Notes from the Red Bird House

I stand undisturbed among the waves of a restless sea. A gray sky threatens, growing deeper, darker, more calculating. Buffetted by a bitter, chaotic wind, I am alone. I should bow, give in to fear and anger, beg. Yet I do not. Many wonder how, why, what. I am nothing they expect. Condemned, cursed, and vilified, I defy convention and find peace. Peace becomes faith. Faith becomes trust. Trust becomes peace.

I think it's time that I cleared something up once and for all. I do not read. Ok, I can read. I just don't like to. Yes, I am well aware that as a writer I should LOVE to read. But really, when have I ever done what I should do anyway? So, no. I don't read. And if you do see me reading it's probably 'Sports Illustrated' or 'Texas Monthly', my daily Bible chapters, or something of spiritual or ministerial significance. Don't ask me if I've read the latest Grisham, Sparks, or King. I promise you I haven't. I haven't always been this way. I read voraciously all through my elementary, high school, and college years and well into adulthood. I loved historical fiction and read everything there was to read about World War II and, more specifically, the Holocaust. I also liked Danielle Steele (long, long ago), Herman Wouk, Leon Uris, Patricia Cornwell, Sue Grafton, Erma Bombeck, and John Sanford. On occasion, I'd have two or three books go...

I feel like I'm drifting away. Well, kind of. I'm saying it's due to the Anti-Everything pills, though if pressed I'd have to admit that it started before I started taking them again. Maybe they've made it worse. I don't know. That's pretty much it these days - I don't know. I don't think much therefore I don't know much. I have thoughts but they seldom seem to congeal into anything that makes sense. I skip from one thought to the next and forget most of what I just thought. Like if you asked me what was running through my head just before I sat down to write, I couldn't tell you. I know the word 'disengagement' was in there somewhere, but as to where it came from and why, I am clueless. I am a stream of consciousness. Minus the consciousness apparently. What occupies my mind these days? Paint (because of my new job), college football, religion, God, maybe baseball occasionally, sometimes food but not as often as you'd think, ...

I've been church shopping for awhile now. I know that may seem odd coming from the non-Christian who has never attended church in her life and has repeatedly maintained that religion is against her religion. However, my growing faith has been begging for an outlet and a bit of fellowship. I want somewhere to go and people to go with. I've come a long way on my own, but I can't be my be-all-end-all. For my faith to continue to grow, I need to discuss, debate, listen, and learn. And to do that, as sucky and out of character as it may seem, I need a church. I can't say my shopping was very fruitful. The cornerstone of my faith is pretty far off the well beaten Christian path. It's not Jewish or Buddhist or Hindu either. Not really anyway. I'm basically an amalgam of a bunch of spiritual junk mixed up and splashed around in a chaotic fashion. My spirituality is the sum total of my eclectic experiences with God. I get it and I can explain it, but it doesn't qui...

'And you don't hold my dreams Like you did before...' ~  from 'Love Don't Live Here Anymore' by Lady Antebellum Once upon a time, I held all my own dreams. Assuredly they changed throughout the years, but they were mine, all mine. I wanted to go to med school, play college tennis, win an Academy Award, play the drums, sing in a band, get a PhD and teach at a major university, play varsity basketball, pass algebra, go to Australia, learn to surf, become famous, graduate high school, go to the Air Force Academy, pilot the Space Shuttle, pitch a no-hitter, run a marathon, date a cute boy, and so on and so on. I can't say I made too many come true, but that's far beside the point. I did what I could and it's been a good life. I graduated from college, played college tennis, went to Australia, passed algebra, ran a marathon, and pitched a 1-hitter. I ended up dating girls instead of boys, but I've dated my share of cute ones. And that's where...

I have to admit that I haven't been writing much. I can make a thousand excuses (my new work schedule, laziness, nothing to write about, TV to watch, weekends in Texarkana, etc), but it all whittles down to one thing - motivation. And I apparently have had none. Zero. Until today. Of course right now I'm more or less forcing myself to write. It's late morning and I have the house to myself. Granted I don't have any sweet tea vodka to drink (which would make the setting near perfect), but it's probably too early to drink anyway. In the old days (before I moved to Austin), I had lots of days like today. And I wrote a lot more. Writing used to be what I did. Five minutes here or five hours there, I was writing. My office (and thus my desk and my computer) was the center of my Universe. It's where I was. Unless I was forcing myself to take a day off. How times change. Now I have to force myself to write. The Words used to haunt me. They were a constant presence in...

According to plan, I started taking my Anti-Everything drugs again this morning. 25mg of Zoloft with a Low-Carb Monster chaser and I was good until lunch. This is shocking, actually, because I am usually ravenous in the morning. Not so today. As much as I hate taking drugs, I'm hoping I can parlay this into a bit of weight loss. If I'm not hungry, I'll eat less. Especially since I've been working on not eating when I'm bored. Given that I'm nearly constantly bored and hungry, I could eat incessantly if I let myself go unchecked. I've gained fifteen pounds in the past six months as it is. Now, if I'm not hungry AND I don't eat when I'm bored, I might actually lose a pound or two or fifteen. Or at least not gain any more. Yeah, yeah... I'm going to start going to the gym again, too. Eating less is only half the issue. I need to be more active. I am unfit and unhappy because of it. Unfortunately, it's not a primary source of anxiety. If it...

We danced to this song. So long ago she probably doesn't remember ever dancing with me, much less to this song. Funny how the lyrics meant nothing then, but seemed to later on. In that murky period when she was on her way out and I was determined to keep her there. It was fruitless. It was. I know this now. Years later. I don't think about it much anymore. Except on nights like tonight when iTunes plays a song from the past. Then I think. And remember. How once upon a time we danced and for the first and only time in my life I lost myself completely in a moment. With her. And this song. Truthfully, it was less about the song than it was her. It was the dance, our dance, our only dance. It could have been any song. Yet it was this song. That's playing now for the second time (because I played it again). 'Is it all, or are we just friends Is this how it ends, with a simple telephone call You leave me here, with nothing at all.' ~O-Town, "Nothing At All" ...

I am celebrating my last 'real' weekend off. My schedule changes next week and I go back to the crazy, fucked up retail schedule that I've enjoyed on and off (though mostly on) for seven and a half years. My 'weekends', when I actually get two days off together, will probably be Thursday/Friday. Sure, it's not optimal for most Americans, but I don't usually mind it too much. I'm one of the lucky ones. I don't have a family or a significant other and, more importantly, I'm broke. Traditional Saturday/Sunday weekends cost money. The most I have ever done on an odd-ball weekend is Happy Hour. Happy Hour is cheap compared to a real weekend night out on the town. Everyone goes home early which cuts expenses immensely. Yes, my life is a series of well constructed rationalizations, but it's my life and I get to deal with it how I choose to. Being broke is a big deal to me and I rationalize it often. Ok, I'm not as broke as I could be. I know t...