The thing about getting the story out is there's too many words. Search . . . over isn't even close to summing up the screenplay. Here's another try:

German landlord yells, woman doctor prescribes Ovum Spermaticus, ten pound boy born in woman's hospital, not named Garp, grows up playing in city streets, reaches the top in grade school, funny guy in high school, gets job in a business office, woos girls, gets married, enchanted by daughter, explores dereliction, moves to the suburbs, honorable mention by Reddy Kilowatt, armistice as a quinquagenarian, migrates to the high desert, soulmerge with God, writes this shit to vent the reason we exist, ???. Still not even close to exfoliating to get to the gist of the story. It's not like the stimuli-saturated world needs another tale of love, is it. The tad is working, the zol is working and I'm guessing around a 10cc average ejection per rendezvous which means the WWII vintage plumbing still delivers the product. Is finding your voice the same as writing sets me free? I'm already free but maybe because I bragged in '94 that I was on the verge of writing the great American novel //barf here// that there's this compulsion to get it out but no muster to get to it with. So I'll tapdance like this for another year or so and no one gets hurt and I get kicks, or Kix or Route 66.

The six word memoir (I went with "In Atlanta, my search was over") forces either humor, lameness or lack of imagination. Sizing up the wisdom out there for the asking leads to that same conclusion: we are fewked. Der Spiegel says "America has long been a country of limitless possibility. But the dream has now become a nightmare for many. The US is now realizing just how fragile its success has become -- and how bitter its reality." What ever happened to 'dem golden slippers? Uh, look down and think about what's around us. The half empty version says, "just when the moisture appears, I hear uhh and feel the jerk". The correctly engineered version says,"rub me right, rub me wrong, just rub me". Seriously, in this life there's always the part where tactile persuasion is desired and then the supplements: against histamines deliver somnolent repair of the required volume so who needs slippers? The chill made indoor devilment obvious today and then there was hail - genuine hail bouncing off the hard surfaces for a typical desert weather spell. I missed Claudette Colbert until prompted during elegant soup slurping but sizing up the hideous fatality (sounds like oldtimers that looms for all of us and confident not yet, makes for a sanguine soiree senior (accents removed to challenge the confused). Remember, Sex is not the answer. Sex is the question. "Yes" is the answer.

The inking is to stay with the politics filter left "ON". The inexplicable point made by last week's election needs no further analysis. These colors don't run, bra straps are so last year. Friday's tightness in the chest was obviously nerves (exactly what is "nerves" anyway?) and I'm staying right here where the buzz is hiding but is contained within these walls. Wowing over pre-West Wing Sorkin brings video pizzazz to late afternoon pacification and the turkey-thru-tax-day season promises to include some sparking shit here. The feeling of drowning vicariously needs constant levelizing. That can't-get-there-from-here futility is asperational auto-asphyxiation, unintentional or not. If the Divine dwells within me as me, the flotation surrounds me as me, too. Nerves as an excuse is just a variation of "getting on ones nerves", and succumbing to that admission is more than a simple buzzkill. As a veteran of harmonic convergence, biorhythyms and crystal blue persuasions I can't justify deflation as a consequence of penis dementia. We wohks too hahd to be flummoxed by moon waves or adhesive tape with no discernable starting edge. It's like Algonquin J. Calhoun never existed if we all can't filter out the baby cries. I fought Bob Loblaw and still do a better besame mucho than any other off-ramp dweller. Anatomy is not an elective and my belief is Johnson & Johnson was always redundant. It's too easy to Ayn-Rand-stamp an outcome where the hero loves his chubbies but facing the 7th decade with phallic hand jive of another perfection as a daily is pretty close to flaunting my perfection. Having it all isn't just a frame of mind - it's the conquest over miasma, Murph. Find that anywhere in the wallpaper and I'll buy you breakfast. Side-by-side.

May I never describe the meaning of life as ineffable. Should I take such a turn, please make sure that I have a bed equipped with a morphine drip and a Microsoft Kinect switch that I can activate with just a twitch. I can't even explain why a committed annual hiatus isn't thoroughly booked two weeks from the check-in, so where's my street cred in describing the most elusive question ever posed? Call me a straw man or a stalking horse or a pompous delusional but I disagree with Doug Adams that it's 42. Call me a paramour but two digits don't make the rain fall or the moon rise like handiwork or a toe curling liaison. The notion that feeling supplied with derivative insight is more important than discovering love without edges is bereft of boyah. I can't chase one more rainbow under the guise of keratotic sublimation as the answer to where it's at than I could to explain why the bodies floating in the Ganges are immortal. After the prom comes an enlightenment that needs maybe 30 some years of probing to reach the compelling point of actualization. Fear not the cost of change as much as the exasperation that the 30 some years could have been compacted to maybe 30 months in reaching the conclusion that without love it's a breadless sandwich. Oh sure there's pita and tortilla but they're substitutes like settling, postpone the inevitable and kid yourself with a virtual backslap. Me? I'm making the kind of difference that only comes with making the summit. Lately, the dreams were groove tubes featuring Frank and Dean and poker tournaments ending with decadent sundaes. The turmoil has been backlashed to the rear docking station, hopefully for good, like under 10k Dow. I'm a second a II and a love child plus a love geezer. That's my attribution - better take it seriously 'cause true IS the truth, so help me and completely thankfully, God

Starting with last night's dreams: Awakened to noise downstairs - went to take a look and saw 5 or 6 young girls, some with glasses and carry on bags trapsing through my living room which was reminiscent of the one in my boyhood home. I asked what they were doing there then asked "who's in charge?" A dark-skinned girl said she was and that she was told to bring the girls here to stay. I woke up but fell right back to sleep and part 2 had me returning from the pharmacy here and being stopped by a woman who knew me asking me to help her with a painting job because her helper had a sore hand. I told her my own place needs painting but if my wife asked me to take care of it, I'd tell her to call a painter. The lady said it was "good money" but she wanted someone who really wanted the job. As I turned to head home, a guy with dark skin yelled from the group mulling around the intersection, reminding me that I had an appointment to be interviewed on Friday morning. I asked him if we could just do the interview now in my back yard and he said OK. As we entered my house, there were three Golden Girls-looking women in my living room whom I knew. I asked "what brought you here and I don't mean what kind of transportation?" They laughed and said "because my wife told them she was sick". I turned and asked my wife, "are you sick?" She said she had a bad stomach but had this bottled remedy that was highly sweetened and needed to be added to green tea which we were out of. I said we had a jug in the refrigerator door but she said she didn't like the taste of it. I introduced the guy to the Golden Girls and asked his name which he replied "Yoohoo". I told the gals he was the guidance counselor to Michael, a boy who would be coming here to be in my care. When I woke up, I felt like I had been tripping but then came around to accepting it was just one of those vivid dreams that happened right as I awakened. So today is the anticipated end of a tedious, intrusive campaign dogshit coupla months. So many telephone calls, so many shitty TV smear spots, so much crap in the mail. We are so-o fewked as a people and just so complacent that this home invasion is part of the deal. I don't know how people who aren't chronically in love can stand it. Today's agenda calls for some fish, some merlot, some afternoon meranda and some night-night friskiness. Oo-la-la.

Dancing around to techno-club music would make me long for the boogallooin'-while-bombed marathons if it weren't for concluding there was nothing to cherish about real life back then. No, that's not the word of a convert using denial to sell today to the imaginary audience. It's more like gratitude in the form of being able to recall foolish things without automatically smiling. All that craziness wasn't so much crazy as just the selfish acts of a deluded missionary in the Order of Take As Much AS You Can. Watching Robert Evans biopic a while ago I related on the purely hedonistic level if not the talent/success aspect. It does help explain the sheer happiness of each day in spite of the cacophonic political bloviating and the 10 - 20 robo-phone calls every day now, intruding on our sweet interludes. Plus today I saw that the 2012 end date from the Mayan calendar is in dispute so my goal to welcome in 2040 is still viable. Wake the town and tell the people - cabernet's right up there on the epitaph must list with my ding-a-ling.

Sitting in the swing watching the eastern sky reveals more of life than all of the drama contrived in relationships. The common denominator in the balance between us and me is unfiltering all the absorption and still just getting all the beauty. Crap = boyhood panic = G.I. grease trap duty = misfortunes of all who we love = knowing all about death = obsession (lost it) = exhausted by the national "anger". What is there to be angry about? (not really looking for an answer here). After watching Babies on DVD the starkness of Mongolia and Nambyia contrasted with the whirring sound of the blender whipping up mudslides says more than enough to quiet the mindlessness of angry Americans. And that's not just an oblique version of "think of all the starving ________". Why act as if you get it and all those dopes don't? If the splendor here doesn't quell the rage then GFY. WWJD? BRB. Catch a falling star before Wall Street digs up Main Street. So much shit, so little sense. I like the message "How to Stay Inspired:" 1) Ignore the question "what's the point?" 2) look at beautiful things

So on the day John Lennon would turn 70, we'll be turning to valued friends and an acquaintance to bring the day's celebration up to the minute present instead of attempting to recollect 40 years ago on our own. It's the difference between helping Uncle Jack off the horse and helping uncle jack off the horse. Digesting statistics about the Now World is even harder than understanding them 40 years ago. I was a smart ass but I knew I wasn't the smartest ass so I still have wonder and astonishment in my arsenal even as I sit here JBF'd and thinking about the tray of brews we'll be sampling a little later. The one thing holds true - she'll be the prettiest one in the place guaranteed. And that's without having to imagine anything.

Making money in the stock market is now like beating Deep Blue at chess. That 1000 point freefall earlier this year can happen any time and for the non-hedge fund types, it's real money. Like that Princeton study paying for a reasonable sustainable lifestyle only wards off despair but l o v e will keep you happy as a horny dog in Legland. And all that phoney lapper stuff is griss for the Millennials but geezers have a different definition for poppycock. I'll say it on the record - I DO NOT want to win the lottery since I already hit the jackpot of a lifetime. Sunrise on the meranda beats Rodeo Drive hands on, yes on not down. It's all in the game

the first mention had something about the trapezia and it wasn't about doors

so it shouldn't be a surprise that he loved them but loved himself more

Arnold has a line item veto and yet you still can't want to move there

it's all about well being and the knack of staying there

get the point? we're already there and just want to stay there

now recall the days when the search was still on for where it's at

you had to use all the power to find it let alone get there

and now the trick is just staying there, what a coupe de ville

the inbox had a list of where NOT to spend the golden years

and it's right here

fill your canteen with the tonic of the resplendent

take a chance and just keep staring at the sky

this is nothing at all to do with tap dancing on rose petals

just being at the highest level of well

didn't they say something about Oz never doing anything for the tinman?

or was it Dr. Oz doing nothing for the spaceman?

you can word it anyway you want but make it shine

the luster never stopped a curled toe from unclinching

and the blocked words mean nothing if they're never read

the myth is that we're here to aspire towards greatness

happy dumbstick does it for me

Film at eleven

She read a funny poem Write to the Title to me and what hit me was some of the same logic. When I did this everyday I thought about things to say and then wrote them down. But then I started to write stream-of-consciousness and there was no title or thought to write about and the results showed that clearly. So today I was thinking about reaching the highest consciousness possible before I go and what exactly does that entail? It follows talking about people who think evolution is a theory - that the earth is 6000 years old and that dinosaurs walked with humans. Thank you God for providing me with a higher level of consciousness (Take 1: higher = smarter). But that brings on if I can thank God, why do I cherry-pick the writings in the Bible? Because as I learned about nirvana and chanting and TM and self hypnosis and Salute to the Sun and bong hits, suddenly God stopped being simply the Creator who lives up in the sky and who looks like me (and conveniently hates the same people I hated) and He became the Force who brought her to me and now IS her. I like that God dwells in me as me better than all the early learnings via Jesus who is still whom I pray to and thank everyday. Conflagration comes to mind to describe the elevation to higher consciousness, burn it like Reddi-Wip shot from the can more than cherry-picking. People who dwell in nursery school on this have my sympathy but not my proselytizing self that appears here and nonchalantly writes down these thoughts as if they mean something to anybody but me. There is pre-emption in my motives to portray these words as garbled sounds from a talking in tongues believer but they are repeatedly thought over, believe you me as Jimmy Stewart would say. This is my story, this is my song, praising my Savior all the day long. Blessed assurance - feels like a higher plane than ever before.

Two straight mornings of eye catching sunrises; yesterday's thundershowers made for instant anticipation of even better ones during the week. If that seems unworthy of capture here, it may be because desert living is so often idyllic that rumblings and rain are like snowfall used to be except there's no shoveling. Shamefully, I used my dental work-in-progress to justify a tub of vanilla ice cream (soft, acceptable) with full intent on mudslides -o-rama. The gentle jog into autumn makes for lazier days, if that's possible. Mistral is much about nothing and eloquence eludes these ramblings. Happiness deserves a high priority in spite of tagging it with same old same old. The old is treasured because it's well into its second decade of equating to San Diego weather - never boring unless typhoons are your passion. I'm a tranquil-is-the-bees-knees kinda guy even though thunder is an aphrodesiac and if I continue, you know where this will eventually go. So this IS the close, wearing no clothes, pointing to toes? Who knows (shadow do).

And then the covert anxiety vanishes. No jack-hammer = smashing success (assisted by hydrocodone). Thoughts then turned to synopsis of the working days which characterizes those eternal looping "lost" dreams. So let's see if streaming the short version comes up with anything:

The 32 years is a trilogy - Book One is the Mad Men years. Plenty of girls, intro to alcohol as a daily staple and indoctrination into stonerhood. The all-too-brief mini skirts period defines the focus of everyday at the office. The ash tray on the desk was emptied several times during the day and the boys will be boys legitimized some flagrant aberrant behavior. This would make for the hardest to put down volume and the easiest of the three efforts to turn into juicy chapters.

The second product is the redemption heavy theme, success in building a taste of paradise in the suburbs while inching towards the higher rungs on the corporate ladder, escalating the dual lives combining single man and family breadwinner. The crescendo emphasizing my lone intrapreneurial venture could be the PTSD catalyst that somehow hasn't been born out, allowing release when I'm in shutdown mode. This middle story could be the hardest to recreate and probably not the smoothest reading. The epilogue is the piece, packed with the choicest blend of supporting characters of the three. Lots of cities with multitudes of executives misrepresent me as a business gamer when the constant thought cloud from my mind is I'm a fraud. The secret may come in this recap as well.

The question then is - am I going to do the work and write this? or is it obvious that since that is in question form, I already know that the answer is NO. The only possible remote chance I'd ever write it would be if I thought it would be cathartic enough that I'd do it just for myself like all that appears here. R-E-S-P-E-C-T, building a bridge to some area in defiance of my lethargy. Now there's the dream.

Uh-oh . . . looks like yesterday is a fine example of WWB (writing while buzzed). There was a time when the phallic references would be depicted as background in the sonnet of swooning. That would qualify if the words here were more significant than the Dear Diary reminders that they degraded into. Hey, dick jokes have a place and a right to be not scorned. My early morning reverie had me inquisitive about why I am lost in urban confusion so often in my dreams. Wandering through familiar but unknown streets says something about my subconscious but stress is too broad of an interpretation for this off beat former beat off. My path each day is cleared of all brush, bottles and all forms of shit so I am a flummoxed dreamwalker for some other reason than cognitively having the vapors. The sky was aquamarine and apricot on the stroll this morning and the stage is set to defend against the cranial calypso I'll be not enjoying tomorrow morning. Stay away from sugar, kids - tooth rot is a mofo when the old molars reach expiration with much perspiration, wishing I was a better boy. Is it cabernet time yet?

Alright, Berkeley says my left handedness can be reversed with transcranial magnetic stimulation, or TMS. Like I'm as dumb as the arrow on a compass, want to see me spin the other way? Put magnets on my head. OMFG, a cloned human ear on a mouse moment! I just enjoyed a pistachio crusted salmon w/ artichokes lunch followed by save the world 2 hour 'cuzz with Mo the bro (in=law) afternoon and I find out it's all a matter of magnetism. Here's my magnetism {grab weiner} and I dare you to make it move using only magnets. The secrets are all known by now, the magic lies within the realm of love and pocket rockets delineate the Cupid's arrow in this everlasting tale. When sirens turn out to be another romance scream it matters not if the left or right hand is the operative one. Can't find the right music to accompany this scene? Try 1-800 rubthis. That's the kind of oration that made my journey here possible so why stop now? This little giggy survived a road tour of 12 thousand days - and you ask if I'm grateful? well, yeah!

Ever wonder why only a single letter keeps dental from becoming mental ? Because having, oh, pock marked skin and pathetic hair isn't enough, so let's make teeth shitty and make the fix be like resurfacing a road --- break out the jack hammer, Frank. Aw, it's just another one just like all the other ones. I just finished reading about a quadriplegic waiting on the progress of some cells that wrap around neurons that might promote nerve growth then repair his damaged spinal cord and my only woe is when the novocaine wears off I might not feel like jetting in the 'cuzz that day. Consider the alternatives and do get in it to win it. Part of the most recent monkey braining has my glorious concentration on the introduction by God of his daughter and her daughter and her daughter and HER daughter - all standing there smiling at the same moment. The offset is considering the feelings surrounding unceremonious break away from a long time business relationship in the midst of rejoining another of God's daughter chain, only this one numbering three and my sibling heartbeat resembles the smile/frown drama masks. It really is true that you can't get to euphoria when someone you love is dealing with despair. Better read that once more, Pancho for emphasis on the past three years. Well, we can't control how we'll die but we can, to some extent, control how we live and today is special because this wouldn't be here to read if it wasn't.

(insert lyrics to I Got Life here__

I got my hair I got my head I got my brains I got my ears I got my eyes I got my nose I got my mouth I got my teeth I got my tongue I got my chin I got my neck I got my tits I got my heart I got my soul I got my back I got my ass I got my arms I got my hands I got my fingers Got my legs I got my feet I got my toes I got my liver Got my blood I got my guts (I got my guts) I got my muscles (muscles) I got life (life) Life (life) Life (life) LIFE!

Got to thinking about how much pain someone would be willing to inflict in order to get the thing (AKA person) they want more than anything in the world. The inspiration came from a series just viewed where a single guy pursues a married woman and breaks up her marriage to free her for him. It wasn't totally underhanded since he just dimed on the husband who was banging a co-worker but call it ingenious, it caused pain. It causes me to revisit the elusive answer to the question "why do people sometimes have to be devastated in order for something extraordinary and beautiful to take place?" The best attempt to date to answer that is that "'til death do us part" can mean death of the relationship and just like death, it can be devastating. In the series mentioned here, the guy asks his widower dad if you love somebody so much should you just walk away? and the dad shakes his head no. The question of "is it love or just list?" is patently clear when so much has to be sacrificed in order to spend the rest of your life with the one you love (and who loves you in return, otherwise it's not love). Regrets? None. Exuberance? Constantly. Desire to do Step 9 with the ones whom you hurt - a little. Do over? Same choice but maybe with a bit more finesse. There is no price too great to make a life all about love - not part but ALL! Sorry 'bout the pain but it had to be done. Hopefully in the after-life it'll be something to laugh about like the parents of the jilted bride who had to find one of the napkins to recall the guys name. . now that's funny.

The road from dreams is paved with question marks. Last night's falls into the "stress dream" category, maybe because a small buzzkill struck this week. But no sense pining excessively, the lovebirds say, so no stress at nite-nite time last evening. Besides, labeling it as just another stress related dream is skimming past understanding. This one needs as much attention to it as the busload of visitors dream a week or so ago. So here it goes: I'm working again back at the lecktriss company. But I'm working for this Negress (can't say that?), how about Afro-American lady who looked like a cross between young Aretha and Anita Baker, but she was NOT a pleasant person. In fact she was nasty, mean and intent on breaking my balls. She assigned some difficult and protracted tasks to me and sashayed back to her office. I then got a phone call that I was needed at our nuke plant way down in god's country so I eagerly made tracks to there. When I arrived, the station was like this underground bunker with people staring at computer screens and a ceiling so low you could bump your head if you weren't careful. My gumbah who called me said all the storekeepers were out sick and here's my desk and go to it. Immediately a shipment arrived and it was a flat container with a clear plastic top in which there were rows of round metal objects that looked like the official weights in the old time scale calibrators. But they we immersed in a clear liquid which caused me to hesitate where I should open it. I decided to drain off some of the liquid into an Altoid tin but some of it spilled on the desk and I covered it with papers from the pile on the desktop. Then I remembered I had to call boss lady to report my location and I asked the person next to me how to call headquarters. He said the numbers were coded so who am I calling? I said Anita somethingorother and he said it was this long combination of letters and numbers which I dialed and she answered. So I told her where I was and that the stuff she assigned to me would either have to wait or be given to someone else. She never said a word, so I hung up. I then asked the guy "how do you dial directly into someone's mailbox?" and I got this different long letter/number string which I dialed and nothing happened. I asked if he could double-check and got a third cluster. Meantime, the shit that I spilled started smoking on the desk and my buddy Greg saw it and asked "what's up?" - I told him what it was and he exclaimed "you spilled isotope fluid?" then said he had a special rag to wipe it up with. Then a girl I knew walked by and invited me to a happy hour after work which I declined due to extreme conditions, then thankfully, woke up. I always seem to be flummoxed when I first wake up from these make-no-sense gems but when I write them down I can see how rich the imagination is. A year or so from now, I'll check back and see.

Train your mind on me because I am the voice of reason and the devil on my shoulder. Religions perpetuate the notion of devil = sin = bad but maybe the demon is just a metaphor for disregarding your ego which is a liar {thx S. Kalas}. If true, your ego gets you in sinful situations OR maybe those situations are really just pleasure if they don't hurt anyone. Somehow I empathize with the stereotypical victim of early sex and accept that certain pleasures should be avoided to keep the PTSD flashbacks from happening. But where do you draw your line with the one person you love intimately? I think it's where the action is simply a service, not one that is mutual. And there are so many ways to excite and pleasure her. Here's where we should insert clip of Rita Moreno performing the ritual Jack Nicholson required in Carnal Knowledge. Shoot me first before I revert into that. Rita fucking Moreno, Maria in WestSide Story relegated to a pathetic character of a different kind of pity. WTF! Samoclese proved - - stop here, there's no Samoclese. And that's what your brain should trigger when grief-inducing metaphors play too big a part in your thinking. I am a lapsed __________________-(insert any religion here) and I am closer to God than even before. Love. When love runs thru you, God is omnipresent. Prayers make sense even before you can see their effect. Picture going back - add 16 years. Ease the pain - it's just a memory to mix in with the wonderful ones. All those think about NOW people have a good now or one they're working hard on (heh-heh, I said hard on) and I am their poster geezer. Lovin' nightly at the bed where the head is facing north. And we both just know how many stars are overhead.

There are in-law jokes - you know, after 3 days fish & in-laws stink, ba-rump-shish. But I may never laugh at one again after waking up immediately following this morning's dream. It began as a heads-up that our SoCal favs were visiting us for a short stay. How short? Oh, about a week. And by the way, they're bringing family, too. OK (gulp). Then I suggest we go out for one last meal just the two of us - just then a BUS pulls up and the in-laws debus. Hugs greetings but the rest of the riders in the bus get out, too. WTF? They look at our house and walk towards it - all of them. I ask a guy "where are you going?" and he says "to your place". I grab bro-in-law to find out what's the deal and he says "we had to sell tickets in order to rent the bus". I nearly choke. I go into the house filled with all these people and kids - kids everywhere running and committing mayhem. I walk outside and one of the "guests" asks me for something. Then another. Then another. Eventually, exhausted, I walk into the house, coolly past all the kids and everyone, go upstairs and walk into the bathroom where this lady and her kid are finishing up. I tell her I have to take a bath and she smiles but doesn't exit. I then remember we have a bathtub in our bedroom and smile and head there. Then I wake up! W T F ! ! I look over and my love is swaddled in sheets of unknown thread count cotton, but she's there and it was just a frightening dream. I wake her and tell her and she laughs, saying "it's OK". I went downstairs and fixed a pot of Starbucks, promising myself to NEVER complain again, EVAR about in-laws. Promise.

The idea was to go to a place where stars fill the sky. It is merely a 50 minute ride and the choice to ignore the package deal and grab the suite instead turns out to be the coup de ville. OK, so maybe starting the trek with a little snapper and a little scallopine shows the brilliance in our combined thinking. Then to deliberately drive past the destination to higher ground and view it while slurping a masterfully created mudslide and LI ice tea nudged the tempo into a eureka quality. The toast was made after perusing the landscape with a snort of prosecco, drank from plastic cups, representing the eclectic dimension while sustaining the festive feel of the day. The money shot heralded the second after a forgetable meal in the dining room that was more for sustenance than ambiance. That moment happened right as we passed the sliding the door to the balcony once more only this time it was dark. And for the next two hours, we held on to each other and took in a show that needs to be seen oh so much more often. Thousands of stars - some brighter, some shooting, all ever expansive and crazily triggering thoughts like Grace Slick singing

"Consider how small you are
Compared to your scream
The human dream
Doesn't mean shit to a tree"

The realization of that side car bolted to the sweep and stretch of what's out there for us to see is chunkin' it outside the bar scene. The visualized connect-the-dots becomes a polymorph too large to define but the knowledge that these things made by God just to light the night (as she just read to me from Genesis) look like they're almost touching each other but are light years apart, just like love was for us at one time before the miracle of our gaze into each other's eyes for the first time. And sixteen years later we're still enchanted and swathed in love. This is the poetry of the starry night. This is our life.

Something was found in SoCal, something was left in SoCal, things were uncovered in the Mojave (see below) and best of all -we're honeymooning like it's 1995. Bundle of nerves goes to jungle of verve returning as trundle of appreciation. The change is so apparent that we keep talking about it in the same way we bring up the pounds we eliminated this spring. Could it be just a matter of absence makes the heart grow fonder done from the inside out? Maybe it's just an elevated appreciation cultivated in proving that freedom comes from no longer looking for love. Yesterday was a bit of the caregiver and the lazy romantic but staring this morning at the big dipper included sincere apologies for speaking out and equally sincere assurance that there's no harm, no foul. Two more captures of progeny at the beach show up after just watching their mother's slightly older promenades on the sandy runway from the 80s. Charisma at the keyboard from the true matriarch of mine was a reminder that being a character comes easily to the chosen and gets handed down like other collectibles from an earlier time. It's more adrenal to go with the aggrandized account than to keep drilling down to the source of this big bang. Or like she says "better to be verile than viral.

So where does the week end? This time tomorrow I'll be back in business and at the airport for a mutually coveted reunion. So today I'm thinking clean up, put away, indulge for the last time like all the indulgences this week and think about lessons learned from all this extended NOT ON CALL time. First, if the same interest arises in the future, pitch heavily for the same deal. See if the nightly gup works better if there's no needless wonder if back tickling may produce a rooty tooty. See if the truck drivin' pleasure can be re-introduced without all the drama. Don't be reluctant to head out to the Depot if Cookie time surfaces and the thought of blah-blah-blah in the 'cuzz is not warranted that day. Take another bike ride whenever the desire crops up. Treat everyday like these past 6 days - ward off the nervousness and let the stream of consciousness guide you. If I think of more, I'll just update this.

What a revealing 6 days. From the second I walked back in the house, I could feel a little like the Paul Dance but so much more than the cat's away. What it turns out to be is the Xanax effect - no nevousness to glaum after. She's where she wants to be, with whom she want to be, finally not having my face to read and able to do what she really wants to do. That caretaker thing is so much more than just vicarious parenting. No kids so I'll "adopt" my sib and her family as mine, temporarily. It's all good - everyone benefits, especially me. I am the enigma, I am too complicated for just one woman, I am profound in my ability to put my desires into reality, I am an amazing guy. So I almost trip up - I tell her during one of many phone conversations that I miss her mouth. I quickly correct it by saying I miss our conversations with cab on the meranda, but she gets the inference. But I am serious - I realize that my nervousness comes from a variation in former life where I did yard work so I'd get my dick sucked that night. Who'd wanna lipwrap a 66 yr. old salsiccia? An old queen? A homely matron? I get it - and it didn't take long to realize it no longer applies to this life. I preempt my reptilian instincts to anticipate her responses to the detriment of my feeling of well-being. She is capable and resilient so if I want to pump up the tires and ride my bike, don't NOT do that because she'll worry about me getting hurt or dying - ride, you sentient being. This doing what works for us only matters when we're 24/7 - when she's doing caretaking/camping, it doesn't matter. I can do some ornate seques when left to my own impulses and none of them are life threatening. She deserves the fulfillment she gets from taking loved ones to the gift shop and covering the tab. It's her enrichment and even though it escapes me, I orgasmically support it and support her. This week is a break-thru in our traversing the bridge to forever - she can unplug here and caretake her sib while I can caretake the enterprise here and we don't miss a beat. A testament to Love Without Edges. And I really do miss your mouth.

It's just not right when the one you love most leaves you for a week and then the oasis becomes so tension-free that it scares you. Is it some twisted schadenfreude that she's got what she asked for and it's got to be anti-climactic, you know, are we having fun yet?. I selfishly am. It's like life out on the prairie where the nearest living soul is too far to connect with and this is my happy place, right here, with her not without her. I'm guessing it's something like the time I went to Palm Springs for a short week only there I came apart and bawled like a virgin in a prison yard on the phone to her which prompted the nod for me to come back home. This time I'm here, she's there and peace is in the valley. Maybe because it's only a short seven days and I know she's where she wants to be and I can't make her days happy except by being engaged and involved happily with the day's events here, so I do that. Last night I skipped the sleeper for the 1st time in months and I slept solidly with no stress type dreams - figure that. I take to this solitude too easily - like a malingerer's holiday. Maybe by the end of the weekend, these words won't apply. But physically, haven't felt this good in years. Emotionally I like the absence of nervousness alot. Spiritually, God has a hand in all this and is giving her the strength of character to lend a sister a helping hand. Now if that email was working - perfick! Already today had a meatloaf sandwich for breakfast and a hot beef w/ tomatoes for lunch. Maybe a little penquin later. The pre-take off loving seems to be holding the ho-nieness down to a minimum, again, maybe a different story after the weekend. She seems to thriving in my absence, too - there's a message in all this and it probably affirms how solid our love is, even when we're apart. Kinda like this, alot

First there was "8 million stories in the Naked City"; then Charles Kuralt/Steve Hartman proved there is a story everywhere, so here's why there's no one place on the 'net to give you a rock solid picture of where it's at: because I said so. Into the InBox flows revelatory words - the Millennial version of I'm OK, You're OK. This is a Hugh Deal as it would appear from other sources. . It comes as the invasion of the Gig Antics proves once more that Freedom's just another word for nothing but the best. Maybe the Midnight Launch will cool their jets this weekend. Major progeny progress, thanks to hallmark 4dads. There's no question that the solid foundation from the 1st 29 years is showing and the vibrations here are unanimous. Neither of us know where the dissolved parts of us went - but bye bye forever. I like the 190s so much more and her threshold keeps lowering back to her Rio days. The Oh Seven stuff was compelling yesterday before taking in Celine. Today should be bonzo.

This is the week the digital readout was < 200 for the first time since at least 2000. Almost lost my moobs and her profile is almost a la Rio. Last night was my first a trois in memory right before waking up at 5 something. Why was it with former life 'fraus? That's OK - it left behind a suggestion that is still elusive but today is actually more peaceful than usual. My lovely niece is experiencing major discomfort so the search for the remedy is on. Intacs, you're like breast augmentation that leaves you with an A cup. I should have fought off the fantasy of dual vision with manageable floaters. All good and the kids from Gig are here this weekend. Ipso facto mondo grando.

The new climate variance has mid-June here like an early Fall or late Spring day, make that dayzzz. The food festival is in its 11th or 12th week satiating our taste buds along with some nice cabs from Total Wine. No time for false meaning about all of this - if it doesn't add years then it's still a great way to reshape and forestall the decline. The lovin' keeps the impression of Legends of Passion Warriors right where it belongs - here and now. The beauties from Gig will be here next weekend and somehow the blend will be seamless and worthy of words here. Yesterday we marveled at angels castles in the air before launching prodigiously. It was last Father's Day that makes this one today make sense - the silence was broken by introduction to the ones who will carry on and they are too beautiful for grampa to describe here. Even from a distance the reward works into the mix called Life Now and soothes rather than incite regrets. I really do know clouds et.al.

There's a message sent in a dream: Working with a group (ugh! - working); rumor circulates that new DMV requirements may cause some in our group to lose their driving privilege; letters arrive with new 12 character code assigned to each individual; while waiting in line at the DMV, a guy with a hand scanner says to anguished person in line "the only characters in your code that matter are the last 3 - if they contain numbers that add up to less than 10, nothing changes for you; more than 10, new rules apply"; while doing business in a property owner's home, the stress about the new DMV regs surfaces; I advise the person about the significance of the last 3 characters and quell the despair; then I'm in a meeting with my boss from the 70s in real life and he describes the real meaning what's going on; he says it's been a ruse, a sting operation to thwart a terrorist threat and just as he was ready to assign me to Canada, the threat was compromised and defeated and he gave me all the credit for passing along the bogus intelligence about the last 3 characters in the DMV code. I awoke not feeling like I just had a dream experience and my body felt strange enough to move me to take my blood pressure reading (117/72) before beginning this gorgeous day. I'm still trying to interpret the message this dream brought.

The REAL 247 day. Fresh from superlative Sandra Dee persuasions and currently digesting the multi-grain portabella artichoke asparagus onion celery chicken, I keep seeing hommages des plethora for Moms everywhere. The Betty White SNL this morning started today's endless thoughts of you and your supreme permanency and eternal influence on my everyday. You must know that my every need is being exceeded by her, the one who brought me to this place to learn that the love you embedded in me is attainable, captured and thriving inside of me thanks to her. If I truly was your love child I've paid it forward by contributing to that same intense love with her that eluded me for so long. The cards, the candy, the meals at restaurants are all part of almost every offspring's day today, but ours is the constant celebration of love that so many try so hard to express today. There is peace within the family right now that has to make you proud. Us? we're stayin' with Summer dreams ripped at the seams, but oh, those summer ny - ights. Tell me more, tell me more!

I was thinking today of all the times I've ever spilled my seed. Not just an approximation but literally how many times in the 50+ years since the 'nads were capable? I know one thing - it's SO many more than the number of times I've vomited. The notion that you can judge a guy by the cars he's owned may reveal something but sowing your swimmers tells me more about myself. OK, the very time I think I remember is the night I went to the cafe next to the Roxy for the first time and was mesmerized by this girl who was rhythmically writhing to Gene Vincent's "Be-Bop-A-Lula" playing on the jukebox and when I went home later that night, well, let's just say that we had a touchdown under the covers, memorably. There may have been some nocturnal emissions, as we liked to call them then, but "I'm sticking with you" could be playing in the background and there were so many to follow. I think of the Z bus rides after dispensing some lotion on the bus stop steps and just dumping the clothes in the hamper as if Mom wouldn't know if I spilled milkshake or not. There's a posting somewhere about the infamous slice of pizza's from Freddy's that I personalized but won't detail here. There were those Trojans-carried-home-in-a-hanky-so-I-could-verify-no-leaks by the dozens in the 60s. Somehow the long bridge seems to ride on two basic versions - the with someone version and the other. No way of counting either so maybe it's best left as numerous, no make that excessive over the years. What brings it here today is the resurgence, a blast from the past kind of resurgence celebrating 15 plus years of not just the with someone version exclusively, but with the SAME someone exclusively. It would be a rebroadcast of all the words inside of and linked to this domain to champion the bliss once more but the resurgence, thanks to wellness, thanks to adulation, thanks to tadalafil, but mostly thanks to love of the endless variety that weathered the drought and now relishes the hallelujahs cranking from the Simmons like melodies from Pav. Born to O - is that too smug? Born to save a marriage not once but twice and now Born to O. Hallelujah.

The service at sunrise was purported to be Resurrection Now. And He shall reign forever and ever. Ctrl End to today and it still makes sense. This morning came early, zolpidem on the half shell must wear off quicker but so what. The sunrise leaked thru the shutters and caught the bevel on the mirror creating a horseshoe shaped aura in my unfixed Intacts eye. Suddenly I'm realizing that my days distinct from metabolizing chemicals and beta testing body appliances are viewed only in the rear view mirror of my memories. Maybe hanging up the wingtips so early let the geezer cloud sneak in. Again, so what? Part of the chemnical mix recharged the coitus flatoutus reminiscent of Ziggy Stardust days and that dilutes geezerism to a NOT old attribute more than anything else. Plus, there's no real sign of Denny Crane mad cow despite some minor lapses on the fringe. Even the fixed defect discovery seems inconsequential with just one more chemical to blend in with the others. Two twelve was the number today, Mr. Reaper of the Grim variety. I see 200 in this very season, a place not felt in too many years. So here's to you, my little girl who still has time as a thirtysomething. I am humbled that my turn to face the strain saw the enemy and it was the yesterdays. So far, so good.

It's not too late - all of the sudden we go from heartthrob to diastolic and fixed defect
It's a long way to turpentine martini but not far enough to notice the end game
It's a new wait until PRK replaces PMR on the tote board
It's only a matter of time before it gets crowded around here
It's not for me to say that chances are
It's wonderful, wonderbra, oh how wonderful when the wind subsides
It's very real our love is here to stay

Then I saw today that the guy who's a step away from the throne vocalizes like Sarah Silverman to make his point. So maybe these lyrics sum up the state of the USA:
Wynonas got herself a big brown beaver
and she shows it off to all her friends.
One day, you know, that beaver tried to leave her,
So she caged him up with cyclone fence.
Along came Lou with the old baboon
And said Recognize that smell?
Smells like seven layers,
That beaver eats Taco Bell.

Maybe the fresh air and the laughter will resuscitate my off-track disillusionment with things beyond my control. Even Happy the Clown got urine drippings on his oversized shoes occasionally. I'm thinking my torso memory is forgetting the prednisone era or I'd be writing about ecstasy of the lifestyle variety (not the $25 per pop kind). Could be a sign or reason that the days need a daily allotment of writing this out before the thinking heads towards mortality. Grant me the knowledge to know the difference. Who am I kidding - I already have it.

The room stopped spinning about the time Dave heard Connie at the sink. In case you're wondering, the cause of the merry-go-round was surge-from-the-tiptoes boinking. Not just the ehn-uh-enh-uh variety but OMFG! boinking. Dave cleared his head and somehow wobbled to the tub to clean up and get on with the green flag for the day. It had been a trying week for Dave - dealing with the Ricky Gervais-like eye surgeon, getting some off-the-chart blood pressure readings and most of all, having Connie recover from her heartbreaking ordeal of more money problems from a dear loved one. The issue at hand was clearing the med hurdle of finding coochie comfort and the expectations were promising. See, even though loving Connie comes in so many colors, the high hard one has been elusive for too many months. Dave's bout with that autoimmune disorder really lead the shift to ancillary love making that although satisfying and diamond-like in its affection delivery, still lacked the surrealistic bungee quality of bringing it home with the high hard one. Connie, not being a pseudo-church lady when it comes to toe curling, seized the vertical banister which just recently qualified for the moniker Noodle Poker and rode it like Debra Winger in Urban Cowboy, draining the blood from Dave's brain in a manner children should be warned about. Good lovin' - no make that unbeatable loving and despite the SSA-1099 on the table, we're talking about sustainable, repetitious, soul nudging loving to be permanently added to the thrill-of-the-day recap. Yes, the day was underway and both Connie AND Dave's faces showed the glory of time of the season was back in town. Thank you, Jesus

What was left of the insight train has obviously left this station. The excuse for the January recap cries out for something more than this. But the last flash from this mind was seeing the unemployed as the new poverty and where's the pizzazz in that thought? The ear plague came back and O Lee put that damn probe all the way in but fixed it. The Callahans have left a new mark on our soul and tadalnafil has brought new life to the high hard one. Still, feeling flabergasted, as in exasperated about the dunlap, remains the next conquest. There's talk about an upstairs makeover and 30 minute strolls are almost a daily event eliciting psycho-comfort in sustaining movement. Once you've entertained the 21st century version of better living thru chemistry, is there any vestige of innocence and organic wonderment left? The return of Ally resurfaced the vicarious soul stroking potential that's tunneled within us despite our belief that nothing compares to us. Those kooky camouflage patterned flannels are the skin of post-Rio passion surpassing our expectations of This Idyllic Life. There may be a little rain sweeping this weekend and another attempt at Super Sunday but that's all good, too. Call me a romo but this is the way it's supposed to be.

On the 8th day of MMX, the Great Spirit gave to me:
~A reminder that sed rate might be OK but the inflammation lingers on
~60s and sunny is better than 50s and overcast
~Three times around the community is a big chunk of the 10k required steps
~All that demo & restore to get the big tub in was worth it
~Black Box is yummier than the bargain stuff
~Can't get thru a single day without embracing the love
~This time next week the pain will be from the laughter
~Delicious soup is the best comfort food in January
~Ali with Vonda is better than anything now on cable
~Men of a Certain Age is better than good
~Next month, no eye suture - is 20-20 a possibility?
~Camouflage flannel sheets on a beautyrest is heaven
~Meloxicam and zolpidem tartrate are the aids de force
~The happiness in Mullica Hill is the big difference of the time
~Her love is still all that I'll ever needp ~Her way of making love is better than ever
~Proud to be her man

Trying to get my arms around the absence of despair when the bus arrives, when the time comes to say goodbye. It's just how good the everyday is, knowing you're alive and thriving in your well supported realm. And I think not that it's possible that this time was the last time I'll see you again, no, it's more like how quickly the time goes from today to next year. All I am really does begin with you. You truly were the blackbird who took my broken wings and taught me to fly. The residual from your hugs is inescapable. Wait 'til you get a load of Christmas Dreams

The dream was about getting radical surgery for her, finding me in the presence of two reknowned surgeons, one named Dr. Thalgott. He was geeky looking, with long, stringy, oily hair that had a flip bottom. I ws questioning him much like the session I had back in the late 70s with Dr. Hughes a general NOT a vascular surgeon who was about to remove the aneurysm in my Dad's abdominal aeorta and I was conflicted about following the advice to get him into a teaching hospital to get it done right. The hospital was just a hallway of door openings with the one on the right closest to me, the operating room replete with crime scene tape wrapped around the portico to deny access to the unwelcome. Well, I woke up before finding out if the back surgery was successful but since she woke up feeling fine, I am taking that as success. The underlying lesson here is that whatever the meaning behind the dream happens to be, the most important thing is "I was asleep". Not tossing & turning awash with guilt & fear like in former life, I was asleep. Nonetheless, a dream of this clarity and timeliness nedds to be recorded, hence these words.

Carry me down to the riverbed whilst the cicadas churn their tune and the voices ring with "just as I am . . . . "

There is one thing about taking these take-home exams is they expect lines and lines of revealing self-awareness words, thought Dave. They want me to find the expression frequently used here without providing any parameters . . .

OK Can't keep being affected the same way every month. There is a bigger good aside from feeling good 'cause she did something good while I let it affect my health. Self healers who can thrive on assistance from beyond, too. Besides, it makes sense that the guy'll get over it before she stops asking, so get over it. Funny, the kicker this time comes from Byron and Fitzgerald and the reminders found inside are 1) knowing a Byron who committed suicide over a missed communication concerning a biopsy finding and 2) having the nickname Fitz because of a hankering back then for a particular brand of bourbon. The linkage is death & me in the lead role. When you think you've got something that leads to an early death, the question becomes what's considered early? Being this age and still putting out for offspring who are no longer children, means you are available for helping through the rest of you life - not a BA D thing. The other linkage is both Byron and Fitzgerald were boozers of the notorious type. Hm-m-m - my alcohol relationship is not the booze variety although I have knocked down more than a few 'tails in the journey to here. Face it, November means it's almost 2010 and I'm closing in on 70. Seems like that's early to me.

Dave looked up as if the point he was trying to make here would maybe appear on the ceiling. Like frou-frou on a peacock's Facebook wall, there's a point to all of this that is unintentionally elusive even if purposely cloaked in unconventional phraseology. Dave has found the secret of life and it's finding and enjoining the exact piece required to finish off his soul. Love is his. He found her and now he's living his halcyon days entwined with her every waking and sleeping minute. Byron & Fitzgerald are complicit in getting this ever so important information out to you. It's worth making yourself understand that. OK, it's ready to be sent in. Only in movies does the guy on then chaise get the girl. I took care of that before hiting the chaise. Unforgettable.

A week of tennis with Sanjay Gupta, who cheated shamelessly, strength-sapping delivery of eucalyptus wood to red barn, resuscitation by mobic (my new BFF) and jaw dropping appreciation of the sparkle she put on the east side to match the pigeon-less west side. The sadness of the passing of a little Aiden angel was followed by some good happenings back at sweet Lorena's, leading to a January incursion by two idolized dear ones. For some reason(s) the brilliance boat remains docked, suggesting use it or lose it means just that. Plus lethargy towards the keyboard may be the new Mindfreak of the past where insight reigned and ended up here. Oh, 50s, with your chiseled waist and literal tennis - why has lamination of the Medicare card elbowed you where the Mt. Charlie 2:30 is stored? No disrespect intended, 60s - it's just that the distance from the trolley stop where waiting for the one with the empty seat beside her to come along brings not the feeling of redemption so emancipating and affirming, that day in '94. Rather it's a worm hole to this other realm where pacified days are sprinkled with air leaking from the deflated balloons of those who are part of us, bowing our heads with gratitude by involvement that our revered canopy glitters more colorfully than ever. The same condition continues - how many different ways are there to express that perfection is hard to improve upon. Oh, it keeps on getting better in spite of the daily proclamations here (where are they?) Worry less, laugh more and take it in stride that it's real.

What is it about a story involving a six year old boy who's dubbed Balloon Boy because of the report he'd accidentaly lifted off in the homemade helium balloon he & his Dad were building? The hook was that the balloon was found but the boy wasn't in it. Horrors! Death by falling. Never mind - found unharmed near his home. So am I falling? Don't think so. My body was just wired in a medical sleep study and my brain? no unusual electrical activity. My cardio-pulmonary apparatus? Working fairly well at night. So here's the deal - Zyrtec at night, Mobic during the day and right away there's a promise of return of the mojo. Now about these 40 extra pounds - if the NSAID holds, back on the 45/day regimen. I'm thinking 225 by Thanksgiving, The remaining 25 can peel off at whatever leisurely pace this new stratum allows. Dr. Red stopped the debilitation, now Doc G makes good on his promise to make me make good on mine. I have often walked down this street before . . .

Trying to emulate that these are the first words I read from the Kindle I don't have. Falling from the center is a disorienting notion, especially when accompanied with actual moments of disorientation. It's way too early to even consider neuro-dry up happening but the feeling that a Steadicam would help does nothing to quell the thoughts of decline that keep entering my thought stream. Where are those dazzling combinations of fantasy and insight that ended up here or at least teased me into thinking I've hit on something new about the oldest providence - the power of love? Is it just all the extra filtering required of late, the spill over from interconnectivity or maybe just the revelation that it's been crap all along that I elevated in my mind to profundity. Regardless, at the moment. it's disenchanting but hopefully, eventually leading to some corrective measures to forestall the decline. You see, when you have everything and you're not anticipating any jackpot or accomplishment, you get to notice things like this malaise which would never be mentioned by most of the world struggling to find peace and happiness. I've got an eye needing repair, a truck battery needing a charge, a eucalyptus that needs removal, Fall is approaching and I better start ringing the bells that still ring. Nothing stopping me but myself - who else can say that? 40 years from Woodstock how many more years to make it right?

Are dissonance & coherence mutually exclusive? I like inexact distances and differences which puts me closer to dis rather than co. But I like orderly ambiance vs. chaos and flexibility in the completion requirements which seems like coherence so maybe both are simultaneously possible. We approached the subject of "tell me the romantic thoughts from the past few days" and it hit me that they need to be archived here so that I can be exact in describing them. What's with the Marty Zelner dream last night where she was current but detached and I told her kids she was my first love because I was hugging her in fornt of them. She was still boy chested. But in real time, I became mamified and promoted the call for Provo, exacting climactic deliveries at the outset. I went with since I don't do reciprocal massages, she gets her mojo from the variations with her sibs, but she swears doing the massaging is the return for love. OK to be late vs. no-show is the consensus. My well-being feeling comes from understanding this like this. Big answers are needed and the truth leads us to rapture of the affectionate variety.

Can't put these arms around saying how much a guy you never met means to us, a guy close to your heart because he's part of someone we love. This is not the place for an elegy but damn it makes the words coming out so sad and it should be happy because it matters that he made being with her so full of love. The world is rocked and being a part of it allows the happiness to prevail. Making the time count when it's always being with the one you love is repeating over and over. The weeks ahead will be amazing.

Twilight meant something before Edward and Bella. Twilight captured the moment before darkness set in, not unlike the space in time before making a life changing decision. When twilight defines your current station in life before you are about to enter the journey through eternal darkness, don't be surprised if Edward & Bella mean nothing to you. The actual twilight is a time when your unresolved mysteries are more du jour than from way back, allowing you to get to the envelope please where the difference between annoyances and phobias makes sense. No one gets to actualization without being prone to some annoyances but the phobias need to be left behind. You want to be the one fixing things, not stuck in reverse. Part of what's needed to care so much about the ones you love is keeping your eye on your own day so that it never slips towards intolerance. It's not whether you're more comfortable in your shoes or her shoes - it's best when there are NO shoes.