I ran into a former friend cum abuser. Well I didn’t quite; because, as I was sitting in a local restaurtant, he came waltzing in only to see us and flee. He is a mentally ill character so I do have sympathy for him. He was with friends who bolstered him back into the joint, no doubt reassuring him that they would protect him if we…. what?… attacked? Because you see he is so ill to have convinced others, gaslighter that he is, that we pose some kind of danger. Of course that’s not the real reason he fled. The real reason is he knows that we know the stories he’s spread about us and I guess he fears some kind of retaliation?
The only kind of retaliation I was able to mount was a poem of sorts, which I’ll spare you. Time goes by so quickly and it has now been years since I’ve spoken with this person. I will see mutual friends I haven’t seen in years who always seem shocked that I’m not wearing some kind of straightjacket and tinfoil hat. And I know that he’s gotten to them. It is really odd. On paper this person has everything—money, status, a certain fame—and yet he is the most miserable sod on the planet. Why do those things often go together?
If I were him I’d run too. But there is a lesson in this for me too. I have seemed to attract the crazies in my life. I’m sure it has everything to do with my upbringing, having been, in large part, raised by at least one wolf. So much drama in my family of origin and then poof, they’re gone. Why did you make me work so hard to cope with you all those years? Anyway, that is for my meditation or some shrink to absorb. And I suppose for a Blague as well.
I’m getting to the point (again) where all I want is a peaceful life. That and three inches off my waistline. I think I can achieve both in short order and I’m grateful for the peace I have been able to cultivate. I mean it. I know it sounds superficial. But I am, in some ways, just writing whatever is foremost in my shallow brain. In the words of an old Grateful Dead friend of mine: “If it’s not fun, leave”. And I’m finding culture here to be quite unfun indeed. I don’t know where I’ll go exactly but I do have the good fortune to have made some inroads for myself and my family of two with my writing and I believe it’s time for me to prioritize my craft once again, in the myriad forms in which it manifests.
The Zodiac does start with the first house (of physical self) for a reason. Our physical being is, science says, really just denser energy anyway. Energy and spirit are synonymous to me; so our body is a dense form of spiritual energy, that true temple. And I have to recognize the ways in which I’ve trashed mine, even in the smallest ways. I want to start with my phsycial self and try to be the best I can be on that score. Now that doesn’t mean gyms and diets for me. That means taxing it less. Feeding it water and sunlight. I’m lucky I hate sugar and always have. But I do like savory Scoobie snacks. Yum.
I have twelve e-books to rework in the next month. I typically have a column for Glamour this time of year but the editor is MIA. I have an upcoming Starsky + Cox show at Joe’s Pub which I’ll want to write; and I do want to keep up more consistently with this Blague. I have a call scheduled with an agency that is meant to represent us; and I know what will happen on that score. It will be up to me to write more of a proposal or, perish the thought, sample chapters. I don’t want to have to. I feel that I have already proved myself beyond a shadow of a doubt as a compelling writer. I’m tired of the auditions. And I will sooner retreat into some cabin in the woods and quietly and modestly publish e-books under my own steam then continue to prove myself. I’m an old person.
Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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