Autumn Calls

Three thirty 🕞. I took out three bags of trash while Aesop made a loud racket in protest. It was embarrassing for me, but I had to do at least some garbage this week. It is so nice to have cooler weather again, so I can actually think. It feels definitely like October, and while it conjures up past autumns, I also have to ask myself where do I go from here. In the etymology of “decision” is the word for “cutting.” Basically I have to cut away my past and move forward without dragging along the baggage. The turning of the leaves and their descent to the ground will mean something different to me this year. I am neither a drunkard nor a Christian anymore. It remains to be seen just what I will be from now on. It’s very overcast right now; I thought I felt a sprinkle of rain, although the forecast says no rain until next weekend. Rain and autumn leaves are so typically Oregon in the Valley. I’m glad Damien got the new fence up last May because we can expect monsoons and high winds in the fall. Gradually the days will get shorter and a bit cooler, the nights jet black and often wet. I’m also glad I don’t drive a car anymore; it’s too expensive and too stressful to keep doing. Leave the driving to someone else. Many people are all too willing to do it. I look forward to my next journey to Bi Mart or maybe Grocery Outlet. It might be interesting to go there in the late afternoon, just before dark. I haven’t seen Silver Lane at night for a while. Grove Avenue is beautiful in the fall because of the row of trees fronting each house… 

Mostly, I don’t feel many pangs or twinges of guilt or remorse anymore. Somehow I can duck these useless feelings. It may be a philosophical maneuver I learned from reading Sartre last spring and summer. It’s also a product of taking my Vraylar every night. Dunno; I just don’t feel paranoid like I used to, and that’s a great thing. I know someone who feels righteous about being depressed; he wallows in guilt as if he enjoyed the suffering. It’s not for me… 

Power of Words

Eleven thirty five. When I practice my bass today, try to enjoy it. Don’t put pressure on myself. Music is for pleasure above all, so forget about religious overtones. Dealing with my mind is a power struggle with myself. Guilt and superstition are my worst headaches. Other people’s ideas should have nothing to do with me.

Noon hour. I think I’m battling with cravings for alcohol. Hence the feeling of general unease and discomfort. My brain really wants the beers, but I can’t drink. I would if I could. This is the start of the new frontier, and it comes with pain and suffering. I’m doing well just to stay alive. My feet are cold. My guts are in an uproar. I need something to depend on in tough times. Some nirvana to help me forget the stress. I feel weak and incapable of doing much. I need mental boosting. What used to give me power is absent. My head is nodding, the motel room memory of 1980 reeling with a sense of distance and irrelevance. I used to escape with books about Tarzan and Conan. It gave me an infusion of strength and masculinity, though at the time I didn’t know why I read that trash. I felt more independent by reading about self empowered heroes. My parents didn’t know what I was reading. In a way, neither did I. But it was a kind of dependency to look at comic books and trash novels of muscular, proficient heroes. My parents depended on alcohol for a higher power… I suppose that right now, being able to write is my power and catharsis, my injection of strength. Sometimes it helps me more than music does. Self expression gets it out there so you can see it and grapple with it. The pen is mightier than the sword —- or the axe sometimes. Now I feel much better.