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Captain Funkadelic

Funky. Yep, funky. I feel funky in various meanings of the word. I have felt them all as of late. I think I might be Captain Funkadelic. Its a bitter sweet nickname, but I am learning to embrace it. I am looking to purchase the Technicolor Dreamcoat that Cosmo Kramer wore in Seinfeld. I cannot decide if I will do a fedora or a top hat.

Funky can mean morose. I had a week or so that I was certainly down and out. I was truly in a funk. I really don’t know why. There were many things going on. I felt ignored by those of whom I have affection. I have felt that often in the last few years. I have been belittled and tormented. I have been pushed away or hidden from. I have had a broken heart. I have mended and healed. However, from time to time I feel the pain afresh. There wasn’t anything overt, just messages dropped or phraseology. It was subtle. It was pervasive. it draped me in a Funk. 

Funky can mean an odd smell. Not a stink or a stench, but an odd odor. Perhaps, moldy, but certainly funky. I had stopped growing. I had stagnated. I had staled out. As I became a still pond of goo, the funk began. It didn’t stink, and it wasn’t bad enough to call it a stench. It was just a funky existence.

My favorite thought of funky is the best. It is Captain Funkadelic. It is the 70s elevated shoes, a cane, and a technicolor Dreamcoat. It is that internal jig that happens when there is a funky beat from a great song in your heart. It is that moment in time that the song, Renegade speeds up. It is that jive talking, fast thinking. It is the emotional honesty. It is the heart felt joy. It is delight in life, regardless of circumstances. Yep, I have been there. Intermittently with the smell and the morose, there are those times when deep inside my ass is shaking and my heart is thumping.

Trudge on, Funk Brother.

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Posted by on November 10, 2017 in journey

 

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but, I have the suit

There are times I have been accused of being able to see into another persons soul. Ive had people turn away from my gaze feeling it is too intense. I have been told I am an empath or super intuitive. I have had people tell me that I get them. I was told that I understand and have great insight..

So, how come with all of that in my ego bonnet, I thought I might be ready to do relationship better. I was sure I was armed with a heart and mind that could navigate connection. I carried my super powers with me and set off to find me a connection.

I have no idea how to use those super powers. I feel a little bit like The Great American Hero. I have this great suit and some really cool powers and no idea how to use them. In that 70s TV show, he tries to fly and crashes frequently and each show he learns a new thing the suit can do for him. He learns and tries and falters. 

I am that guy. I tra la la’d into the land of dating, wearing this new suit that had the capacity to be wonderful. I tried to fly and be mindful and open and crash landed. I flew crooked and waved my arms in a comical fashion. All the great tools I had and I couldn’t figure out how to use them in relationship. I tried again and again and each time, I learned new things but they never added up to much. The suit and powers never made me a super hero. No matter how much I wanted to be.

After crash after crash and tending to my wounds and bruised heart, I rested. I evaluated the suit and the tools and the powers. As I counted them and sorted and regarded, I came to realize that none of them were really me. I was trying to love from a place of façade. I was trying to fake and bluster into love. I had nothing but being honest. I had to be emotionally honest with myself before I could be with anyone else. I had to be me. 

I’m going to miss that suit, stretchy pants rule.

 
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Posted by on November 8, 2017 in journey, life

 

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dating is a disease be nice to catch a cold

I think I am a social leper. I’m not sure when I caught it, but I have the dating plague. I think I might have caught a virus from an internet dating site. I think I have a social disease from the lack of social interaction. I think I have broken heart disease, a spiritual malady, a brain illness. I don’t feel bad, other than lonely. I have no fever, not even a fever that needs more cowbell. Its cold inside.

Parts of my heart and soul have fallen away. I feel unwhole, like part of me is missing. I fear it wont ever come back. The leprosy has taken pieces of my heart flesh, leaving it disfigured. It is an appearance that requires getting used to. Many have looked upon it and cringed, horrified at its vulnerability.

While dating, I have become weak legged and quiet. I fear I will stumble and fall. Many point at me and titter. I am awkward and unsure. I am eager but unknowing. I don’t boast of accomplishments or strut around swinging my balls. I seek that quiet connection, I seek communication. I seek the real and whole, not the pretend and diseased. The plague has made me weak and the world seeks a hero.

Internet dating is just plan odd. It is fraught with problems, but sometimes is the only answer. It might be because it is so crowded, but the virus of insincerity has spread. The dishonesty, the desire for the fast food diet of romance, the myalgia of defeat has corroded the fabric of trying to cyber meet.

My heart is broken. And I know the only way to heal is from the inside out. First loving myself for the disfigured, weak, superficial thoughts I have.

 
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Posted by on November 5, 2017 in journey

 

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dating bites

Thinking about dating. I have dated in the past several years. I dated around for awhile and frankly had the goal of dating as many people as possible. Immediately after the divorce, all I cared about was not feeling empty anymore. I had spent time feeling like a desert on the inside. It was a wasteland in there. I had been there before. I tried to drown it with alcohol for decades. It was as if I was trying to pour an oasis into my heart and soul. IT left me more thirsty and more desolate than before. Grace reached down and led me to an actual life. I began to see the sprouts of life and feel the cool breeze. I felt the summer rain on my face. It was difficult to see, I imagine. IT was watching change. As I emerged from the cocoon, I imagine it was difficult to not rush it and also to not fear it. I began to feel the desert encroach on me again. IT was an expectation to be parched. I tried. I had tasted the rain of life and couldn’t do thirst again. That longing and lack of directional honesty led to my divorce. However, if I am going to mess up, I do it with gusto and flourish. I lost my ability to practice, my friends, family, kids, church, and self concept. I was in a whole new desert. Former friends reveled in the idea that I was miserable. They spoke awful things to me. I heard the hearts of my kids break and felt the smelt bellow from their mouths. My soul was pierced as my friend and pastor shoved me away with petty anger. There was no love in the professed Christians I had surrounded myself with.

All that to say, when I was going through the divorce and horrors associated, I needed to feel again. I was looking for a life saver in an ocean of pain. I met some woman looking for the same thing. We clung to each other for warmth and safety. But when push came to shove, Id be released to the depths like Leonardo DeCaprio in the Titanic. It was short lived, and not fulfilling. I don’t regret it and learned incredible lessons. I learned that I didn’t crave the physical intimacy near as much as I thought. I wanted more. I wanted emotional intimacy.

I dated a few women that I really thought I loved. That’s not true, I loved. I felt the bond and closeness. We shared struggles and victories. I laughed again. I felt alive. I felt loved back. IT was such a welcome relief to know that I could be loved despite being a long resident of the desert. I began to crave the sympathetic ear. I hid and changed myself so that I could still feel loved. I had no understanding of how to have a mutual relationship. I became a victim. I needed to be told how to feel, how to love, and what to say. I was afraid of being alone, so I did everything to not be, firmly securing myself in the desert once again. I craved intellectual intimacy.

I dated a few smart choices and a few calculated poor choices. I was trying to find someone that I could discuss things with. I wanted someone who understood my journey. IT was a fools errand. The reality is that no amount of knowledge ever brings full understanding of another individual. As I was trying to understand, I was manipulated and cajoled. It cost me a pricey education to learn that the brain cant love.

I craved spiritual intimacy. I tried to date people touting different spiritualities. I was told that I was an answer to prayers and that the Universe shined on us. The Universe must be fickle, it fell short. Without heart and mind, a spiritual connection is hollow.

I want complete intimacy. I want journey. I want to be cherished, loved, treasured, respected, honored, questioned, delighted. And I want to cherish, love, treasure, respect, honor, question, and delight. I want the good and bad. I want the complete package. From what I can tell, many proclaim they want the same thing, but run away when it becomes real. I have so much to offer, so much to give. I want to grow with someone, three journeys: theirs, mine, and ours, all nurtured.

I ache.

 
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Posted by on November 5, 2017 in divorce, journey

 

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if it smells like a fairy tale, its poop

MY oldest daughter was called “Chicken” as a term of endearment from my ex-wife. hen she was a new born, she would wind up and cry when she was hungry.  She was very small and looked a lot like the bird in “Are you my mother”.  I don’t really understand the logic of how it became “Chicken,” but it did.  She now goes by “Monkey.”

I was thinking about that book recently. I realized that I am that bird. Not because I get hungry and wail an unhappy tune, but because I didn’t know how to form relationships. I still don’t, but I am learning.  It isn’t important how I missed the message of relationship as a child, but I did. There was just something about it all that baffled me. I wasn’t clear on how to express my needs or get the attention I desired.  I fell into the habit of crying and stealing. I wasn’t really a bad kid, but did seem to get caught a lot. I wasn’t very good at being bad. However, it did help me get attention. As I noticed that yelling, crying, and general mayhem wasn’t working for me, I ventured out of the nest. I also fell to the ground with a thump.  I didn’t know how to navigate this big world and wanted someone to care for me and help me.

I came up to the cow in the pasture, asking if it was my mother. In my story, this was girls. I wanted girls to like me. I tried to be funny. I had to, I wasn’t very athletic. I tried to be nice, because I was also conflict avoidant. I tried to be smart, which didn’t work because I was also a last student. I flirted and tried to get attention. Occasionally, I would have success. I could do all the right things and try and be the perfect boyfriend.  I developed the strange tendency to fall in love very quickly.  By the end of my adolescence, I could fall in love, run a life scenario, be divorced and depressed by the time I got back from the bathroom. I wanted the fairy tale. I wanted to be the Prince Charming. I wanted to freeze frame my life whenever it seemed perfect. But it was celluloid madness. In fairy tales and romantic comedy (adult fairy tails with brief nudity), the reality of life never seems to sneak in. The cow was not my mother.

I went to the steam shovel next. The steam shovel was alcohol. IT actually made me feel better for a short period of time. When I drank, I was 6 inches taller, gorgeous, and brilliant. It told me that I was wonderful and funny. It also said I was sexy and smart. I held hands with this pseudo-mom for a long time.

When I left the steam shovel behind, the cow reappeared. It told me that it was my mom after all. That in order to know if I was alright, I needed to have others, and women in particular, tell me I was ok. I sought it in my marriage first. It was exhausting for her, and she was unable to rebuild me. It was like having 5 million dollars to rebuild the 6 million dollar man. I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know how to really love. I had been putting on a happy face and trying to do it right for a lifetime. The cow bit.

I would like to say that I had the same happy ending as the bird. I didn’t get to find my mother in the physical sense. I did hear her voice telling me that I did learn how to love, I just don’t recognize it. My fear gets in the way. My low self regard got in the way.  My mom said I should stop yelling and crying and listen to my heart.

My head is confused with the songs and movies of the 80’s. I imagine that love is possessive and forever and grand gestures. I want to think that I will believe that every little thing is magic, and we will live happily ever after just like we are in this moment, and that all I have to do is hold a boom box outside her house before my kick boxing lesson.

IT wasn’t that I didn’t learn to love. IT was I didn’t learn to love myself first.

 
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Posted by on August 1, 2015 in journey, life

 

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Boris, Natasha– you un-rock

I needed to warn you about my last post. You see, apparently when you acknowledge the swirling spectors around you, it is the same as welcoming them in. Let me tell you how I discovered this. I decided to go on a bike ride after that post. I love to ride and consider it a meditation. I delight in the fatigue of my muscles, the pounding of my heart and the quickening of my breathing. I loaded up my bike and headed to the trailhead.  I am listening to a CD describing Buddhist meditation and mindfulness. The author spoke of recognizing your breathing. I had already been thinking how breath and spirit come from the same word, Ruah, which means wind. I thought of the swirling wind around me and saw it as breath. The exercise was to breath in naming a loved one and breath out asking for peace for them. I started with the name foremost on my mind, my ex girlfriend. I went through names, acknowledging them, their peace, and my own emotion.

Do you remember the Rocky and Bullwinkle show? In with the bad air, out with the good? Natasha and Boris didn’t really have it backwards as the voice over suggested. The opposite is obviously the goal, but it doesn’t always happen like that. The deep breath we take at pivotal moments in our life can cause two different reactions. It can suck in the distasteful and painful or it can begin the healing. The spirit of memory isn’t good or bad, it is how we react.

As I rode my bike, I pedaled as hard as I could. It is very hot here today. I was tired and sweaty. I am also afraid of snakes and had my attention on the brush, hoping I wouldn’t get bit. That isn’t completely true, I spent some time thinking about what I would do if I got bit. I imagined telling those in my life that I loved them. I imagined the hospital. I even imagined that the shock of me being near death would awaken the love from my daughters and ex-girlfriend. Part of me wanted it to happen just so I could be reunited with them. As you can tell, my mind wonders quite a bit when I ride. My breath quickened, heart pounded, and body sweat. I imagined the wind moving in and through me. I have been consumed with memories and regrets as of late. I am practicing acknowledging them and letting them go. I think that sometimes we let the ghosts in and then try and wrestle them or forcibly kick them out. It remind me of an internal greased pig capture. You cant hold on to it and it just runs faster as you chase it. When you are exhausted, you have spent all your energy and time and resources chasing the uncaptureable. I was imagining breathing in the spector and then letting it flow out. The problem in my ever-wondering mind, was that I thought since I was going so fast, breathing so hard, that I was catching up with my expelled breath. Self torment seems to be a hobby of mine.

I breath in and breath out. I try not to label the memories as good or bad. They just are. I let them in and let them out. Sometimes I imagine that I am Boris and Natasha, self sabotaging my breathing. I remind myself to just breath. I opened myself to the wind, and the wind infused. Not sure I was prepared for this. Breath  Sure hope this works.

 

 
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Posted by on June 26, 2015 in journey

 

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so, how long you been dead

I was the dead person the little boy saw. It was a long day, being dead and all. I wasn’t certain that I was dead at first. That made for some awkward moments. You may not know this, but when you are dead the living are not so polite to you. Its really criminal. I have started a petition for the equitable treatment for the living impaired, but that’s a different blog. My first encounter with this was with my ex-wife. Apparently, once you are among the soul less individuals, treating people as people is no longer required. The first step to separate yourself from the recently dead is to send an email to everyone you have ever had contact with. What you need to do is taunt the newly dead and point out all the things that have strangled the life out of the departed. IT is like a game. If you overshoot the victim role, you end up squarely in the perpetrator role. Its the balance beam of subterfuge. The next step is to turn to the family. This is a much more delicate operation. There is more history with the relatives. They understand that the loved one was once living and , in the living, had some very alive moments and some near dead moments. The way to circumnavigate this is to isolate them. You make sure there is no contact with the dead. Changing the locks and having the loved ones refer to the dead by a foreign name helps. Don’t worry about your own soul or about being honest, the dead aren’t welcome in courts and if you slid yourself into the victim role, the departed are now the perpetrator. Make sure that you are caustic and over dramatic each time you interact with the dead. You must keep up appearances at all waking moments.

The second experience was with a woman I dated.  I still had not recognized I was dead and was actually feeling much better.  Maybe I was only mostly dead. I enjoyed a new living with her. I loved very deeply. We played. We laughed. We cried. It was like nothing I had ever experienced in my former life. It scared the living shit out of me. A few months into the relationship, I started to feel my spector self. I recognized my death through counseling and some new friends I had made. The stink of death had not completely left me. I wanted to address it, but it is overwhelming. The spector weaved in and out of my new life. The taunts and humiliation of the past weaved through my being. I tried to talk about it, to address it. The living don’t want to hear from the dead. She pulled away and I panicked. I tried to re-engage in life and living. I feared the return of death. I died all over again. I didn’t like being dead, but I had not figured out how to be alive completely. I have only now recognized my re-death and progressed to live again. However, I am dead to her.

The fascinating thing I learned while dead is that our memories and unresolved traumas stay as ghosts. They are like the wind. The swirl around the living, blocking them from connection with the other living. IF the dark memories, traumas, and insecurities aren’t dealt with, they grow and multiply. The swirling becomes violent. They are isolated from the next step, the light of the world. The living cant see them. They grow slowly enough that the choking is subtle. You grow accustomed to it. The living wonder through a half existence in the midst of a swirl, a dermish. At variable intervals, part of the swirl dives into the corporeal. The ephereal infuses the body and mind. It taints and taunts. The dark diminishes the light. It confuses. IT misdirects. For my new life, it cost me love. IT always costs the price of the moment. IT seems real. It seems like a tangible force. IT feels like being hit by a truck. When it leaves the body, the ghost droppings remain. It stinks up the living. It has to be found and cleaned. Sometimes, the recently departed become part of the swirl. The pain and hurt and other emotions that accompany the memories are darker when compared to the light that was present days, months or years before.

Be Still and know I am God. These words to me quiet the swirl. It recognizes that the swirl and the turmoil are inevitable.  Letting the swirl torment you is optional.  Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional. The wind has to be recognized. It has to be addressed. If the pain is too great, too violent, it will be there when the living is able to deal with it. It will infuse eventually, the swirl is constant and unpredictable. Being aware of it, addressing it deliberately, honestly, and compassionately is the key to knowing God.

 
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Posted by on June 26, 2015 in divorce, journey

 

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