Notes from the Red Bird House

Home is not perfect. It rains occasionally and light bulbs burn out. Bills have to be paid and friends don't text back. Of course all that happens here, too. At home, though, I'm home. As self-evident as that may seem. With my things, my dogs, and my porch. There are imperfections to fix, like the bathroom floors, the holes in the screen doors, and some weird wood rot on the car port. I'd like new blinds in the living room and a dishwasher that actually works. However, home means my desk, my big chair, moonlight shining in through the kitchen window, and wind chimes singing in the breeze. I know I tend to go on and on, but so does everyone, I think. They just don't know they do it. Or they don't do it because they take everything they have for granted. I have loved my house since the day I moved in. I just didn't call it 'home' til I moved away. It's sad, but far from too late. For months I wondered why my house hadn't sold. Then I realized why

I'm thinking about going back on the Anti-Everything Pill. Life seems to be spinning and I seem to be resisting, which always results in unwanted anxiety and the tiniest tidbit of depression. So, before I get completely out of control and start Googling 'knot tying' and/or 'suicide cocktail', I thought I should be proactive. I hate that 'proactive' means drugs, but outside influences make non-pharmaceutical controls nearly impossible. What is possible? The almost brand-new bottle Anti-Everything pills sitting on my dresser. I knew there was a reason I quit mid-script back in May. As much as I hate drugs, I hate insanity more. I know my limits and I know what I can control. I know how to control my personal life and I do it very well. Unfortunately, I can't control the bullshit that goes on at work and, given that I can't just quit and move home surreptitiously (where my anxiety levels are usually non-existent), I have to go back to Anti-Everything.

I'm good with what I've got. I'm in this long distance dating thing right now and it seems to be working pretty well. And no, that's not a rationalization because I can't find anyone more local to date. I've come to see that I'm just not well suited to dating locally. In fact, when I think about it (I mean really think about it), I start to feel feverish and my stomach does a few wing-wings. Having a girlfriend that I can see anytime I want to? Or that can see me anytime she wants to? No pre-arranged weekend trips required? Ugh... Even in the best circumstances that would be suffocating. Nice to an extent (it'd be a helluva lot cheaper and less wear-and-tear on my truck), but oy. Ugh. And oy. See, I've been dating this girl for a little over two months now. That's pretty good for me, if you're keeping track. Truth be told, I've always been better at longer distance relationships. I'm lucky to get a month out of local girls, but in t

It seems to be a rough week all-around. Full moon tonight AND the official end of summer. As much as we all say we are looking forward to Fall, I think we enjoy summer a lot more. That might be cause of a bit of fitfulness. Well, that and the start of a new TV season. In any case, here's a Top Ten that probably won't ease the pain. 1. When you finally figure out where home is, you want to go there right away. Not wait until you get a transfer to a store sixty miles away. 2. Being broke has its share of Grace. Unless you prefer to call it a big, fat rationalization. 3. We can save Texas through praying in the name of Jesus Christ. Or so some candidate for public office says. Should we really remind him about Texas? I wonder if he's forgiven us for the folks in Waco who drank Kool-Aid in his name a few years back. We might want to let sleeping dogs lie a little longer. 4. Long distance dating bites ass, but it's still better than in-town dating. 5. Just as you f

I'm scared to admit something lest everyone (and I do mean EVERYONE, including my mother of course) think I'm some kind of alcoholic. And as I say 'some kind', I'm not talking about the kind in treatment who go to meetings and call themselves 'sober'. No, I wouldn't be that kind. I'm actually not saying that I'm an alcoholic at all because I'm not. I don't need to drink and I go days and even weeks without drinking. I'm a drinker, which is pretty much a given, but I don't have a problem with my drinking. I don't let it interfere with my life and my decision making (with the exception of certain weekend nights when I have been known to make a few unfortunate decisions that impact my life the next day). And even though I do most of my drinking alone (Hell, I do just about everything alone), I'm a social drinker. Who happens to really like the sound of a brand new bottle of liquor being opened. Not the fizz-ahh of a beer can

Oops. I said it, didn't I? I guess I was raised differently. 'God damn' didn't mean anything to me growing up except that Dad, who never cussed very much, must be REALLY mad. It wasn't until I moved South that I learned of the blasphemy. I can't tell you how many devout Christians tolerate me saying 'fuck' every other word, but look as if the Devil himself arrived on the scene carrying a key lime pie when I say 'God damn'. I have to say I don't get it. It's only words. I'm not really telling God to damn anything. Heck, I don't even believe that God would damn a damn thing even if he could. Besides He's probably not going to take my advice any time soon. And given that I like girls, drink alcohol, and haven't accepted Jesus as my Savior, I'm not too worried about a few well-placed 'God damns'. Truly I think language is the least of my concerns. Until a few moments ago I wasn't aware that euphemisms are the

I wish it was a week ago. Or maybe a week from now. Yes, I would prefer a week from now. That way I wouldn't have to relive the borderline abysmal week that just passed. I'd be almost where I want to be. Maybe even on my way there. And I'd be one week closer to wherever it is I'm supposed to go next. As long as it's not here. I don't want to be one week closer to still being here. It's not that I hate it here; it's fine. But I want more than fine. I want home. My home - my desk and the ratty screens on my screened in porch; kisses from my dogs and friends just down the road. Yes, that's where I want to be. If only it was a week from now or maybe a month from now. Because a month from now I might be home for good. For good. I won't leave again. I will be home.

I was going to say 'Why do I let her?', but that's wrong. It's not her. It's me. All me. One hundred percent me. She doesn't do a damn thing. Nothing. I promise you that. She doesn't text, call, or communicate in any fashion. Directly. It is her mere existence in my world that trips me up. Assuredly the better question is 'Why do I?' Argh... It's been years. YEARS (well, almost). And still. Still. There is something that draws me to her and does THAT to me. I'd like to say I hate it, but I don't. Part of me loves knowing what she can do without even trying. Because what if some day she actually tried? Ok, enough of that. Enough of this. Enough of her. She is off limits - mind, body, and soul. But you know the crazy thing? She's not in my head or my heart. It's my damn soul. My God damn soul. I can go days, weeks, even months without thinking about her and I am most certainly NOT in love with her. Yet... There is something in me th

Jesus aside, I don't think I'm cut out to be a Mormon. Truth be told, I've been 'church shopping' for awhile now. I crave fellowship and some sort of organized spirituality. I need an outlet and people to talk to who won't think I'm a total nerd for being spiritually driven and 'God-focused'. I have to admit, Jesus has been a bit of a hold-up. I'm still technically non-Christian. Technically. If one goes by the traditional, Christian definition, which seems to be one of the few options available. Sunday morning when I woke up with a pounding head and queasy stomach still wearing my Texas jersey from the day before, I just knew I should have become a Mormon on Saturday night. I'm pretty sure that I need a religion designed to keep me from perpetrating sins upon my flesh. The afternoon (yes, I said 'afternoon') started innocently enough. I put on my Texas jersey in preparation for the game, got blown off, watched a little non-Texas fo

'Kinda' isn't really even a word, is it? It's a slurring together of 'kind' and 'of'. It's a lot like 'sorta'. Which I don't think is a word either. 'Sort of'. 'Kind of'. Kinda sorta. They may not be words, but they mean the same thing. 'Somewhere between yes and no, but closer to yes than no. Almost yes, but not quite'. And that's where I am. Kinda. Sorta. You'd think as a writer that I'd have a better grasp of the English language. Ah, no. Not so much. I remember back when I was learning how to write, my teachers all told me that once I got good I could be creative and develop my own style. I could take liberties with grammar, punctuation, and word choice. Welcome to my free style. Unfortunately, I'm not very poetic. If you think my writing is specious, wait until you hear me speak. There is articulate, then there's me. It's not that I stutter or stammer. I simply suffer from a disconnec

I know a thing or two about goodbyes. It seems after a childhood of mostly hellos, I've had an adulthood filled with goodbyes. Assuredly, I am to blame for this. I tend to leave. It's what I do. I stay for a minute or maybe most of a decade, then I go. Sure I look back, miss people, and occasionally have regrets, but mostly I move forward. I get on with life. I'm used to being the one who walks, the one who decides. I can't say I like it when it's the other way around. Tonight I had to say 'Goodbye' to the best friend I've made since coming to Austin. She's moving home to Ft. Worth, just three hours away. Feasibly there could be weekend trips or vacations or even meetings in the middle, but I know we won't see each other as much as we think we will. She won't be right around the corner for a drink or a movie or pizza and wings. Truly when I think of my time in Austin, I have few memories that don't include her. I am sad and I feel a lit

Last week when I was visiting my mother in Minnesota, I walked a lot. It was a way to get out and get some fresh air. I enjoyed helping my mom recover from her recent hip replacement surgery, but I am used to having a lot more time to myself so every afternoon or evening, I took a walk. My mother lives in a small town outside of the Twin Cities that is surrounded by lakes. It's really quite beautiful and the weather is a bit more pleasant than the heat I'm used to in Central Texas. There is little traffic and everywhere seems like a good place to walk. Because I am a creature of habit, I plotted out a short course for myself on the first day. I wandered through 'downtown', up the hill by the older 'Victorian' homes, past my sister's church, through the cemetery, and then back through town to my mom's apartment. It took roughly a half hour. Perfect. I saw them on my very first walk and continued to see them every day there after. Huge orange and black

Someone out there 'digs me'. Or so she says. I'm not divulging any names, so if you're waiting around for that, don't. Truly there is no purpose in telling who 'she' is. If you're her, you know who you are. And if you're not, you know that too. If you silently dig me and haven't told me, then you also know I'm not referring to you. Suffice it to say that the key players in this one know who we are. She, whoever she is, digs me. And I let her. I'm not saying that I don't dig her. On a certain level I do. Just not enough to say it out loud. Because once you say it out loud, it tends to mean something and you really should follow it up with some kind of action. There's no 'Well, I meant it at the time', not in my world anyway. If I say I 'dig you', you can bet I've thought it out and I plan to 'dig you' for a goodly long time. Probably until you stop digging me and I spend a few weeks on the Break Up Die