CarlHoliday

Do you enjoy waiting? I don't. I'm at a truck stop in Idaho Falls waiting until it's time to go pick up my next load. I've been waiting here since noon yesterday. When I was on my way here the day before yesterday, I received a load that was supposed to pick up two hours before my current load was to be delivered. Not only was it two hours earlier, it was over an hour away. I figured, with a lot of luck and favorable weather, I'd be six or seven hours late for the pickup. I let the weekend dispatchers know the situation. Thankfully, they took the load away from me, but they didn't give me a replacement load. Such is life. Then yesterday, as I was getting ready to deliver the load, I received the replacement load. It doesn't pick up until 13:00 this afternoon, thirty some miles down the road. So, I've been waiting. I actually wrote a little bit, too. I should've written more, but that didn't happen. I have to be in Topeka, KS, Wednesday morning. Needless to say, I'll be hauling ass for the next two days. According to my figures, if all goes well, which is highly unlikely, I should arrive at the delivery location ten minutes late. Sooooo, I'll have to make up time by going a little further each day than I should, pushing the limits, running right up to that out of hours time and going a bit further, all the while hoping nothing unforeseen happens. Oh, and the depression? Well, let's just say I'm doing too well, I'm too happy, which is not good either.

What do you do for endless hours with nothing to do except keep the big truck between the lines and away from four-wheelers made of plastic and sheet metal? Listen to music? Yeah, sometimes and sometimes the road is so washboarded that the CD player doesn

How would you like to attend Gig Harbor High School, in the overly pretentious bedroom community of Gig Harbor, Washington? Well, maybe you might want to check this out. It seems the parents of one of the students contacted the Dean of Students and

Actually, the wife suggested I take Bonita with me, but since I was flying to Salt Lake on a non-pet friendly airline, that was impractical. In July of last year, the wife and Bonita accompanied me for 3 weeks, but Bonita didn't do well. She likes to potty on her lawn, not whatever is available out on the highways and biways of America. One day, she simply refused to go at every opportunity and held her bladder until she couldn't hold it any longer. She was actually in pain when she let out a stream of urine that soaked the passenger door. So, I'm not certain I want her with me if she's not going to enjoy going places and having to potty in places she'd rather not.

I went to the doctor on Friday and got my release to go back to work, effective today, but I

Have you ever listened to the ads on your local radio station and wonder if anyone was actually there? Tonight, as we were heading to our favorite Mexican restaurant, the station played an ad for the local daffodil festival, which just happened to occur today. They were expounding on the Grand Floral Parade encouraging listeners to flock to downtown Tacoma, Puyallup, Sumner, and even Orting. The ad was completely worthless; and, who wants to go to Orting? They practically closed the town this week because the city water supply was contaminated. Then, as we were heading to the clinic to pick up my triglyceride lowering medicine, an ad for a slot machine tournament hosted by Fabian came on. It sounded like something interesting, but then the date of the event was announced: April 21. Today! Most of you probably don't know who Fabian is. Sorry, you're too young. Today, when he's not hosting slot machine tournaments at out of the way Indian casinos, he sometimes tours with other former teen heartthrobs from the Fifties and Sixties, Frankie Avalon and Bobby Rydell. I remember way back then, you know in the days before color TV and automatic transmissions, surreptiously looking at teen fan magazines with one of those three on the cover and wishing I could buy them, but knowing my parents would kill me if they knew why I was so interested in fan magazines with guys on the cover. Annette Funicello just didn't do it for some reason. What I'd like to know is how far does a celebrity have to fall before they're looking forward to hosting slot machine tournaments in Rochester, Washington. It's a nice town, I know I've been through there. It has a stoplight, for god's sake, but what is Fabian doing there? You'd think he'd want to go Tacoma instead. At least there's a pulp mill there. Can you imagine all the gray hairs flocking around him like a bunch of foolish children? I don't even want to think about it. Besides, local Indian casinos are not smoke-free. Sorry, I don't mind you dying of lung disease, but please do it outside!

Tolerated. That

I have to admit I only read two of Vonnegut's books: Slaughterhouse-Five, which definitely affected my view of the history of WWII as revised by Hollywood; and, Galapagos, which I happened to read only because Vonnegut was coming to the University of Puget Sound as a guest lecturer. At the time, I was the typesetter in the university print shop. (It wasn't a big place. There were five permanent employees: the manager, graphic artist, two printers, and a typesetter.) This was back in the Eighties, before desktop publishing turned typesetting into a DIY industry. We were always trying to come up with original posters and I remember the Vonnegut poster mostly because he was gracious enough to autograph one of them. It was interesting the number of "celebrities" who came to campus to speak and, more often than not, declined to sign their poster. Then, last summer, I listened to the CD version of Slaughterhouse-Five, which is narrated by the author. I look forward to listening to it, again.

Generally, I don

I will be so glad when I get back to work. The past three and a half months have been totally not fun. The truth be known, I've always had a tendency to poo-poo co-workers with sprained joints for all their complaining about not being able to do anything. I mean a broken bone is definitely something bad, but a sprain? Come on, the word doesn't even sound bad. Broken bone, torn ligament, bruised tendon, now those sound painful and probably deserve a get well card, but a sprain, or even worse, a strain, just doesn't sound bad. Well, now I know the truth. Not being able to pick up my five pound Chihuahua is not a good thing, especially when she keeps coming to me to pick her up so she can see the world. Being only six inches tall doesn't give a dog a good view of the surrounding territory. Until just a few days ago, picking up the dog was, well, not something done without thought. That's all changed. My wrist is definitely getting better. Next week the hand therapist is going to start me out picking up weighted boxes. I have to be able to pick up 75 pounds to be able to go back to work. Next Thursday, I'm going to pick up that 75 pound box and put it on the shelf. Then next Friday, I'm going to the orthopedic guy and he's going to release me to go back to work. Happy days! Only, there's a tiny bit of a problem. Yeah, mother is getting worse. I'm not certain we'll be able to get her into the new place. Hopefully, that will work out before I leave, but I'm not certain. Then there's the wife. She'll be having surgery on the bottom of her foot on the First of June. Seems she tore a ligament when she twisted it back in December. It's not the bunion that is causing all her problems. The problem she's having, though, has more to do with her sciatica which is being aggravated because she can't put any pressure on her big toe. She walks funny and gets a pain. But, I'm going back to work and I'm going to have fun, a lot more fun than I'm having today. And, going back to work means getting back into the swing of things writing-wise. I'm possitively certain getting out on the road is going to increase my need to write. There's nothing like staring Death in the face on America's highways every day to get rid of writing blocks.

Last weekend the wife and I were out in the front flower bed pulling dandelions. Mostly, I think, because they

Yesterday

We went to see my mother today; or, rather, we ended up seeing the body that used to be my mother. She

It

We went to visit my mother yesterday and she was okay, just a little off center. She actually recognized the wife, something she hasn't done since the episode that put her in the nursing home. Then she said I could sell my house and move into hers since I'm still off work and am having a bit of a financial struggle. I said everything is okay and I don't need to move back to the family home. Today, my son went up to visit and take the items on her shopping list. She thought he was me. He said the whole time he was there she kept asking what is N__ doing and it's a shame he won't come up and visit. This is all very hard on him as he's been living with her for about six years and has seen her steady down hill slide. I should be taking notes so I can write funny stories about her happy days of dementia, but, you know, seeing it happen to a loved one isn't the same as hearing about someone else's poor dear slowly going bonkers. I finished the story I'll be submitting for the Spring Anthology. It's not as depressing as I usually write. You could almost say it's bunnies and duckies frolicking in a spring meadow. Maybe even a Karo syrup kind of story. And, I'm formulating Chapter 12 of The Pastel Cowboy. I'm actually able to foresee where that chapter will go, which is really amazing considering I haven't gone near it for a month. My other series, Flight to Syracuse, is still languishing in some dark netherworld of my mind. I know better than try to force it. I don't have to have surgery on my wrist, but have to go to P.T. for a month before being able to go back to work. It was a definite sprain. Actually, the report stated it as SPRAINED WRIST. Yeah, all caps so it would stand out. The report also said there was a 3 cm tear in something with a totally incomprehensible name, but the surgeon said MRIs pick up everything and surgery wouldn't fix my problem. Peachy! Anyway, he was going to send me back to work, but work isn't local, so I have to stay home for another month. Sometimes, I look forward to that happy time in my life when all this will be a bad memory. A time when going to the toilet won't mean a run down the hall, but will be a broad smile as I drench my diaper. No, maybe that isn't a good thought.

It had to happen eventually. I simply had to wait for the right moment, the right set of circumstances. Until early Friday morning (like about 00:30 in the morning), I hadn't written anything of significance for too long. More importantly, I hadn't gotten any appreciable distance into a story for the Spring Anthology. Then it all came whooshing out and a story, a workable story inline within my proposal, started to filter out of the dismal depths of a very serious bout of depression. No, I am not back to work. I'm still laid up with a bum wrist. I had an arthrogram and MRI on Wednesday, but don't get the results until next Wednesday. My wrist hurt worse afterwards, but that's to be expected. My mother is in a nursing home. She has mild dementia. She thinks it's 1970 or 1972, depending on whether she thinks my dad is alive or dead. He died in 1971. She doesn't recognize my wife of 30 some years. She wants to go home, but has zero short term memory and can't be left alone. We can't afford in home care, so she gets to die at a nursing home. (Sometimes being an only child is not such a good thing. I wish I had an older, or younger, brother or sister I could pawn off the critical decisions about mother's care. It's especially bad when you suddenly find out the cancer is much worse than you were told and she may have had a stroke, or a series of small strokes, which knocked her off the sanity wagon. Right now, the woman in the nursing home is my mother in body only. The personality I've known for nearly my whole life has gone away. Lingering death is not something to look forward to.) And, then, the sun came up and I'm a little better. Actually, a whole lot better. Crazy better. Loopy better. Dangerously silly better. But, that's to be expected, too. The story is coming along. I know almost exactly where it's going. There will almost certainly be a happy ending.

Okay, this is the deal. I tried. Honest, I tried, but my fuzzed brain isn

Can you believe it? Nearly a full week without writing, not even a blog entry, nothing. That

I know I've said it before, but I hate being depressed. I'd give anything to be better, truly better, not this muddled, lethargic feeling I have now. Okay, I'm not suicidal. That's a plus, I guess. Three doses of Wellbutrin a day and I'm not suicidal. I'm not too creative, either, but with all antidepressants, you have to take negatives with the plusses. Prozac erased my libido. Celexa eliminated erections. Everything works with Wellbutrin, except creativity. Two doses a day and I'm more creative. Short stories on a whim creative, but I'm also a way too close to being suicidal. The mood swings go higher and lower. It's the lower ones that make driving over a bridge scary. I don't think I'd ever go so far as to actually attempt, again, but it's there when I'm taking only two doses. There's that uncertain risk. But, now, that I'm home vegetating while my wrist heals, I'm following doctor's orders and taking three doses a day; and, I'm suffering. I finally finished Chapter 11 of The Pastel Cowboy, but didn't go as far as I wanted. The chapter ends at a logical point, but I think it was more a matter of acquiesing to the inevitable rather than reaching out toward an ultimate goal. Writing is difficult, to say the least. I have no creative energy. This morning I woke up early, mostly due to Chili Verde and GERD, and finished the final edit of the chapter and then turned to the short story I plan on writing for the Spring Anthology, but there weren't any words to put down. I know what I want say and how I want to say it, but when I sit in front of the keyboard nothing comes out except an overwhelming sense of emptiness. I look at the words I've written and there's no recognition. This isn't a block. I've been paying attention to the effect of the medicine and this is simply how the medicine affects me. I can do one creative thing at a time. I can think of multiple stories, but when it comes to working, I can only do one story at a time. The cure is simple, go back to taking two doses a day and walk on the edge of oblivion, but having gobs of creative energy. I think I'll try lethargy for awhile. It's kind of restful being in a muddle. Safer, too.

Okay, I haven't written much more than nothing. I'm beat and I haven't done anything, not that I can do anything. I'm sleeping too much, then taking a nap because I'm too tired to do anything else. Strange thing is, I don't feel particularly depressed, although being super lethargic and not giving a flip about anything is a classic symptom. Maybe it's just that I'm getting settled here, after all it has been nearly two months since I've been grounded. Or, maybe, just maybe, it's the three doses of the antidepressant doing their magic. Maybe I'm just chemically subdued. I'd like to work on my three writing projects, but I look at them and nothing comes. Mostly, I think my filters are overpowering my need to write. It's damned near impossible to write when you keep filtering out the crap instead of leaving it for editing to tidying things up; oh yeah, that's right, I'm my own editor and have to remember to turn the editor off so the writer can write. When I'm feeling good, getting plenty of sleep, and getting up early in the morning to write, I'll write a thousand words or so, then go back in a few hours and edit the hell out of what I wrote. Maybe my editor is trying to be the author. Of course getting up early means going to bed early. Other than last night when I stayed up until well past one, I've been waking up about 2:30 with my mind aswim with writing ideas. The night before last it was all a bunch of esoteric crap from when I used to be heavily into the spiritual realm. It's fun until you wake up at 2:30 to discover the bump in the night is sitting on your bed and wants to go play high and seek on the astral plane. I haven't seen the bump in years, but he (well, it comes across as a "he") is still around. I can hear him sometimes. Like right now as I'm writing this. Yesterday I wandered over to the Argottean Federation and poked around on Orcol and Gurd trying to find a Schtickist for a story, but even that didn't last more than an hour. Boredom set in and I melted into oblivion. I need to get Chapter 11 of The Pastel Cowboy finished and out the door. It's been a month since Chapter 10, but nothing plus nothing is still nothing. Chapter 3 of Flight to Syracuse needs to be started and the short story I'll be writing for the Spring Anthology needs to be put together, right now! But, other than this little missive, there is no interest in venturing forth.

I'm currently at 17 pages (5,300 words) on The Pastel Cowboy, which is okay, but I need at least another 6 pages, or about 1,000 words. It's going quite well, but not well enough as far as I'm concerned. It's been a real slog getting to this point and I didn't get as far as I wanted along the story's timeline. In fact, barely two weeks have gone by when I originally wanted to go nearly three months. I don't like writing in the micro, but events in Zach's life at this point are occurring rather slowly. I've started working on a story for the Spring Anthology. It has three characters: Jamie, an eighteen year old high school senior; his boyfriend and narrator, also eighteen, but as yet unnamed; and the narrator's ninety-two year old great uncle, also currently unnamed. The only thing I know about the narrator and his great uncle is that they are Hispanic, but I haven't decided if they are recent immigrants or not. Interestingly, the narrator's mother is from a small town in Southeast Alabama and isn't Hispanic. When I was stationed in Abilene, Texas, back in the early Seventies I knew a guy from California and whose family was old Spanish, having come over in the Eighteenth Century. Also, in the mid-Nineties, I worked for a woman whose family was from Cuba. Then there was the guy in basic training who had a traditional mile long Hispanic name, who, when asked by our DI, in Spanish, where he was from, responded in classic Brooklynese, "I don't know Spanish, I'm from Brooklyn." I'm thinking the great uncle's generation will be the immigrants and the great uncle will be the last of his generation, his older brothers and sisters having already passed away. As I see it, he's living in a retirement home on Capitol Hill in Seattle, but I might put him in a small apartment in the same area. I haven't quite worked that out. The boys will be from North Park (my handy-dandy fictional city carved out of a large portion of the north end of Seattle). It's still a little early to pin a lot of things down, but the characters are coming together. I'm, also, thinking of giving a boyfriend to the great uncle, but as I see it right now, that person may have recently died, just to set a little tension in the storyline. On the personal front, taking three pills a day seems to be having a significant impact on the depression. I'm not suicidal anymore, but I am a bit more lethagic. Once I get to doing something, I'm able to continue doing it. It's just getting going that is the problem. And, I tend to save up a lot of similar tasks, like phone calls or writing projects, and doing them all a the same time. I don't know if that makes any sense, but today has been a writing day at the expense of all other activities, like exercising.

I finished Chapter 2 of Flight to Syracuse and got it posted to eFiction this morning. The boys are on their way, but have a slight detour to get away from one of David's brothers. I was thinking about the old TV series, Route 66, the other day and how Flight to Syracuse might end up being something along those lines. Well, when you consider half of the cast of Route 66 was gay, even though that did not come out (silly pun) in the storyline, it might work with my story. Well, my boys don't have a Corvette, but a Civic could be an appropriate substitute in this day of high gas prices. Then there is the reason for the David's flight, which comes out in this story, sort of reminds me of The Fugitive. Anyway, the boy's have made it to Lakeview, Oregon, which isn't on the way to Syracuse, unless you have to take a detour. The Pastel Cowboy is back on track and I'm actually almost done with Chapter 11. It's taken quite a bit to get back to enough sanity to handle the doom and gloom of the storyline, but other than a few minor conflicts nothing bad should be happening for a couple chapters. Considering how much fun I'm with Flight to Syracuse, I might try to keep writing the light stuff. It certainly does wonders for my overall attitude.

I finally figured out the problem I

My depression is cyclical. Up and down, up and down. The psychologist I was seeing a couple years ago said I probably wasn

I went to an orthopedic surgeon on Tuesday and he said to come back in four weeks, not to do any exercises or physical exertion, and definitely don't go to work. Four more weeks of doing what I've been doing for the last four weeks, except not going to physical therapy. Rest my wrist for four weeks. If it's not better, then he'll do an MRI and see if there's a tear that needs to be repaired. The long and short of it is that I'm very depressed, so depressed I'm actually trying to remember to take the extra antidepressant at lunch time. You know you're really bad when you check to see if you still have the number for the Crisis Line. (It's in my wallet.) And, I haven't worked on either story or either blog for too many days. Writing seems to be a little difficult right now. I have all this time to write and I'm not writing anything. Even this little bit has taken nearly two hours. It wasn't too many months ago when I could write a 1,000 word short story in an hour.