak home before the game was done, clean up a little from dinner, water my expansive garden, pick up the messes of the day, shower, hopefully have some creative time of self, you know well rounded adult behavior. Britney (wife) assumed I was planning sitting this one out. Took five, retreated to the writer’s den, attempted to figure out what to do. I was pretty stoked to see my boy play, but also so much needed done here. It occurred to me how we lose self in family. That I literally didn’t know what I wanted to do. All options seemed to have their positives and negatives, all of it was important, but somehow none of it really mattered. Confused, I submitted to rest, which meant watering the garden, and then writing this, still need to pick up, shower, and I got this video playing in the background…



Thinking about what I’ll do tomorrow. Same feeling as before, so much to do, need to stop it, but can’t stand to waste the time like that. I wrote about the slush pile last week. It adds to the chaos, as does the writing habit itself. For instance tomorrow I am trying to decide, do I wake up early, hit the garden before the heat hits, do all my garden chores, come inside and have my writing session, but see I love that early morning writing energy, and if I get to it, no fucking around, I could still get out before the heat, but then, note the first world problem, we got breakfast and parental bliss, and Chay-boy’s got some eczema type shit on his elbow prolly should take him in for that, and maybe we got game two of the little league championship series, and I’m still working on my Travis picking, and…


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