Control

Control, 08/31/2016, Deon Mumple

I keep control under control
What I really want to do
Is let the whole thing just explode
I control control for you.

I maintain these strong defenses,
Monitoring all details.
Who knows the consequences
If I should let myself fail?

What I want to do is be me,
The one that lets it all fly,
Drop the bombs, so everyone sees,
And occasionally cry.

Quit the things that waste so much time,
Except those things support me,
Buy my vodka, tonic and lime,
Oh, and food.  I like to eat.

Control is the mask I’m wearing,
Hiding failure, rage, panic.
Medicine’s not really helping,
And control makes me feel sick.

When I slip and I’m really real,
People act like I’m crazy.
If I always said how I feel,
I might be locked up, no key,

Hide the symptoms, appear normal,
Everything will be just fine,
If it looks right other people
Won’t read me between the lines.

Is it me or is it my mask,
Other people say they love?
Is it me, or, I’m scared to ask,
All that I’m in control of?

Sam Kinison and a “Sermonette?”

So I only apologize to my mum for swearing if I accidentally swear in her presence, and to any of you readers who might take offense, let me just say, I’m truly, very, fucking sorry.  I started this blog about two and a half years ago (has it really been that long?) for therapeutic reasons.  It boils down to, I was jealous of Sam.  Why should Sam be the only one allowed to scream his fucking head off and tell irreligious jokes (which are, on the record, always hilarious, occasionally blasphemous, but always very well -thought – out.)

That dude was very smart.  Maybe too smart.  He found a way, but I don’t know if it was the right way.  Screaming, yes.  Profanity, yes.  Anger, yes.  Bitterness, yes.  But where do you draw the line at the definition of blasphemy?  Well, I’ve probably crossed it (“cross-ed” it…?) a time or two, won’t be the last time if I have in the past.  I’m just sorry I don’t know the lines of demarcation.  I don’t even think the Pope knows.  I’m not even sure Sam crossed it himself.  Yeah, he probably did.

I think we know when we’re in heaven, or hell, and by the time a person is in hell it’s too damned late (“damned…”) where the lines are or were.  I think we know when we’re ridiculing God, or Jesus, and when we’re carefully constructing a humorous, ridiculous implausibility.  And I think Sam tried to lean toward the latter.  I heard a joke once about how Jesus carried off walking on water.  Because oil and water don’t mix, and because oil sits on the surface of the water without breaking the surface tension, he had oiled his feet, took off his sandals and voilà!, walk very carefully and you’re miraculous.  I know it was a miracle though and not a magic trick, because Peter was able to do the same trick for a little while, and you know after fighting with the storm all night, old Petey didn’t have enough oil on his feet to do jack-mirack.  And after walking to the lake to catch up with the disciples, in the storm, Jesus didn’t either.  He only had His Divine Self to hold himself above water.  And the power to haul Peter up before he drowned, and the power to tell the storm to shut the hell up.

If you were Jesus, God in the flesh, and your flesh was tired and all you wanted to do was sleep, wouldn’t you be a little irritable if your disciples woke you up asking you to fix stuff? “JESUS!!!! WAAAAKKKKE UUUUPPPP!!!!  JESUSSS!!! We’re all going to DIE!!  The boat’s getting swamped!”

“Oh, puh-leeze, STUPID storm, would you JUST SHUTTETH UP!!  I’m TIRED!!”  And then poor Jesus goes back to sleep.  And being a well mannered and otherwise gentle person,  says NOTHING to his disciples about it.

And speaking of “shutteth[ing] up,” I’ve just taken 5 days off from writing this crap, and nobody thanked me for giving them a break.  But you’re welcome.

I hang out with a bunch of really conservative, staunchly well-mannered Christ followers. They don’t smoke or drink or swear or chew, and they don’t hang out with girls that do. That’s fine with me.  But here on my blog, I don’t give a fuck what you do; it’s your choice.  In fact, a little drink as long as it doesn’t take over your whole life, isn’t a problem to me.  Nobody chews tobacco any more.  We like our white teeth, and we don’t like getting cancer that eats off our face, our gums, our tongue, our throats or our stomachs.  If you do, none of my business.  Smoking?  I don’t care.  Swearing?  That’s probably hot.  I bet old Petey knew more than his share of profanity, I mean he was a sailor for Christ’s sake (I did it again!).

Here’s why I don’t care:  Jesus was known to be a wine drinker, a friend of tax collectors and sinners.  See, the stuff they judge us for today is the same damned stuff they judged people for back then.  Oh, and I don’t want the reader to miss that “tax collectors” was a special category of sinner.  But fuck, whatever, you can have your own special category of sin and I don’t care.  You can hang.  You might accidently hear a little sermon, but I hope you’ll forgive me for that.  It’s my special category and I occasionally slip something out there.

Whatever you do, whatever you’ve done, I don’t care.  If it bothers your conscience, if your conscience says it’s a sin, for fucks sake, stop.  And you can leave that behind if you want.

I Peter 4:  8 Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. 9 Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling. 10 Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God’s grace in its various forms.

THAT it seems to me is what is important:  Cover those sins up with love.  Be nice to people.  (Oh, shit.  I do grumble sometimes, sorry!!  Sorry!!  So that needs to be covered with a little love, too.  Or maybe a lot.)  And serve other people instead of just yourselves.  You can be a minister, or steward, whichever you want, of God’s grace.

John 14:12 seems very clear to me:

12 Very truly I tell you, whoever believes in me will do the works I have been doing, and they will do even greater things than these, because I am going to the Father.

People are so petty and small when they judge other people.  But is that all there  is? In His own words, instead, we’re challenged to have a little faith in Jesus and do the “greater things.”

What’s your “greater thing?”

Go do that.

Love You More and Love You Less

Love You More and Love You Less, 8/25/2016, Deon Mumple

I love you more and love you less than
Anyone else ever can,
I know your little secrets and
The history that you conceal that
I never will tell anyone
The little things that you have done,
But lately it’s so hard because
You never seem to see me try
And you won’t ever let me cry
‘Cause I’m supposed to be a man
And fix the shit that’s all broken
And let you live in an ivory castle.
Shit!

But I don’t have the energy to
Fight that hard, just to win you (again)
I can’t keep up with my own shit.
You want that battle, I just want to quit.

You treat me like I am a slave,
Don’t give a shit like you once gave,
You wanted me to be happy
When your love was a mystery,
I wanted the prize so damned bad
The only girl I’ve ever had,
I still want you, you’re still beauti-
ful, why the fuck don’t you want me?
I want the girl who was my wife,
Puppy love grows into a dog’s life.
You shut me out like a bitch and that’s bull-
Shit!

But I don’t have the energy to
Fight that hard, just to win you (again)
I can’t keep up with my own shit
You want that battle, I just want to quit.

So life happens, heated love fades,
And somehow we both feel betrayed,
But I want what I thought we had back then.
I love you more and love you less.
I really wish we both could win.
Every day we face the stress, in-
stead of wanting me you push away.
We fight our aggressive battles passively.
I don’t want to fight, I just want you happy,

And you’re not really fighting for me, either,
that’s the truth.
It’s almost more depressing than it’s worth,

And I don’t have the energy to
Fight that hard, just to win you (today).
I can’t keep up with my own shit.
You want that battle, I just want to quit.

Shit.

Pretending

(So I already wrote one called Pretend, so this one will be “Pretending.”)

Pretending, 8/25/2016, Deon Mumple

I pretend so well to be so strong,
That you believe it, but it’s wrong.
I’m fractured, crushed, empty, and weak;
There is no Oz-wizard to seek.

I pretend so well to be so smart,
To cover up my broken heart,
To hide the real, small-minded me,
Untouchable, no one can see:

I have an act down pat: fearless,
With rage enough to fight the stress,
And compassion enough to care,
After I face my demons’ dares,

I pretend to be so spiritual,
My answers are so biblical,
But sometimes I feel my soul’s been trod
Under the sandaled feet of God.

I pretend so well that I’m not hurt-
Daggers don’t show under my shirt,
But my heart’s ripped, I trust no one,
It doesn’t heal, I want to run,

Pretending I can run away,
And want to come back again to play,
I can’t, but what I want to do
Is leave everyone and hide from you.

Music as a Coping Mechanism

When I was younger there was a guy whose songs sometimes really resonated in my heart, and I really never gave any thought to it.  You know, we like music for different reasons. The lyrics, the rhythm, the dynamics, the melody, the chord structures, the vocal quality, the emotion.  The memories it evokes.  These things catch a song in your head, sometimes they come back to haunt you as earworms, and sometimes they play overhead at your home improvement or grocery store.  I heard the songs and really liked them back then.  I’m a station flipper, so if it doesn’t hit me or I’m not interested, I move on.  There’s a clean feeling to the music, a kind of precision, or neatness, and yet the emotion of the lyrics is anything but tidy.

I think that’s why I liked the songs.  They reflected the present reality, and gave me a little hope in spite of circumstances.  At the time I didn’t realize I was riding emotional waves.  Thank GOD I know now so I have told my kids about it.  But back then I was just a victim of it and I didn’t know anything about it.  I have learned a few coping mechanisms, but they don’t fix everything.  They help me not murder people.

I like music.  My daughter does come by interrupting my music with hers, but I usually acquiesce.  My son hasn’t caught on to that magic yet

Unwanted noise is such an irritant.  Interruptions, irritant.  Nagging, irritant. Feeling a lack of accomplishment plus hopelessness because of interruptions and distractions, irritant. Getting underpaid for the experience and being told I’m not worth paying more, there’s a reason to commit murder if I ever knew one. It probably won’t come to that. I have coffee. I’m just having an irritated day, so whenever I get an uninterrupted break I’m going to sit through both of these two songs.  And try to sneak in a third.  I wish I could use speakers and just listen, but in the office, others can hear and so I can’t blast Metallica at 11 out of 10 volume.  That’s why I said “unwanted” noise.  The woman gossipping and carrying on about her personal business and her family dramas.  Is there one of these in every office?  I hope Mrs. M isn’t that person in hers.  Honey, start a blog and shut the fuck up, we have work to do and nobody here cares about anything but work, unless it’s free food or drinks or a reason to take an extra break.  And, as you spend so much time chatting up your neighbors how is it you still have time to do your job?  If you have time for all that, can I get your job and let you have mine because I don’t have the leisure or your cash flow.  The man sneezing ridiculously loudly instead of fucking stifling it.  He’s the one who tells everyone to keep the volume down.  Fuck the Flying Spaghetti Monster, buy a box of tissues and some allergy meds and shut YOUR fucking unnecessary noise down, Mr I’ve-got-a-fucking-tree-in-my-eye-here-let-me-help-you-with-your-speck.  Didn’t anyone ever teach you that you choose how to sneeze, and you can go loud or soft and still get it out?  Interruptions, the stupid required login protocols repeating every fucking thirty minutes, 8 hours a day, that’s 16 times I have to  log back in because the thing shuts itself off WHILE I’M WORKING ON IT, WITH CLIENTS.  And then there are the servers that randomly decide to fuck up.  Needless to say, any time I have to contact I.T., I’ve got a chip on my shoulder they will NEVER understand because I don’t have time to discuss it.  I tried, and management didn’t care enough to fix the little things that irritate everyone but represent a minor crisis, 16 times a day, for me. Monthly password updates for all the platforms I have to use. And emails. I have enough emails, can I please opt out of hearing about what’s on the overpriced and undersized lunch menu, and whoever the fuck is getting promotions, because it isn’t me?

I’ve said all this realizing my tree is this blog, but for some reason I justify myself writing it.  Sorry, everyone.

I’ve never met Howard Jones.  That would be neat.  (Do I sound just a tiny bit like a fangirl to you?) As an adult, with present knowledge, I would ask if he is bipolar or knows someone who is. Or if he has depression.  Maybe it’s just he’s brilliant musically and his co-writer has the experience.  Or maybe it’s both of them.  These lyrics, I can’t escape he’s talking about depression even though the music has all of those catchy elements that make it likeable and distracting.  Maybe the distraction is what my brain held on to when I wasn’t really paying attention to the lyrics.  And maybe the lyrics taught me something about the circumstances, my emotional states, and life in general.


How do you write lyrics like this? They’re brilliant. This is why I’m a fan of so many of you poets, and why I sometimes have a go at it myself.

Why is it so clean sounding to me? Maybe it was just a consequence of being from the just-barely-techno musical production style of the day. Consider this:

And, in keeping with the random nature of my ramblings, thank God for chocolate.  These Twix bars are medicinal, I swear.

If you liked these two as much as I enjoyed his whole catalogue, look up Howard Jones’ discography, and give a listen.  “Throw off your mental chains.” That one, I opine, it’s not great for actually practical, useful, instructional content, but God, it’s a lovely thought.  So much great music.  Back in the day, I bought his CDs.  I imagine you can get the songs on the modern digital venues still.

When you feel like “Things can only get better,” maybe you’re right.  Which gave me something to hope for, something to look forward to on my unseen wave.  Music just helps me cope with it, and looking back it always has.  As for now, I thought I was coming out of this funk, but as it turns out, not yet.  Maybe my emotional waveforms are more complex than a simple up and down.

Maybe it’s more like a roller coaster.

Oh, that’ll take you back, if you’re older.  If you’re too young, like me (wink, wink!),  to remember it on your IPods and computers, (SHUT UuUP!) let the music take you back anyway.  I may not have confessed it, but the more musically savvy of you may already be picking up on a trend: I like trumpets. Brass in general. Right there at the beginning of Things Can Only Get Better, right there at the beginning of Love Roller Coaster, just, yes. And I can’t play a single wind or brass instrument, the tragedy. I REALLY like musical solos and interludes, YES. I’m a fan of some music by the group Yes, too.

If you didn’t see through my darkness, seeing it’s pretty thick sometimes, here’s a Flashlight to help.

Hm. No horns AT ALL.  I know how to fix that.  Scottish funk:

Pick Up the Pieces.  Sometimes that’s all you can do when life breaks.  Oh, you think I’m kidding about them being Scottish?  Not kidding.  That funk was fueled by haggis.

Ew.

Instead of haggis, can I have some more chocolate?  Here, have some yourself.  I brought extra.

Black Cats, Blue Seas, Dirty Knees…

So the ever beautiful Spanglish Jill nominated me for an award here.  I like awards, but I don’t really know what to do with them.  So I’ll say a heartfelt “thank you!” to Jill and pass it on, but “before we go any further, do you love me?  Will you love me forever?  I gotta know right now!”

I haven’t figured out how to display them (awards), which should tell would-be nominators the low skill level of my blogging abilities.  I mean, Jill clearly deserves awards and if I were to receive one she hadn’t already gotten, she would be an obvious choice to nominate.

The award is the Black Cat Blue Sea award, which I didn’t really understand, so I looked it up and found this recipient, who clearly deserved it and knows how to handle this kind of adulation.  Last time I looked I had 245 or 6 followers, most of whom have probably already realized the error of their ways and repented of following, they just haven’t been prompt about clicking to un-follow yet, for which I’m grateful, because inflated numbers are still numbers.   If they haven’t repented or unfollowed and it was on purpose, well, some sins cling to your soul, don’t they?  And some people are just gluttons for punishment and you all know gluttony is supposed to be one of the seven deadly sins.  So, speaking of repentance…  That’s right, reading my blog may not JUST be dangerous to your health, but also to your mortal sssooouuuullllllllll!!!!!!!

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

You:  Can I get into heaven?
St. Pete:  Um, you followed, and even liked, Deon’s blog, didn’t you?
You:  Well, just a little, maybe.
St. Pete:  He wasn’t very good.  Quite the opposite, he was kind of evil.  He complained a lot, blamed God for his troubles, never could figure out how to fix it for himself.  Naahhht good.  How do you get into heaven by following someone evil?
You:  …

In my defense, I do pray for other people.  I’ve just given up on hoping my prayers for me would be answered.  I ask for the wrong things, apparently.  I’m not really double minded about it, I just think I know what I need, and apparently, it’s not what I need.  And not knowing and asking anyway and then getting “no,” frustrates me like a three year old at the candy aisle at Wal Mart.  I could go off about James 4:3, and my motives and my specific requests, but it’s pointless.

I’m stealing from the lovely and talented Blessing Iyamadiken again here because she had the cool stuff on her blog with the details about the award in a polished, easy to understand, format:

image
Blessing borrowed from another blogger, presumingly the one who nominated her, rather more worthy, award, who provided this clear description of the intent:

“This award is for bloggers who strive to write for everybody, and no matter how many viewers they get, make an impact on a reader. This award is an expression of gratitude to the nominee. It should be awarded to anybody that you choose deserves it and it doesn’t mean that they must have hundreds of followers and likes.”– Ella

We’ll work backward here- firstly I do have hundreds of (albeit misguided) followers, disqualified, check.  Secondly, my gratitude is to the one who nominated ME, because she still holds out hope and hands out encouragement.  You have to admire HER for that.  I hand out encouragement but when I reread my writing, I think to myself about how dubious that encouragement must be for the receivers, and I just have to apologize.  And as for making an impact, well, how does one measure that in any kind of quantitative way?  And finally, writing for everyone?  I write for myself, and anyone crazy enough can look on while I face the dismal darkness, bitterness and rage of doom, brokenness and failure.

This is what I mean about Jill.  She has clearly ignored the technical qualifications and gone ahead and done it anyway.  And that independent spirit is another of her admirable traits.

I do have questions and I do have nominees, we’ll get back to it if I don’t get derailed off my train of thought.  I’m supposed to answer her questions first.  Holy Cannoli, the concentration required for today…

Her Questions:

  1. What’s the funniest thing you’ve heard lately?
  2. If you had all the time and money in the world, what would be the thing, food, music, place and/or people who would make you the happiest?

3.What’s the best advice you’ve ever received and what’s the most helpful advice you’ve ever given?

Damned automatic formatting WORDPRESS.  Let me do it my way!  Wordpress requires a skill level I’ve failed to demonstrate, or, a similar way of granting my requests as my Deity of choice.  I get either “no,” or “yes, but not the way you want it.”  By the time I get my $500 million dollars, I’ll need it just to stay afloat and I won’t be able to use it to help anyone else.  Or I’ll be dead.

1) What’s the funniest thing you’ve heard lately?  My son, when I told him to “say it in French,” said “It in French.”  To which I responded:

He learned his sense of humour from his dad.  NOOOOOOO!!!!  And although I was out of my mask, he totally got MY reference too.

2) If you had all the time and money in the world, what would be the thing, food, music, place and/or people who would make you the happiest?

Hmmm.  That’s a good question.  Thing(s):  Being able to fix the broken things in my life and moving on toward being able to help other people I know are in worse financial straits.   And, finishing a few novels. Food:  Today, I’m craving either fried chicken, potatoes and gravy, or chicken fried steak.  And gravy.  We’ll probably have leftovers, or some pasta thing.  Holy Cannoli?  More like mac and cheese from a box. I like a nice big ribeye steak sometimes, or a good pork chop.  Deep fried turkey.  Hungry yet?  Music:  I like a LOT of music, so I’ll just answer YES.  Money no object, I’d buy a few instruments and lessons to learn to play them all well.  A violin, obviously.  Less obvious:  Bagpipes.  Place:  I like the bunker, it’s safe enough if I can stay in there.  Or North Carolina, I envision a mountain cabin by a well-stocked lake, where I can raise a few chickens.  Her name’s Little Fry, his name is Fry Daddy, the baby is Small Fry.  Sense a trend?  I like eggs too.  People:  Mrs. M, the kids, the extended family, a few close friends, and you.  Come on over to the bunker, we’ll figure something out.

3) What’s the best advice you’ve ever received and what’s the most helpful advice you’ve ever given?  Received:  In high school someone told me I was a decent writer, so who knows where I’d be if I had paid attention.  I do know it’s something I enjoy, if the money would follow that would be great.  But people hiring writers are looking for people with journalism skills, not to mention degrees, and I didn’t get a degree in English, I got it in Math, which as you can tell has prepared me for all of life’s contingencies and emergencies because I clearly handle them all so well.  Given:  I told a guy to marry a girl, and as I was also friends with the girl told her to marry him.  They eloped and are still married a year or two longer than me.  The two of them are quite happy.  My family practically took bets at the altar about how short they figured Mrs M and I would last.  But all I want is Mrs. M.  I ignored the bad advice and married her anyway.  I only wonder about it some of the time.  Sure I could have married for money, but I didn’t know about Mariah Carey or Haley Atwell or J.K. Rowling back then, because no one bothered to introduce us. Think back 30 years and claim the blame, readers, because it’s somehow YOUR fault, even though you may have never met any of them.

OH KAY, enough of that.  ON TO THE NOMINEES!

These nominees are phenomenal, enjoyable, brilliant bloggers and if I had more than seven to choose I would choose a lot of bloggers that I follow, I am not not nominating your blog on purpose but only because the requirement is seven.  You want to follow these and a bunch of other bloggers I follow, they’re right there to your right.  Go ahead, follow any one of my blogging people there and I will personally guarantee you won’t be as disappointed by their blogs as you may be with mine.  If you’re not a nominee and you’re on my list to the right, well, consider yourself a winner as long as you ping me back on your response to being a winner ex officio  I’ve won with my discovery of each of your blogs, specifically chosen or not.

If you don’t do awards, there’s no obligation. I’m just sharing the love, so tough shit, you won and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it because I’m not taking it back.

Now, you should know that I follow a lot of bloggers, because to me they’re all top notch.  I know also that I’m missing out on some quality reading material because I haven’t discovered them yet and/or because there’s only so much time in a day.  So, these nominees, in their trees, above the high seas, healed from disease, eating their cheese….  WTF just happened….  The nominees are:

Ben- you know what to do.  Accept the bitterness, just fucking deal with it, write out all your frustrations, and move on.  I had to, so now, so do you.  Mwaaahahahahahahaaaa.
Jessica-you know what to do.  In your own magical, lyrical, so very beautiful way, be yourself. Go.
Kelly- you know what to do.  If this can be a quick break from responsibility, and you have a minute to take it, take the break, vacate and enjoy the exercise.
Lize-you know what to do.  And yes, haiku/ is beautiful/ if you can say it all/ in  17 syllables.  Or do two.  /Haiku. /Or try something different and new./I have faith in you.
AbbieLu-you know what to do.  That’s already a poem, my work here is done, /and yours has just begun.
Marina-you know what to do.  There’s a part of you that I love, the part that you hold together through the shattering, bashing hammers of life.  Oh wait, that’s all of you.
Katie (IF THAT IS YOUR REAL NAME!)-you know what to do.  You are completely charming and fun. I haven’t heard much from you so I’m calling you out.  Be the real you and trust me with it.

And, because I’m rebellious and I can’t follow the rules, one (really 2) more!!

Conrad and Drew, or is it Drew and Conrad– you know what to do.  Get a good buzz on if you like, be top blokes and give ‘er a go.  (How can I lose?)  You can collaborate or each give a response.  Either way, should be fun (for me).

And now the questions(, should you choose to accept them.  This message will self destruct, if it hasn’t already done so, count yourself lucky):

1) If you could eat and drink anything you wanted, what would be your dream meal, from appetizer to dessert to beverage, and if you cook, your favorite recipe not involving shellfish.
2) A two parter and a challenge:  a) Where are you from, originally or now? and b) in your best regional dialect from there, write a poem of any form about me and you- if you have to, actually READ my blog (sorry, nominees), and then tell me how you feel, what you like and dislike, where you would take me to hear you read your poem, and what we would do on a day hanging out.  Poetry forms are something I think fun, so if you think you can’t, give it a try anyway and let me enjoy torturing you through the journey.  You can’t give back the award, so you just have to get through it and pass it on.  Don’t forget to do it in your regional dialect, that’s an important part of the challenge, and at least half of the fun.
3) If you could choose to become immortalized for doing or being something, brilliant or heinous, what would you do, and why would you do it?

I still don’t get what any of this has to do with black cats or blue seas or pink hearts, orange stars, yellow moons, green clovers, purple horseshoes, or red balloons.  But I do know that all of the bloggers I follow are like Frosted Lucky Charms to me, including these nominees and several more.  If I get nominated for any more awards there will be some different nominees, but I’m not holding my breath waiting for that.

I’ll let you sleep on it.

 

The Best Time to Sing the Blues

The Best Time To Sing The Blues, 8/19/2016, Deon Mumple

The best time to sing the blues
Is after the storm,
Picking up the pieces
Of a life that’s torn.
We all get ’em sometime.
We all feel the flood;
Feel like we’re drowning,
Water and blood.

And ain’t nothin, nothin I can do,
But feel blue

The best time to sing the blues
Is when you’re away,
I miss your heartbeat and your eyes,
The funny things you say.
Ain’t no storm like lonely,
Tears my soul apart.
I___ need you baby,
Please, come heal my heart.

No one, no one, no one I want, but you.
I feel blue.

The storm is raging out there.  The waters rise.
None of it matters, let me look in your eyes.

The best time to sing the blues
Is when I feel blue
I don’t want you to sing them with me
I just want you, to
Stay. right. here__. with me, baby
Till the storm has passed,
You’re all I need to get through.
I need our love to last.

But right now, I know, ain’t nothin, I can do,
But feel blue.

Notes:
Dear Readers,

I’m watching the flood in Louisiana, saw the flooding in Texas, and it has me thinking about the disparity of politics, the despair of the citizens, and praying.  Sure, it wasn’t as drastic as a hurricane, but people are handling this in an entirely different way than they did and it’s the same issue- flood water and death and hunger.  Last time there were fingers of blame, last time there was a demon who didn’t care about the people, and this time I don’t see it, and it isn’t balanced.

It got me in the mood to sing the blues, and this song is what came out of my head.  I’m hoping my emotional storm has passed, for this season.  And I hope, when your storms are raging, you know I’m here for you.

DM

If the Standards Were Mine to Set

I sometimes wish I were the one setting the standards for life.  Wouldn’t it be fun to be God?  Well, maybe not.  There’s a lot of shit I’d just end people for.  But where would Such a One draw the lines?  Plus, I’m too easily distracted.  Love would be allowed.  Even encouraged.  Helpfulness.  Friendship.  I don’t think I’d command anyone to love me, or care too much about my name.  I think it would be nice if you loved me, but I think I’d understand if for some reason you didn’t.  But if my name expresses and implies my character and I’m right and you’re *saying* I’m wrong, or saying other bad things about me, well, um, fuck you and your name too.  Guess that settles that.

If I could, I’d dole out a little bit more karma on mean people than our current Omnipotent One seems to distribute.  But then, there are my own sins I don’t want karma for.  There would definitely be a score card, and again, where would Such a One draw those lines?  I think, just to scare people straight, there would be face to face meetings with really bad records.  With a warning or two:  “Friend, you really need to stop doing those bad things, and make what you’ve already done wrong, right.  Or I’m done with you, and you really don’t want that.  Really.”  If I HAD to let shit happen to people, I’d arrange a conference with them too, to apologize and show the best things to do to help them fix whatever was allowed.  Bring a note pad.

I’d play with time, too, if time were my bitch.  Murderers would be backtracked to the moment, their personal point of no return from the choice, and ended.  Rapists would be rendered incapable, right before they started, but after they committed themselves to it.  And teleported to a remote place to think about that and then find their way back to civilization, if they survived.  Mount Everest springs to mind.  Death Valley.  And no one would be able to tell anything to anyone about the incident, except that people should never try that because it’s bad.  I think I’d even help if they were desperate enough to ask me to.  Because no one should be assaulted.  Free will is fine, until someone abuses it to abuse someone else.  Child abusers, I think I’d take them apart a piece at a time, and let them live

,

I’d play with resources too, and make enough to go around so no one went hungry.  And those power-crazed despots and dictators?  Nope.  Share, or get off my planet.  In fact, you can help with distribution if you’re going to start acting like an ass about hoarding shit.  Executives?  Everyone gets a fair share, or you get nothing.  Lazy?  You get nothing.  Cheat?  You lose the advantage you pressed and take a step back.  I’d have to be God, just to keep up with the accounting.

I’d play with health, so there’d be no room for sickness on my planet.  No tooth decay either, because that just sucks.  If you’re a dentist, I’m sorry but I’d end your profession, and the doctors too.  Sure, you get to die of old age, or of my just judgement, or possibly your own natural consequences from being stupid.  But diseases can fuck off.  No more physical illness, no more mental illness.

No more poisonous snakes or spiders ever biting people.  I think I’d boost the average intelligence so no more “hey, y’all, watch this!” episodes.  Sorry, AFV and youtube.

Humans?  I’d make the design a little easier to follow and a little harder to get around.  I’d make being normal so much easier.  Bullies get a backtrack too, and a therapy audience to settle that.  And friends, distant friends, would be able to travel where their friends are to visit, talk, hug, and enjoy each other face to face.

I’m busy hiding in my bunker right now, but picture me right where you are, distributing the best hugs anyone has ever had, and then picture me going away because I like my bunker.  I don’t really want to be God.  Imagine creating something and watching that something become a dickhead that hates you.  Like certain teenagers.  My kids haven’t had an episode in a while, I should probably brace myself for the next shitstorm.

That job would be way too much work.  I don’t want it.  I bet people would, even if they knew the consequences, still be selfish, hateful dickheads.  And they would still believe in their hearts that they are “good people.”  I’m probably one in 7,445,000,000 that knows he isn’t.  Anyone who wants what they want as strongly as I do, and has as much rage about not having any control over that, must have something wrong with them.  Plus, I have episodes of being a real jerk.  Honest.

Still, it’d be fun to fix food allergies and end sicknesses and world hunger, and tighten mental health screws and stop people-abusers.  If I did that much, I bet I wouldn’t be needed so much.  Maybe that’s why God lets it run to shit so much.  He likes us to know we need Him.  Well I know I need God, but will He do anything about why I need Him here on earth, or wait until 4 days after I’m dead (like Lazarus)?  And, as much as people need Him, I think the stupid requests would get on my nerves after a while.  Because I still want to win the lottery, so I have more power to fix things and help people here on earth, first for me and my family, and then for other unsuspecting people.  Surprise! You’re now debt free and you have that new car you needed, and while I’m anonymously sending cash, here’s a little extra just for fun.

Hmm.  If I had to pick, I don’t know if it’d be just quiet healing, or infinite cash and resources.  I’d like both powers.  I wonder if I’d be a jerk less often if I had more control.

Probably not.  I’m only human.

The Devil’s Skill

This:

is the supremely talented Mr. Perlman.  I can actually pick up and play a violin, but I want to learn to play violin like that.  The Tartini piece starts out easily enough, but then quickly shows its’ true colors, hence the nickname “The Devil’s Trill.”  Perlman apparently keeps this piece and others of similar skill level in his proverbial back pocket, to be ready for an encore.  I can play things that are medium skill, and with practice probably more difficult pieces, but not THAT difficult.

Perlman “just” knows them from memory, the result of playing violin since he was very young.  And he plays them, “just” like that  I may be too old to master these techniques, whenever I can finally buy or acquire a violin.  Or, if I have five or six or more hours a day to practice, maybe I can.  Who am I kidding?  I already know I don’t have the discipline for that.

Here’s the other thing:  I want to write like that.  I want to write so well, so fearlessly, so fiercely, as to be irresistible to my audience.  I want to be a rock star writer (and string player).

I know a few things about myself, though, that may prove to derail those aspirations, both for violin and writing:
1. I don’t want to sell my soul to the devil.
2. I’m not supremely talented like that.
3. I don’t have all day to work at the craft.
4. I don’t know people who are willing to be my patrons.  I really need patrons, almost as much as I need minions.
5. I don’t have name recognition to just sit in on the symphony and play, or just demand cash for my writing, so I’d have to audition, or do the self-publicity.  What a  pain in the ass to have to people like THAT.  I just want to play.  I just want to write.  Maybe a minion can be an agent and do all the peopling for me.  Except they’d have to work for free until I’m established and making enough to pay them decently.  And decently I would, really.  Because who wants to work for a hack for no pay?
6. I don’t want a gold fiddle, Charlie Daniels.  Or Satan.  Or whoever.  I’d sell that and buy a good one.  But I wouldn’t turn down a violin, if I can ever win the drawings, whenever someone is giving one away.  Or, maybe I can win $7K in the lottery (because I’d have to pay taxes on the $5K violin after I paid taxes on the $7K prize.  Fuck, who am I kidding?  That money would already be spent before I could dream of a violin.  I’ve got bills and debts, and everybody wants a piece before I can grow anything.

I know some people who write almost that good, and I have to wonder if they’ve sold their souls to the devil to get that good.  I’m sure Perlman hasn’t sold his soul to the devil. Well, pretty sure.

I have no respect for those writers who tell us they know the story because they heard it, and they’re writing as a public service, and then we find out they read it somewhere and plagiarized the shit out of whichever sucker writer hadn’t caught them yet, for profit.  Further, I have no respect for speech makers who tell us all they know what’s best, or they know the story, and we read their life’s story and it’s full of lies and scandals (that, I’m told, is called “politics”) and screwing everyone out of whatever they could (that, I’m told, is called “good business.”  Unless you’re the person who got screwed.)  Write your own shit, writers.  If it’s any good maybe you’ll make some money.  The evidence of my skill level may be in its’ profitability, which doesn’t look too promising at present.  And, speech makers, before you tell us how to live, or who to believe in, better make it a bit more believable.  The old saying is “practice what you preach.”

It’s hard to follow a preacher who gets caught in a sin, and it should be hard to follow a politician who gets caught in scandals, cover-ups, and a hidden-body count.  Not that I’m accusing anyone.  I have no smoking gun for proof.  These people are better at hiding than they were when Jimmy Hoffa was buried under Yankee Stadium, in the concrete under the foundation. Conspiracy theory?  Moi?  No way. I have no proof, and I’m not going to dig that up.  Plus, there’s only a thin veil between the audience and my sin, so there’s that.  Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!  Damn it, Toto, fuck off!!

But it’s easy to follow a musician, or a favorite band, or a blogger.  What I don’t understand is the popularity contests.  If I attract a million followers I still won’t understand.  I just wonder, because people are so afraid to leave any comments, if anyone actually reads it or if they just click delete and move on with more important things in their lives.  Plus, for some reason people get all polarized about music- I HATE THAT!  I LOVE THAT.  I don’t even want to know the character of the musicians, because if they do something I don’t appreciate, I don’t want to not like their music because I know they’re ass holes.  I just want to like the music.  Plot spoilers, don’t even tell me.

This is no conspiracy, it’s a fact:  People play games with numbers (see also, Sudoku, and linear algebra and statistics if you’re a real masochist.)  Mum says, “figures don’t lie, but liars figure.”  She means, you can say whatever bullshit you want with numbers and con people. For example:  “We’ve collected actual data for the last two or three hundred years.  And based on this relatively microscopic sampling of data, the world is going to end.  How do we know this?  Because through the magic of math and statistical trendline analysis that none of you can possibly understand, we’ve retroconfabulated the data from the past million years.  How can you prevent it?  You can’t, and the end is nearer unless you buy our new experimental technology and continuously invest in future developments!” to put our children through college and allow us to retire comfortably.  Damn, I wish I was that convincing with starting a rumor.  And that profitable.  It’s almost as bad as these preachers telling us the end is near.

The end is near people, but it’s coming in a way no one really believes any more.  People are busy following the latest fads so they don’t think the world is ending any more.  We think science is our savior, and the liars are making bank on that.  I won’t follow anyone who tells me a date for the end, because no one gets a Moses-style face to face with God, and Jesus didn’t even tell us.  He said, “no one knows,” so I don’t trust anyone who says they know.  Similarly I don’t trust anyone who says they know about how to run the country and fix the global economy.  Which is to say I don’t put any faith in the religion of politics either.  These people are not your saviour.  They’re not qualified.

I suspect some of the politicians and preache…um, “scientists” may have sold their souls to the devil.  Or to the big money organizations.  Look at the polls and who the front-runners are.  Look at how quickly scientific theories get embraced as scientific fact, without demonstrating any real proof.  Both these groups are doing what they’ll get paid to do:  sell the company line.   A certain politician who’s not in the running any more called out another politician for having her hand in the wallets of a certain large bank type organization.  It got ignored.  And now recently the same large bank type organization is sending one of their people to sell us the other certain front-runner.  Or to sell him out, if the big money wants politician A to win over politician B.  If you follow the money trail, they’re supporting both of our beloved two-party system candidates.  Which should tell you they’re the same, it makes no difference who you vote for.  I’m not even convinced it matters, unless you have a lot of it, who or what you invest it in.  It’s your money, it’s your gamble, so good luck.

I don’t think science or medicine or technology or religion will save us.  Shit’s gonna go down no matter what we do.  (“Oh, [me] of little faith.”)  There’s a huge movement to go retro- live small, alternative therapies, tiny houses, electric cars, and the funniest thing about that to me is they spring up from their moms and dads and grandparents who were hippies back in the 1960s, with the same theories about humanity.  So it’s nothing new.  When Noah was preaching he advised people to turn back to God, that old hippie.  “There is nothing new under the sun.”

But if a few small investors want to give it a go, I know there are a few therapies I can help with.  Trust me, they’re my specialties.  All I need is enough money to buy a violin and I can be a music therapist, and enough money to pay my bills, put my kids through college and retire comfortably, and I can be a mood therapist. My mood therapies are very cathartic:  I do alternating and sometimes blended sessions of rage and laughter therapy.  It’s healthy to vent, in constructive ways, and it’s also extremely healthy to laugh.  Or, if you’re a corporation looking for someone to sponsor, I can do bullshit.  I can prove it:  I wrote THIS.

So, who’s buying?

No, Satan, I’m NOT selling my soul.  Even if you would give me a solid gold violin.  Fuck off.

More, Please!

Look here, Lisa A does her level best to encourage people who are involved with other people to maintain a level of romance.  I think that’s healthy.

Yesterday I took the day off from work and encouraged Mrs. M to do the same.  She did, which was a pleasant surprise, and we had a lovely day.

For all of you with concerns about my relationship with Mrs. M, relax.  A bit.  She sometimes frustrates me, the source of poetry and rants.  We’re fine.

I cooked breakfast after the kids were on the bus, not too shabby.  We had French toast with maple syrup, pork sausages, and pretty decent coffee.  Normally I would leave for work without breakfast after waking up too early for any human, and any coffee is flavorless and bitter.  What did we do on our day off?  We cleaned for a while.  Sure.  But it was extras we don’t normally get to, and we were working together on it, so that was nice.

After cleaning and I washed up the breakfast dishes, we did… other things.  Which was nice.  A day without kids and we spent the time cleaning?  I wish I had minions for that; there would be more time for those other things.  You know. …accruing interest…  reinvesting dividends…  combining our resources …discussing business mergers   …striving for synergy, etc.  Our children don’t minion well, being inferior specimens as minions.  They’re too busy with homework and social things and Pokemon Go.  But I dread when they move out, for their sakes, because I THINK the skill set may not be quite ready to test, although we are trying to instill it.  At least some failures in life take a while to manifest.  By then, they’ll call for my recipe for whatever or how the fuck did you clean up baby puke and magic marker on the walls, and I’ll tell them I found it online and then fixed it, because I don’t leave recipes alone.  And good luck with the puke.

Then we went for a walk in a nearby town square.  Imagine that, Deon left the safety of the bunker and peopled.  Well not much.  There was the waitress at the little hole-in-the-wall place Mrs M wanted to go to.  And before tip, our $12 sandwich that we split came to $20, so that.  The extra onion rings, the tea, and before you blinked, $20.

It was raining and Mrs. M was lovely as ever.  I held her umbrella and the doors, because 1, gallantry is old fashioned and 2, so am I.  And 3, she likes it that way.  And 4, she was using both hands for Pokemon Go (Figure), so I had to hold the umbrella.  But she wanted to go to a local shop that was 2 blocks away and I thought we ought to walk.  So instead of holding my hand, because I’m old fashioned like that, she held her phone.  She said she caught a few.  And then she and some random strange adult male-ian prattled on, in that alien language, about the game.  In the rain.  I heard words like “bait,” “trap,” “hatch,” “pokay stop” and “lure.”  (wtf?)  And I kidded awkwardly about the real live praying mantis I had seen that morning while walking, and the real food we just ate, and he joked skillfully back that there will be an app for that reality thing soon.  I am too old for that Poke-shit.  And there are so many more practical investments of time when I have energy.  She idled around a shop or three and then time got away from us and the kids’ buses had already delivered our minions from their educational experiences for the day, so we headed back home to my sighs of relief.

I’m glad we went walking.  In spite of my wish that I owned a treadmill, in spite of the rain, we need to go places and do things in spite of my wish to be a recluse.  It keeps the relationship fresh, and it reminds me how to people, even if it’s awkward.  Maybe I bluff well enough.  She needs to talk words, and relate, and feel feelings and such, I’ll leave that up to her as much as possible.  She peoples so much more naturally than I can.  Even at the doctor the other day.  The doctor alerted me that I’ve gained two more pounds.  Shit.  I need to diet and exercise.  If my phone worked I might Pokemon Go.  But I’m glad it doesn’t.

I guess I need to strategize about how to get my wife to not have to work on the same days I pick to not work, if I want more of that.  And I do want more of that.  Sadly, there was no serenade and there were no candles, and there was no poetry or song.  There wasn’t enough time, plus the kids would have pretended to be grossed out.  But dinner was lovely, a good end to a good day.  I need a few more days to do the things I didn’t get to.  More, please!

Thanks for checking in on me, I’ll be fine until the next trigger.
Shit.  (That’s a joke people, it’s Roy Rogers’ horse named Trigger, he snuck up on me.  And he’s dead, so that was a feat.  And I’m too young to know about Roy and Trigger.  I blame mum.  Damned singing cowboy sounded like a horse to me.)

Hope you’re all having a great day.  I had a good one yesterday, so everyone can say a prayer of thanks.  And I’m afraid mine are going back to normal now; I’ll let you know.  It’s a good thing my day off happened on a day when I had enery.  If I had a Trigger, I’d need more cash but I’d be forced to get out more.   If I had a Trigger, I’d want it to look like Rapidash.  Because Triggers seem pretty plain.

I wonder if Pokemon Go works on flaming horseback.