There was a desktop orphan lurking from a day or so back. It is either too terrible or too great for my typical vanity of posting and apologizing. What disturbs me most about it, though, is how far it is removed from my day to day. This month, calendar and chronological, has been fraught with anxiety, even the panic attacks I don’t believe in have returned. I know precisely how many reasonable steps it takes to cross the uncluttered floors of this room.
I’ve gotten out of the practice of directness. In a large part to protect the privacy of my GF and she consumes much of the geography of my thoughts. It is the purpose of a journal, online or otherwise, to chronicle ones thoughts, feelings and stuff that falls into other categories. I’ve never quite used a journal after that particular tradition, but part of being unconventional is a flexibility that allows for tradition when — I don’t know when, but it allows for it.
I’m afraid I can’t remember how. Yet of all my journals throughout the years, this one is the least radical. Unlike my paper journals from the road I don’t doodle large busted Vikings in the margin or rough sketches of mountain ranges, prairies land, odd arroyo’s and mesas rising from the desert like Easter Island heads. Unlike previous digital journals I don’t write explicit tales of wicked frivolity, though, perhaps that’s because wicked frivolity is distant from this place and her author.
Tales of the GF and my antics would be less frivolous and perhaps more romantic than the goofy shit I detailed with Sunny in the early days of OD and the marriage. That was not meant to be wistful. I’m in a grown up and precious relationship, more reason to chronicle, if not here than privately, as it is foreign to me in so many ways. Honestly the old tales were for entertainment and Sunny, an exhibitionist, liked being painted any color but invisible. She was a bit of a roller coaster, perhaps you’ll get in line again but not more than once, the route never changes.
Shit. It’s a defense to write about Sunny. She has little bearing on where I am or who I am.
I was given the name of a practitioner of something called Neuro Feedback. After a bit of online research I think I’ll pass, though I’d like to see it in action I don’t want a piece of the action. In short, oversimplified, they hook you up to an EEG map patterns and try to reward patterns that are positive. It’s a bit of a hit and miss and seems flawed in ways I can describe and ways I can’t. I’m thinking in a test with a control group, a group with full force and a group with placebo rewards the success rate over the placebo group success is likely marginal. A great deal depends on disclosure too. In my most objective opinion it seems like a waste of my time, energy and money, though I think it’s not entirely wrong for some people. I’m always fascinated with the success rate of placebos.
The next few days are too be hot and humid with possible thunder storms. The combination of things that have me so skittish, which actually might involve brain patterns, have me dreading the weather. I don’t often dread things that haven’t occurred, especially things that might not occur in the manner predicted. The news of Bernie Sanders these past few days is a good example of why I don’t react to things that that haven’t occurred or don’t occur in the manner expected.
I haven’t read much, as far as I know I’m the first person to say this out-loud and it’s unpopular; Bernie was never going to take the primaries and his insistence to continue through to the DC primaries lacks dignity and grace and solidarity. I’m sure I’m not the first person to say that, I just haven’t been following that close and the things I have followed are much of a muchness. The people that like him like him. Unlike Trump and Clinton there aren’t many smears against his character, well, again, that I’ve come across. That’s a pretty thin thread — he’s not disliked. Also, it’s not a surprise at all, it’s been predicted from the get go that Clinton would win the primaries.
Again, a distraction, another way of not typing about the hows, whys and whatnots of wherefore not knowing the fuck my mirth got off to. But it got. I had this weird scheduling conflict with my daughters visit. A mistake of timing. It will work out though. Getting out of town will be good for me. I will still have some time to spend with her. My son got a promotion at work. I love my children, I’ve been distant. It’s difficult to juggle two or three of your lifelines, I find it’s impossible for me to juggle how ever many I’ve had. This one now has too much quiet desperation. I fucking hate quiet desperation.
I have an optometrist appointment next week. In Oregon they wanted to see me every two years. I thought that was a scam. Here they insist on new exams and glasses yearly. I need new glasses, but put these guys off for a few months, and if I liked my current glasses I’d put them off for years or change optometrists. I think it’s bullshit. I also think I have new problems with my eyes, but not ones that will be corrected by new glasses.
I was ignoring the optometrists phone messages. I stumbled into a satellite office of theirs in the building where the steroid injectors work. The office was so appealing, clean, displays broad on polished wood that I made an appointment live and in person of my own volition. The other office, the main one, is a bit like a stockyard; patients are herded by the dozens into various areas for the eye doctor and then converge in the main hall to look cluttered displays of frames. There are more checkout counters than a wall mart. I picture optometrists like libraries. The office I’m going to is like that, the main office, no, a stockyard full of doomed blind moo-cows and moon calves.
Another thousand words that say nothing with little disclosure. Be nice to someone today.
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