Shouting through the fog

Betrayal, now there's a subject to consider for today. What to address, mostly the trouble it can cause and from where it comes.
With Jake, it dawned on me this morning, that exactly what he feels is very little trust in Eamon and I and consequently, himself. That is staggering, it shades everything, and unfortunately, there is no way I can protest enough to make him believe me, without it seeming as if it is actually the opposite.
And, on that sour note, maybe there is truth in his perspective in that I have let him down, I have forfeited his feelings for my own preservation and for what I considered the greater good. Had it been possible for me to forgo a certain selfish desire to have less chaos or challenge, then I think it would have gone a lot better from the start, but as the years went by, and as he grew and I shrank, it just got worse.
Regardless of any excuse or reason, the feeling is what it is; and there is no getting past that until we can do just that.

Uh oh

The ratio of post apocalyptic verses Judd Apatow movies is rapidly increasing at exponential levels. I can only suggest that's because, things appear to be getting a little less funny and a tad bit more dire.
Or, perhaps the lid is coming off all of the frangible and ultimately too precarious to last through the entire eight years, financial schemes that have been brewing.
I had a dream last night, an end of civilization as we know it dream, it would have made a great screenplay; there were tiny people, aliens, vast amounts of party food, and underground escapes, that led to brightly lit subway stations where the zombies were waiting, because what's the end of the world without the living dead I have to ask.
The point here, is, not to share my only interesting to me dream, but to say, that I'm sure I'm not alone in feeling the stress of what greed has done to this world, and that's all it is, it's not complicated, there is nothing different going on than what has been taking place, forever, it's just someone opened the curtain and people got caught with something besides their pants down, so now reckoning has to be made, and it's up to all of us, the oafs that make up most of the population, to clear it up and forget about it in a few months, (I mean minutes), when the next big thing comes along.

I was dreaming of the past

I like to pretend that I'm not competitive, and I really don't know why. Most people are, it's a big part of our culture, even our nature to want something or to be really good or successful in a field. I have usually suppressed my desire to prove that I was superior at something, except in a few cases and with a few people. I squirm when certain members of the cast of characters from my past end up with awards or are heralded with accolades. But, if I investigate this further, it's not as if I want them to be living on skid row, so it's purely the emotional reaction of the three year old that lives in me, and I'm assuming others.
In essence, after hours of being boiled down, what this experience is really about is feeling less than I'd like to feel about myself, and has nothing to do with anyone else. Just me and living with the choices I've made, and keep making. However, I can say that at this point on the O'Neill homestead, I'm still unbeatable at ping-pong much to my pleasure; and for all the men I live with, it's the one thing, metaphorically of course, that I can lord over them.

Maybe my connection is tired

If someone is lecturing me, for to long, I like anyone else will zone out.
Jack Henry is in full on teenage mode, it was as if, dare I be overly dramatic and cliched, as if a switch was flipped and he became a sitcom, or after school special version of his former self.
It's not all bad, some of it is entertaining, like walking by the bathroom and catching him checking out how he looks with certain expressions, or having him change clothes four times a day. But what I worry about keeping straight is that , not all teenagers are going to end up like Jake and take things in terms of social interest or lack of direction to the farthest point possible. So I try to temper my responses and maintain an aloof nature regarding the stuff that doesn't count for much, it's the nature of the age, to push the boundaries, but because Gus was so directed and interested in good grades and being successful, that with Jack it's a whole new thing, one that presents me with a new series of challenges, including, what not to wear.

but i'm never as tired as when i'm waking up

We had what I might call a "normal" start to a weekday yesterday. The district has some kind of in service a few days during the year, so school starts two hours later than usual, in Gus' case that means he has to be there at 8:46. Yes, that's right every day, we have to get up at 6 in order to send the boy on his way.
I don't know about most people, but I'm not myself that early, and it's apparent to me now that neither is the rest of my family.
Yesterday, we talked, joked had some breakfast and pretty much felt like we should feel most of the time, but don't because for some arbitrary reason, our school system along with many others, are compelled to force people to feel out of whack 180 days a year; and spend the rest of those days, attempting to either make up for it or lament the ones coming.

A little late

David Foster Wallace killed himself Friday. His book Broom of the System, was one that helped me to reach a place I couldn't really describe or imagine until I read it, and things became clear.
That's what we hope all literature can do for us, or any art for that matter, bring us to point of clarity, understanding or anything that makes us feel more than the banality.
There is a section in the book, and I'm trying to remember from twenty years ago, what exactly the context was, because my copy got lost as it was part of a box that was lost in the mail when I moved back to Cleveland from California. Instead of my box of movie books and other favorites, I got the box I had sent, but the contents were a shipment of books about the history of the the Boy Scouts.
When I brought the box to the post office and explained this to a series of indifferent employees, apparently they felt the best action would be to send the intact box to a boy scout troop, who then contacted me and asked me why I had sent them the books.
So, anyway there is a character in the book that grows enormous because she wants to take up as much room in the world as she can so that she pretty much can prove that she exists and is worthy of the space. That was a significant and powerful analysis for me, and for that I have always been fond of DFW, and am sad that he felt compelled to eliminate himself physically from this world.

Right where I want you

I thought I had an unconventional, and reasonably difficult upbringing; until, yes it took a movie; until I watched Surfwise yesterday. The problem with living with someone or a couple who want to live outside the norm, or raise children with their exclusive world view, is that it's just that, it's theirs and therefore, it is subjective and usually inflexible until after the fact, when they mature enough to see that they really didn't need to have been that dogmatic or serious. And, then, of course it's too late, damage is done, and the next generation is sure to be mired in the dismantling of how and why so that they can figure out ways to rise above, or just manage to live with their circumstances.

I don't know when

Jake called this morning, from his car, that he was driving, with his licence and insurance. He went a did it himself. I was a bit awestruck, dare I say proud; and of what, that I finally had removed myself enough from his life to make him competent. What does that say about me or my parenting, except that I disabled my child. I really don't know here. I want for there to be a clear understanding that I want to do everything for them, but I can't, and for them to actually become adults, and productive, I have to step back, far back and let them be.

I guess that's what I am

Yesterday, my friend treated me to a pedicure as a belated birthday gift. We went to a place that just does nails and I kind of cringe every time I go there in that I'm not a fan of being made fun of or talked about right in front of my face, but because I don't speak fluent Vietnamese, though I used to know a limited amount when I worked in California and had a lot of Asian clients; that was twenty years ago, so any knowledge I had has been eclipsed by Japanese and or parent brain.
So there we sit, four of us with feet soaking, waiting for the fifth gal to show, and when she doesn't, that initializes a buzz of resentment and frustration amongst the technicians that might be appropriate for someone late to say a wedding or court date, but not necessarily something that added to the alleged relaxing experience one is supposed to have in that environment.
How I know they were talking about us, lest anyone think I'm more paranoid than usual; was the head tilts in our direction and the use of our names, (as we had to sign in when we came), between long bombasts of dialog.
I don't really like paying people to do things for me, in terms of physical service, so already I'm in a position of discomfort, and untranslated commentary regarding, perhaps my foot size or friend's ability to be prompt, seems to not make that any easier.

Is that not enough

What day is it anyway. The Labor Day holiday just messes with me.
So over the festive weekend, we sent to the less than tasty, Taste of Cleveland event down by the river. The only remarkable thing about this thing is that it's so bad. How much effort the planners and sponsors must put forth to make this experience a miserable and difficult one is remarkable.
But, the reason we went goes beyond the delights of the giant inflatable Road Runner or lots of lite beer. Unfortunately, Squeeze ended up on the fair circuit, so that was the venue that I had to drag Eamon to in order to relive 1981. The show was a finely tuned extravaganza with hits and bits from each of the solo endeavours of Glen Tilbrook and Chris Difford, with rousing sing-a-longs to finish it up. In other words, it's the ultimate metaphor for aging, Mutton dressed up as lamb, me included.

Hard way to go

Is most art some form of mental illness, is expression that has any depth and isn't merely formulaic nonsense, the price people pay for being introspective or self aware? Maybe for some; because it's obvious that for certain people, producing in any medium is taxing and perhaps even takes a bit of them each time they develop a story, song or visual piece.
And for some, it's the progeny that sucks the life right out.
Jake called this morning, half an hour before he needed to go to work, I had just invited friends over for breakfast, and they were on their way, but for some forsaken reason I felt compelled to go and pick him up and bring him, lest it be that easy, when he got in the car, he informed me that his apron and work shirt were elsewhere.
I ranted for a bit, about no warning and how I would seem so flaky to my guests, by not being there when I had invited them, and blah, blah, blah, when I realized and said to him, how much do you have to keep track of that you left half of your clothes there.
I've been overwhelmed of late, due to the pull of so many and so much, yet I seem to manage to keep all of my shit together, or at least on the surface.