Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Me and My Punk-Ass Attitude

I feel like yesterday's post was a sham. It wasn't about lying at all. If anything, it was more like truth lite. Holding back is never healthy. Take it from someone, who takes high blood pressure meds, anti-depressants, and has old man bowel syndrome. (TMI for sure, but that's what blogs are for.) My thoughts yesterday afternoon were Well, that blog post didn't make me feel fulfilled. I wasn't aware that I was going for fulfillment, but that was the word I pulled from my internal data banks. I think my wife was more correct when she said yesterday's post was "Not as soul exposing or cathartic as others."

This is my day off, to make up for working last Saturday. I slept in until 9:30 and then arose to face the grey day. If I had other outlets for my angst, I probably wouldn't be sitting inside, tapping on this little black keyboard. I'd be out in the garage, working on the heavy bag, listening to my post-apocalyptic playlist (Rage, QOTSA, BRMC, and some select Foo Fighters.) One of things I enjoy about the act of writing, is that I'm able to listen to music while I do it. I don't find it distracting to listen to Zach de la Rocha singing "Rally 'round the family...with a pocket full of shells," while I create phrases and paragraphs.

There was a day when I listened to artists the likes of Lyle Lovett and Van Morrison. I've seen Pat Metheny more times than I can number. I've left those guys behind for music more fitting to my times these days. I was musically weaned on Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, The Clash and The Jam, but not The The...go figure. These days my ears are rarely touched by the notes of folks like Steely Dan, or Tom Petty. It's not like I'm being influenced by the radio. Corporate radio sucks ass, but that's common knowledge. I just listen to what works for me.

Back to misanthropy: I think some of my anger issues stem from birth, and the fact that I was taken from my mother and kept in a secret lab underground somewhere in the Midwest until I was adopted at six months of age. Hey! That's something that Jesus and I have in common -- besides the beard -- we're both bastards! It's a pretty large club that no one is really happy being a member of. You can sometimes spot us by the look of desolation in our eyes. That look never truly disappears no matter how many times a bastard encounters true love and compassion. It's like an emotional birthmark.

I stew in my anger about the ignorance that surrounds me, my prideful ego assuring me that my questions are the correct ones, and everyone else is waving answers that are non-existent. The reality is that I am as ignorant as any other ignoramus. I fifty-three and I still have to constantly remind myself of the priorities of life. Breathing. Presence of mind. The uncomfortable truths are that no person or object can be the cause of our happiness or sadness. It's our attachment to those people, objects or ideas that keep us unhappy.

It's all transitory anyway. Relationships come and go. Buildings are torn down. Newer, uglier buildings with underground parking are erected in their place. No more drive-in movies. No more ponies in the back pasture. These days it's about toeing the line, and trying to restrain myself from revealing myself for who I really am. Nobody likes to be unmasked. When I was younger I attended pro wrestling matches and whenever the opponent wore a mask he was in danger of having it pulled off to reveal his true identity.

What is under my mask? What is my original face? Hell, I don't know! I probably have too many layers of persona built up to ever get down to the real me, but I keep peeling back the layers. When I sit with my pain, and let the tears flow, I am pulling back another curtain, feeling more of that deep-seated pain, that has infected me since my early breaths. The me I show the world is a construct built from the detritus of childhood, military service and multiple marriages. The pain in my eyes is real -- don't doubt my depression -- but the rest of me is just a big fake. Not a fakir but certainly a fucker.

The bastard known to the blog world as Hayduke, is still here. He's hanging on by his wits, looking at the tiger below and the tiger above, and then to his side, wondering where the hell that ripe strawberry is that he's supposed to be enlightened by before he is killed and eaten.

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