CarlHoliday

Our house is an enigma. It was built in the late 60s by a US Army top sergeant to be his retirement home. Well, by the time full retirement came around, he was living somewhere else and our house was fulfilling its purpose as a rental. We'll have been here ten years this August. Ten years of interesting surprises and angry outbursts of extreme aggravation. Unfortunately, we've contributed to the house's inability to perform at its best. A number of years ago we decided we needed gas heat to reduce the horrendous outlay of dollars to our local electric company. It didn't take the gas heating salesperson (He was a guy, but PC regulations prevent me from formally disclosing that fact. He was also borderline obese, spoke with too much spit in his mouth, was severely affected with premature hair loss, but had a great personality that went a long way toward helping us decide on what kind of gas heat was appropriate for our house.) to determine that we couldn't retrofit a gas furnace, didn't have an empty wall for a gas fireplace, having furry pets precluded the use of a floor furnace, and the only solution possible was a direct-vent, wall mounted, gas heater. Luck would have it, they had one in stock. The gas heater performed admirably since then. It had its quirks. The loud boom as it cooled was simply hot steel contracting or so I said to an unbelieving wife. The gas odor at the vent was negligible and the wind had to be from the right direction to smell it. That is until this winter. The blow torch sound was all I needed to hear to know it was time to call a repairman to have a look. Unfortunately, I was dealing with recovery from the major depression episode so the call didn't go out. The wife wouldn't call. She's been playing this game of, "you're home now, I'm not going to do anything that you can do." It took me a month to get up the energy to call. The first repairman had never seen our model of gas heater. He left baffled at what could be causing the problem. He also turned off our gas water heater, but when your incompetence is so blatant, anything is possible. The second repairman knew our unit, but was baffled with the problem. That is until he took out the burner. Gas burners have few requirements for a successful existence. Cracks and broken vent holes are not on any list of required assets. A new burner was ordered. "Do you want it UPS Ground, or do you want it expedited?" "Ground is okay." Two weeks later the third repairman shows up to install the new burner. Unfortunately, he couldn't get the pilot light to stay on after lighting it. Today, the fourth repairman showed up unannounced, but got the gas heater to work. There were a number of adjustments that no one else seemed aware of, but he seemed to think the pilot light module needed to be replaced because the pilot light flame was too small, so we ordered one. Of far more importance though was the heater was usable until someone came back to install it. As he was leaving the wife said, "I smell gas." The fitting on the pilot light wasn't fully tight. The repairman said that should solve the problem, but if we continued to smell gas, we should turn the unit off at the floor valve. We've reactivated the electric heaters. The gas heater isn't and won't be until the gasman cometh, again.

I'm not, by the way, so y'all can get back to the more important things in life. I've been having a small problem with the new story. One of the characters, Jim, is in his early 70s and he's being difficult. Every time I get around to attempting to write about him, I run into a block. It wasn't until this morning that I finally figured out what's wrong with Jim. For starters, what's right about Jim is he's a fairly famous sci-fi writer whose early work bordered on blatant pornography. Not quite as notorious as other Beat Generation authors, Jim Waters achieved enough fame to acquire the independence required to continue writing without having to resort to a sideline, such as teaching. Shortly after arriving at Columbia in the mid-50s to attend graduate school, Jim caught the attention of Robert "Bobby" Charles, the famous Abstract Expressionist who only recently returned from an extended stay in Europe. If "love at first sight" is a cosmic possibility, it certainly applied to Jim and Bobby. They lived in the Village for a few years during which Jim's first three novels were published, he received his Master's in Literature, and Bobby purchased the property for his Art Institute in a remote corner of Washington State. The Art Institute closed in the 80s and everyone (Bobby, Jim, and their cook/housekeeper, Euphorbia Gneiss) moved to North Park, Washington, where they opened an honors residence for art majors at North Park College. Bobby died three years prior to the time of my story. So, what is wrong with Jim? Nothing much, actually. Some bowel issues, he watches his fiber and worries about regularity. Although he's surrounded by a lot of people who love him, he'd kind of like to find someone to love him in that special way. What does a 70-something gay man do to find love, again? And, like a lot of writers at the end of their careers, he wonders if the spark of creativity has finally gone out. Now that I know what's wrong with Jim the story can move forward.

I'm back to 276. For a few days I pushed it up to 279, but this morning I was back to 276. Difference? Haven't partaken of the Mexican food for two days and the day before yesterday I had Albondigas, which is a really, really good soup. The mood stabilizer seems to have kicked in. I'm kind of blah most of the time, but there seems to be an edge of anger that hangs over me like that famous sword. I feel like exploding at the slightest provocation, like this morning when the wife commented that Bonita doesn't get wet food at night anymore. It was an innocent comment, but it irritated like hell. We took Bonita off the nighttime full meal because she was getting too heavy. I mean who wants a porky Chihuahua. It certainly isn't good for the dog, but the wife seems to think she needs to fatten up the dog to make her happy. So, I blew up and told the wife to put Bonita back on the wet food at night and she goes all, "well, aren't you in a good mood this morning." Well, I was trying very hard to have a good morning. I worked on the new story. I read a good portion of "The Gathering." I had some good thoughts, too. I had to work very hard on those, but I managed to get a few in. It's important to think good thoughts when you're plagued with dark clouds. But, I blew up and ended up feeling bad. The anger worries me. If I can't control it, I may have to think about alternate futures, not that I have much of a future left. At the most, I figure I have about 25 years left. 25 + 58 = 83. My mother was 83 when she died. My dad was 52 when heart failure complicated with stage 4 prostate cancer did him in. My mother's father was 89. My father's father was 59. Cancer lurks on my father's side. Vascular disease seems to plague my mother's side, though she died from breast cancer brought about by a alcohol impaired immune system. Well, gotta go.

For the third day in a row, I weighed 276 pounds first thing in the morning. This isn

It's 2:30 a.m. and I'm awake. I suppose I should be asleep, but I'm not. Insomnia is one of the many side effects of the mood stabilizer I'm taking. It also causes drowsiness. So you end up being sleepy when you're suppose to be awake and doggedly awake when you're suppose to be asleep. So, I worked on the new book. I'm probably on the last section of the second chapter. I can't see adding much more to this chapter once I finish with Euphorbia and Casey. The third chapter will cover the picnic and the fourth chapter will be later that night. I finished with Tim and, as expected, the final reviews are non-existent. Not much else is going on as I can't go back to work until I see the shrink on April 7. I did find out bipolar isn't a disqualifier on a CDL physical, but mood stabilizers are if you're having trouble with drowsiness and sleeplessness. Yesterday, I wasn't drowsy at all, so a bit of sleeplessness should be expected. We also went to the Mexican restaurant, and while I didn't drink too much, I did drink and shouldn't have. Basically, I have to stop drinking if I'm going to take mood stabilizers. Alcohol messes up the chemical reactions in the medicine. I've been drinking for forty years. I smoked cigarettes for thirty years and quit, so I do know about the agony of quitting. Since I don't drink when driving trucks, it shouldn't be too difficult, but I may have to stop going to the Mexican restaurant for awhile. After all, what's more important? Well, I've been up for over two hours and I think I've worn myself down enough to get a few more hours of dreamtime. Have to get up before six-thirty so I can take my mood stabilizer at seven-thirty.

It all depends on what you need a partner for. Knowing what I know now, I might not have looked for someone until much later in life when having that special person beside you on rainy nights makes more sense. For me a life partner means someone I grow used to, to the point where the foibles are balanced against what you need in a partner. I don't do lonely very well so I look forward to having someone around at the end, whether it's my current partner or someone new. As much as you may look forward to dying together, reality means one or the other going first. My current partner is not healthy, worse than me, so I expect to be looking for a new life partner ten or fifteen years from now. Carl

I hope I wanted a lizard with a green ankh and a yellow stripe down its back because that

Hey, thanks for the advice. Unfortunately, I take hydrochlorothiazide for hypertension and have to limit my exposure to the sun. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

One of the fun side effects of mood stabilizers is weight gain which is okay if you

Valproic Acid, actually. I went to the psychiatrist yesterday. Thankfully, he wasn

I went to the therapist on Tuesday and gave her The Letter. Dear Mom, Well, here we are. I

Nick, Check out Wikipedia. They have a good article on stuttering. Supposedly, Moses stuttered. You don't know how to wash silverware? Carl

I'm trying very hard to get a handle on not being depressed. It's so weird! I'm just, simply, not at all, depressed. Period! And, I think I've got too much extra energy. I'm not as sleepy. I'm drowsy, but not sleepy. I almost have to force myself to go to sleep. Am I cured? Don't know because I could drop into a low, unless the medicine is stopping me. Maybe this is a high on citalopram. I know what a high on buproprion feels like, so maybe this is just what I get on citalopram. I feel like I'm on the edge of something. It's like I have a whole lot of energy to do something, but don't have in incentive or desire to do it, which would mean I'm still depressed, but too high to notice. I've decided to write a letter to my parents versus doing the short story (the story wasn't going anywhere). I need to bury the ghosts and the only way I'm going to do it is to: Dear Mom and Dad, I'm fine, sort of. Sorry about your lonely death, Mom, but I never felt like comforting you when you were alive so why should I comfort you because you were dying, especially when you didn't let me know you were actually terminal. And, Dad, I know we didn't talk all that much, whether it was you or me, we never seemed to click. Then you died and I didn't even know you were terminal. Thanks for not being truthful and honest to your only child. Pretty depressing isn't it? It only gets worse, but I think it needs to be done. I'm not going to be able to move forward unless I put those two assholes in their proper place in my life. If you've got a good mom or dad, give them a hug and tell them you love them just because they're so good to you. You know what? My mother never, ever hugged me. Then a few years ago she all of a sudden started all this hugging shit. She was terminal, but she couldn't tell me she was dying and needed my comforting embrace to make her feel good. It was always, up to the very end, about her. Pretty depressing isn't it? I'd go have a good cry right now, but I was raised not to cry. Boys don't cry! Period! I didn't grieve my father and I can't grieve my mother. I'd better stop, I beginning to make myself feel depressed.

First off, I am not depressed anymore. As of Monday morning, when I woke up not depressed, I have not slid back into a down cycle. I'm not particularly happy, though. I was happy earlier in the week, but I could be happy if I wasn't so drowsy. I am sleepy or drowsy most of the time. I sleep for hours, get up, eat, go back to bed and sleep for a few hours more. My counselor and GP think it might be the citalopram causing this extreme drowsiness. The GP cut my prescription back to the standard dosage of 40mg. I went to the counselor on Tuesday and we talked about being happy and the cyclical nature of my brand of depression. We talked about when I was on buproprion and how I cycled between extreme giddiness and perpetual dark clouds. She gave me a little test. Out of eighteen or so questions I got only four right. She's referring me to a psychiatrist to see if I qualify for a mood stabilizer. She tacked "Bipolar Disorder, Nonspecific" on my medical record. I just want to get out of the cycles, but carrying "Bipolar" around on my permanent medical record might cause all sorts of problems, especially since "Bipolar" is a disqualifying disorder as far as driving the big trucks goes. Not that I want to do that anymore, but I might want to get some other kind of driving position and that might not be possible if the psychiatrist ends up specifying I'm "Bipolar" or something else like hypomania, which sounds like fun, too. The counselor gave me an assignment for next time. I have to write either a letter to Mom or Dad telling them what a bang up job they did with raising me and how much I appreciate their belittling, derision, ridicule, and all the other fun things they thought would turn me into a successful human being; or, I have to write a short story about a little boy (not me) who is raised by parents like mine. I'm not quite brave enough for the possible cathartic experience of writing a letter to either parent so I'm going with the short story. It should be fun. The only big problem with being awake is getting the mind to shut down. It seems to be having one heck of a time working on Chartreuse and the new story (tentatively titled "The Cutest Ogre"), plus writing blog entries like this. Chartreuse is still going slow, but it is going. Ogre is barely started, but I have to have it done by the 25th, so it will probably take up a lot of my time.

Well, I

It's great to have a talisman to hold close to your heart. Seems you've found yours.

The final chapter of The Pastel Cowboy has been posted and all the strings were tied into pretty bows. There are five more chapters of Tim and the Corsair, which will be posted in the next couple months. Unfortunately, the Kevin project or whatever else is to follow Tim is still in the development stage, or worse. My life right now has been reduced to what happens today, or worse, what happens this moment. A good day means exercising, bathing, putting on clothes, and going out of the house to the Mexican restaurant or the store. An okay day means going into my room and working on a writing project like Pastel, Tim, or hopefully, the new story. A bad day is spent in bed, mostly asleep. Yesterday was almost bad day, saved only by sending Pastel to Joe so he could do the magic wand trick. So far, in the past month, I've had maybe five good days. Today maybe a good day. I woke up early and, although I'm exhausted, I am writing this, I did the announcement for Pastel, and I do want to work on Kevin. I plan on exercising, bathing, putting on something spiffy, and going out somewhere. I can't go far because I'm still not supposed to be driving (anything) and the wife won't let me. I'm not certain the Citalopram is working much more than keeping those "bad" thoughts at bay. I hardly ever have them, but I'm still scared of having a spur of the moment decision at the wrong time. Just being is quite difficult sometimes. I am keeping my recovery journal, though; and, I'm reading Bradshaw looking for a magical cure to the rattling skeletons in my closet. The counselor is great and I think she's honestly trying to help me realize I'm not the worthless sack of shit I was raised to be. No matter what they say, ridicule is not what a kid wants to hear, especially if it's coming from a parent or other family member. I want you to have a good day. I know I'm going to try to. And, tell someone you love them, even if it's just your cat.

Okay, this is the deal: I'm working on why my mother's death threw me into a major depressive episode that came within a hair's breadth of resulting in an exit attempt. I think the only reason I don't try harder is that some part of me thinks everything will work out for the better. Also, I don't like pain and while being run over by a truck is certain to cause death, it might not be immediate. Hypothermia is still my means of choice, but I didn't do that either. Why I don't know. We're starting at the beginning. You know, back when yours truly was being abused physically, verbally, and emotionally. Today we worked on my childhood when I was frequently spanked with vacuum cleaner cords (witnessed by a friend who would never come to my house again), shoes, hands, wooden spoons, spatulas, and the piece of kindling in the cupboard above the refrigerator. The piece of kindling became a kind of perpetual threat. "Behave or you know what's going to be on your butt!" We only touched upon the verbal and emotional abuse. A lot of that occurred in my adolescence. Okay, I was big and tall so physical abuse wasn't a viable option. They didn't need to hit me physically when words worked just as easily, if not better. So, I'm keeping a journal of where I'm going with this. Also, I'm considering going to AA. I'm probably an alcoholic. Both of my parents were. I don't drink that much all the time, but I tend to drink every day. A little bit every day is good, but too much two or three days a week is too much. I'll definitely discuss this with my therapist before making the big step because once undertaken, there's no going back. Well, that's what's going on so far. I have not worked on the Kevin project, yet, but I should be starting in a day or two. I've been waking up every morning between 4 and 5 o'clock and staying awake until 8 or 9. If I can get focused on Kevin, I should be able to expend enough creative energy to generate a few chapters so it'll be ready to launch when Tim completes next month.

I'm not working on the Kevin project. I've written a couple blog entries, but nothing else. It's been a week since my prescription was upped to 40mg and I'm finally coming out of the fog. I've been asleep for most of the time, but I sleep fitfully. The Pastel Cowboy is coming to a close. One more chapter, but the Kevin project is not ready to launch. Tim and the Corsair has five more chapters, but I don't think the Kevin project will be ready to launch at that time, either. I've decided I'm not going to try to find a new job until after the wife, Bonita, and I take a road trip at the end of February. A long trip would include the Decanso Gardens in La Canada Flintridge, the Sonoran Desert Museum in Tucson, the Permian Petroleum Museum in Midland, and possibly a blogger I know near Decatur, AL. A short trip would take in the sights around LA. Whatever we do or wherever we go we have to plan around doing things where Bonita isn't excluded simply because she's a dog, which means a lot of outdoorsy stuff. Right now, I need to be working on the Kevin project, but that doesn't look doable tonight.

Okay, so I'm grasping a straws, willing to do anything to pull the slightest tee-hee out of the air, even if it means stealing a cartoon from another blogger, even if it means resorting to a dog joke. I have not worked on the Kevin project. I can barely get anything done. I have to force myself to do the simplest things. I am getting better, though. I'm not plagued with fits of unstoppable yawning. I'm not feeling drugged into submission. I am tired, though. So, I look for something funny; and, the Kevin project is not funny so I don't work on it. I think it might not make the cut, but I don't want to throw it away completely.

I don't know how many of you have read Larry McMurtry's final installment of the Thalia trilogy, which began with The Last Picture Show and Texasville, but like Duane Moore, I am now sans motor vehicle. I will not be driving for at least the next month; or, until the little green men stop jumping out in front of the vehicle. I went to a therapist today and I'm on the road to recovery, yet again. The Celexa is causing a lot of yawning and drowsiness and I'm only taking a half dose. I'm not certain whether I'll be able to continue with it. I go to the GP this Friday for that determination. Whatever the situation, I won't be driving for the time being.

So, this is the deal, "I'm still depressed." Also, "I'm not driving." If we need to go anywhere, the wife does the driving. Quite frankly, I'm scared to death I might veer off and do something stupid. I'm going to a therapist Monday morning. Hopefully, we'll be able to determine whether I should stay away from the big trucks for awhile. I'm also very tired and I'm having trouble writing on the Kevin project, which I need to be working on because The Pastel Cowboy is almost finished and I need to have the Kevin project ready to go before Tim and the Corsair are complete. My only other option is to put up my first novel, Red Bridge, which is about as nutty as the other two stories, not to say the Kevin project isn't as nutty. Another option might be to do a series on Glandar, the handy little artificial planet I came up with for the anthologies. Acam and Neri might work out as a nice set of adventurers seeking their fortune on a planet where there is no future. I want to make the Kevin project work as a story, but the depression is intruding and I'm not doing well right now. I think the hardest part right now is not knowing how things are going to turn out in the near term. Quite frankly, I think I'm nutso and might need to go somewhere for a long rest. You see, I'm very tired of being depressed. That's one of the things I'm going to talk to the therapist about. Another bit of news: I just finished reading The Known World by Edward P. Jones, which won the 2004 Pultizer Prize. This was not an easy read. Jones' writing style is not easy to read. It was an interesting story, though, but not one I'd recommend to the faint of heart. It certainly didn't help my depression by reading it. Just to prove I'm not all doom and gloom, the following are provided for your entertainment. (These were sent to me by a blogger who seeks humor). The Druggist Has a Bad Day Upon arriving home in eager anticipation of a leisurely evening, the husband was met at the door by his sobbing wife. Tearfully she explained, "It's the druggist - he insulted me terribly this morning on the phone." Immediately the husband drove downtown to accost the druggist and demand an apology. Before he could say more than a word or two, the druggist told him, "Now, just a minute - listen to my side of it. This morning the alarm failed to go off, so I was late getting up. I went without breakfast and hurried out to the car, but I'll be damned if I didn't lock the house with both house and car keys inside. I had to break a window to get my keys. Driving a little too fast, I got a speeding ticket. Then, about three blocks from the store I had a flat tire. When I finally got to the store there was a bunch of people waiting for me to open up. I got the store opened and started waiting on these people, and all the time the darn phone was ringing its head off. Then I had to break a roll of nickels against the cash register drawer to make change, and they spilled all over the floor. I got down on my hands and knees to pick up the nickels - the phone is still ringing - when I came up I cracked my head on the open cash drawer, which made me stagger back against a showcase with a bunch of perfume bottles on it, and half of them hit the floor and broke. The phone is still ringing with no let up, and I finally got back to answer it. It was your wife - she wanted to know how to use a rectal thermometer. And Mister, I TOLD HER!" The Stuttering Cat A teacher is explaining biology to her 4th grade students. "Human beings are the only animals that stutter," she says. A little girl raises her hand. "I had a kitty-cat who stuttered," she volunteered. The teacher, knowing how precious some of these stories could become, asked the girl to describe the incident. "Well," she began, "I was in the back yard with my kitty and the Rottweiler that lives next door got a running start and before we knew it, he jumped over the fence into our yard!" "That must've been scary," said the teacher. "It sure was," said the little girl. "My kitty raised her back, went 'Fffff, Fffff, Fffff, and before she could say 'f**K,' the Rottweiler ate her!"

Sheesh! Fiction or Non-Fiction? Living author or dead? I suppose it's a toss up as far as fiction goes: Dune by Frank Herbert Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie The Hobbit by JRR Tolkien The Third Policeman by Flann O'Brien or And, then non-fiction choices would have to start with: Annals of a Former World by John McPhee The Dancing Wu Li Masters by Gary Zukav Being Digital by Nicholas Negroponte The Battle for God by Karen Armstrong But, if I have to pick the one book that had the most influence on me as a person, one that I've read over and over and would read again and again, well, I suppose that would have to be: The Lord of the Rings by JRR Tolkien Unless it was any of the Discworld series by Terry Pratchett, which are all priceless and worth reading over and over, again and again.

I hate being between antidepressants. It's so depressing. I have no energy. I have little interest. Yet, I did work on my first 2008 anthology story. It's almost done. I wanted to get it out of the way. I think most of it was done when the Wellbutrin was still active. It's gone, now, and I've been on Celexa for two days, but not long enough to make a difference. The Kevin project has turned in a practical rewrite. I wrote a prologue that redefines the character and I think makes him better. Yet, I can't get the energy to go further. I think I need to stay away for a little while. Maybe I'll feel better in a week or so. What's really hard is nothing is funny. The biggest problem is

Can music be gay or straight? Well, the stereotypical response would be Judy Garland, Celine Dion, Madonna, Bette Midler, and even Dwight Yoakam could be considered to appeal to gay audiences, but do they play gay music? To me, I Can Hear Music by The Beach Boys is about as gay as you can get. It's definitely not gender specific so it can be sung to a guy and well as a girl, which most would assume is the target of the song. If you're listening to Love for Sale by Billie Holiday, you could say it's about as straight a song as it can be, but if it's sung by Harry Connick, Jr., (who by the way continues to remain on my cute list) does that make it a gay song? If a straight person tells me the music I listen to is gay, do I think their opinion is worth anythhing? To be honest, if the music hits me in the balls it must be gay since I am gay and I'm responding to the music in a sexual way. Some music does that and some doesn't, but I think it's a matter of personal taste. To say everything I listen to is gay simply because I'm gay doesn't hold much weight as far as I'm concerned. After all, I don't think Connie Francis meant what I'm thinking when I listen to Where the Boys Are. Carl