This chair

I’m doing a terrible job of making time stand still. And I’m not quite sure what to do about that. It’s a real problem. A real problem. I guess this is what happens to people. People like me. People who wait and wait and wait for something to shift. People who wait for a better time. Who keep waiting and are never satisfied so that this better time never comes. And then they freak out they’ve let so much time pass.

And now look at them. What have they learned in all of this time?

Some of them have learned avoidant behavior. Denying that time exists. Because if there is no time, there is no past or future. Which might lead one to think there is a present. But people who have learned avoidant behavior avoid the present as much as possible because it is too uncomfortable. Much like the chair I am sitting in. This chair does not really care about how comfortable it is to the person who is sitting. This chair does not not care. Maybe this chair is afraid that it cares too much. It cares so much about the ones who are sitting in it that it forgets why it is there in the first place.

 

 

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What does one do with water?

I’ve said it before and I guess I have to say it again.

I’m really tired.

So so tired.

It’s been a foggy foggy week. Strung out on Aleve and Advil PM and Tylenol (back strain from cleaning my car after the maggots infestation).

And CBD oil.

I love CBD even though I have no idea how it is affecting me. If it has any affect at all. Maybe I am only pretending that it is. But really, what is the difference? Who even cares?

That’s how tired I am. Too tired to care about what is pretend and what is not.

Or maybe too old.

But I think I will pretend that this is not an issue.

Maybe one has the right to pretend that age is not in issue up until one stops aging and then ceases to be.

I’d rather pretend not to think about that.

I’d rather think about the water. I like to think about the water at the perfect temperature. The temperature in which water is best served.

Or think about what I can do to serve water. I mean, what I can do as a servant of water. How I can honor it? What is it that water asks of me?

The obvious answer is to water it. Because even water needs to be watered every once in a while. Nothing grows without water,

But I should probably rethink that because of Hurricane Florence and massive floods and the polar ice caps melting and the sea level rising. You have to factor in these kinds of things.

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TSA

I just discovered that one of my friends is a reader of this blog, which puts a whole new spin on what I write. I’m not sure what that spin will be, how much to reveal, how much to hide, what is real, what is neo-real, what is utter fabrication, what is fantasy. Things like that. I should probably take the idea I always have of an imaginary (anonymous) audience of 1 or maybe 1-1/2.

So strange returning to Boston from Chicago again. The Universe is just not co-operating. It’s obvious I should never should have left home (no matter how stagnant things were), or at least not moved to a city as cold and small and unfriendly as Boston. I know I should make more of an effort to be accepting of my circumstances and try to make the best of things. But it would be so much easier to count this as a loss of time and money and heart and life… and just move on. Is there something more I can do to convince the Universe? Oh Universe, can you hear me? I’m ready to go.

My experience with TSA at the airport for my trip back to Boston should have been enough of a sign. After getting scanned or whatever it is they do in that booth where you have to step onto the yellow footprints and raise your arms over and behind your head, the TSA agent motioned me to wait. Then he told me he would need to do some sort of full-body inspection, which involved frequent crotch grabbing. He even showed me a drawing of the outline of a body with the crotch area highlighted by a square. He asked if I might like to be inspected in a private area (of the airport). that was the moment I probably should have turned around and left the airport and taken the bus or the train because it just didn’t seem like it was worth it. I am not sure why I did not. I had already felt humiliated enough when they scanned my body. His crotch grabbing could not make things much worse.,

And then he touched my arm with some sort of wet wipe, which he then inserted into this device that looked like a microscope, but probably was some sort of DNA analyzer of some sort. I had never seen anything like it before. I will have to research this.

I asked the TSA agent if there was something I had done wrong, or something I was doing wrong. He said it might have something to do with my pants (Levi’s jeans). Which of course made no sense. The only thing metal about my jeans was the zipper. But I noticed there were countless other people wearing pants with zippers strolling through TSA without any complications.

This keeps happening. Like almost every time. It reminded me of the airport in Rochester Minnesota. I had a procedure there which I would rather not describe here, but I left the hospital with a large bandage over some stitches in my neck. The TSA agent asked me to remove the bandage, and I probably said, “You’ve got to be kidding” and explaining that my doctor had given me explicit instructions to not remove the bandage. This got me nowhere. He removed the bandage and found that I was not hiding an explosive device implanted in my neck.

I have to figure this out why this keeps happening. What is the big mystery that triggers these searches? Do I really look like some sort of miscreant? Perhaps it has something to do with how nervous I am when confronted with The Law. And the nervousness arouses suspicion. Many years ago, I had applied for a job as a stock boy at a liquor store and one of the requirements in their hiring process was a a lie detector test. Which I failed dramatically. Perhaps it was due to nervousness, but each time this very gruff detective-type asked me a question about some transgression or another (Have you stolen anything at work? Do you get high at work? Have you ever falsified a timesheet? Have you been subject to any disciplinary action?) … with each question, I imagined what it would be like to be in those situations. And if you imagine on a lie detector test, it’s pretty certain you will fail.

And then I get nervous around cops, especially when they pull me over. Nervousness beyond proportion for those types of situations. And customs agents, even when driving into Canada.

I would like to think that CBD might curtail my A.A.D. (Authority Anxiety Disorder). But that might only complicate things because it’s not legal in every state and I would be even more on edge worrying that I might be caught with it somewhere I should never be.

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Potential partial verse for a potential song

I’m jotting this down here, just so that I don’t lose it.

Like a mouse clinging onto a drowning tree

More lyrics to come.

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escort, part 2

So… I managed to make it through my colonoscopy. The gastroenterologist told me that it went well, that there were no abnormalities. At least not in my colon. I didn’t ask if she found abnormalities elsewhere. And she didn’t say it was abnormal for someone to not be able to find an escort to take him/her home from a procedure that requires an escort. I thanked her for that. She said I did a great job during the procedure, especially since I was awake for most of it.

And then I asked her, “So now what?” She looked confused. I said, “Now, what I supposed to do? Since it looks like I am not dying of colon cancer. What do I do now?”  She said it was fine for me to return to my regular diet.

“But what else should I do? Like with my life? Because I don’t really feel like I should be here.” She said they would take me to my recovery room and then they would call my escort to take me home.

“But then what?,” I asked.

She said that I should probably rest for the rest of the day. But after that, I could resume normal physical activity.

I said, “Please don’t take this the wrong way. But I was hoping for more.”

“What were you hoping for?”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly a hope. But I forgot to tell you at our last appointment… when we talking about liver failure … that if someone had told me before I was conceived how sad and lonely I would be in my later years, living in a place where I can’t even find a single escort … if somebody had given me that information and offered me the choice of being conceived or not being conceived,  I possibly may have said, ‘No thanks. I think I’ll take a pass,’ and asked ‘Do you have any other options?’ I was hoping I would not feel this way after the colonoscopy.”

The doctor told me that makes perfect sense.

And I said, “So maybe next time we should skip the colonoscopy, if I am still alive and living without an escort?”

She said, “Yes, I agree. That makes perfect sense. Like what would be the point?”

“Exactly!” said I.

She began jotting something onto her notepad. I pretended to not watch. I think this went on for several minutes. Before I finally interjected.

“What are you writing about?”

“Oh, just a few notes for our records. Nothing exciting, but nothing bad … in case you’re worried.”

I admitted that I was getting worried, but decided I’d rather not think about it.

“Really, you have nothing to worry about. I would tell you if there was.”

“I know you would. I have total trust in you.”

She stood up, and looked out into the hallway. “Well, I guess I guess this is goodbye.”

“For now,” I said.

“For now,” she agreed.

She was almost out the door when I called out, “Wait!”

“What?!!” she asked, worriedly.

“I forgot to ask, how much do I owe you?”

She said they would be billing my insurance and I would be responsible for my co-pay.

I said, “That’s what I assumed, but I feel like I owe you more. That I should give you at least a little something.”

“You mean like a gratuity of some kind?” she asked. “Tbat’s not really necessary.”

I said, “I know it’s not necessary, but it would make me feel better to give you some small token of my appreciation.”

“Well, OK. What do you have in mind? What are my options?”

I said, “I don’t know. Is there something that you need?”

“Hmmmm,” she said, scratching her chin. “Something I need. I can’t really think of anything at the moment.”

“OK. I’ll try to come up with something.”

She told me not to worry about it.

I said, “Well, you know I’m going to worry.”

She said, “I thought so. But I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?” I asked, “Didn’t give you anything, or didn’t worry?”

“Well, both, I guess.”

I paused to reflect for who knows how long, until I finally said “That’s going to be hard.”

“I know,” she said, “But I think you can do it.”

“Gosh, I am always amazed that you always have such faith in me.”

She said, “Well it’s true and you should never doubt it. I know it’s going to be hard, but just be kind to yourself, OK? Do you think you can do that for me?”

I wasn’t sure what to say.

“If you can do that for me, I would consider that to be the most perfect gift of them all.”

I sighed and thanked her.

She said that my escort was probably on the way

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escort service

In case anyone actually reads my posts, perhaps they (you) may notice that my writing has been more grim of late. I think there’s a reason for this. Which is that I’ve decided not to censor myself or to pretend I am something I am not. This is me. This is where my psyche goes. And tomorrow my psyche will be somewhere else. There is no guarantee that any of what I write is true. And if there is a truth in this statement, there is no guarantee that will be true tomorrow. Or even the next sentence. I sure hope this is the case because I am venturing into some dark dark places.

People who know me might be alarmed by what they are reading, but the thing is I am reasonably sure they will never even read it. Out of sight. Out of mind. My friends, the world I cherished, which inspired and nurtured me is vanishing. And I am doing what I can to not feel alarmed myself. But it isn’t enough. I can no longer dance around the notion.

But if I had to express this notion, I would say that I don’t think I enter anyone’s thoughts very often. At least I don’t feel very thought of. Day after day of not one person calling in to check on me. Nor even an email. An occasional text will pass by, but nothing substantive I can cling to for support. I’ve been thinking far too frequently that if I died here in this city where I am a stranger, if I dropped dead in my apartment,  it would probably take about a week before I was discovered.  And the scariest part of this is how powerless I feel to change the way things seem to be flowing. This is not good.

I blame this all on the colonoscopy I am supposed to have next week. They will only proceed with the procedure if I have an escort to escort me out of the hospital after the procedure. I asked the clinic if they have recommendations for people who don’t have escorts, people like me who don’t have friends or family, at least not within 1200 miles. And they did not offer any suggestions. I guess they assume that everyone has at least someone in their life.

This made me question the purpose of the colonoscopy. I guess the purpose is to rule out anything that might be considered life threatening. So the purpose at least indirectly is to help you stay alive. But it’s just kind of odd. The colonoscopy and my inability to find an escort are intertwined. What is the purpose of sustaining a life of abject isolation? What is the purpose of sustaining a life of someone who cannot even find a single person to act as an escort from the procedure that is intended to sustain a life? This is not the kind of life I would want to sustain. I’ve really had enough of this kind of life. So perhaps the colonoscopy is just not worth the ordeal.

But when I think about it, the isolation is bad enough. But isolation combined with a slow death from a disease that could have been prevented if it had been discovered early enough via the colonoscopy … that would be so infinitely much worse.

I guess I had better find an escort. Somehow.

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Styrofoam

I’ve been doing this for years and year. Whenever anyone asks me what I do, I never tell them I am an artist. It’s not like I am being secretive or lazy. I’m really glad to be asked. But I forget. I literally forget because it never enters my mind. Or it might be the last thing to enter my mind but the conversation is over before I have the chance to mention it.

Because I only think of myself as an artist while I am in the act of making art. That is the only time I can say that I am an artist. Otherwise I am claiming something I am not. I am grateful for the 1% of my life I can say I am an artist. It’s a very quiet 1%. It doesn’t shout at you, so I guess that’s a good thing. Leave the shouting to others. And if they have something that truly needs to be shouted, more power to them. Although I’d prefer to be somewhere they are not.

So what/who am I if I’m not an artist? That’s the billion dollar question. In my non-artist life, I am 99% styrofoam, 1% water. Or maybe I am 99% water but my soul is 100% styrofoam. When the Buddha said, very considerately, “May all sentient beings be free from suffering. May all sentient beings enjoy happiness.” I wonder if at that time objects made of styrofoam were seen as sentient. Maybe there was some confusion at that time because sentient beings might be seen meditating upon styrofoam cushions and the boundaries between sentient and styrofoam were not as defined as they are today.

But I can say for sure that as a non-artist, I am not sentient. Not a living breathing organism, but filler material. There’s really not much more to explain. I have no thoughts or feelings or desires, no peaks or valleys, nothing connected to a psyche. These words I write are filler material and I always feel a bit fraudulent when people construe my fillers as thoughts.

Were I something other than styrofoam, I might feel compelled to correct them, but that’s simply impossible for all of us who are devoid of feeling. So I guess I just let them think what they want and summon the will I do not have to accept it. Theres’s really not that much more I can do.

How I became sytrofoam is another story entirely. But unfortunately that would require the sentient capability of memory. So it’s important for me to remind you that I am not memory foam. We are completely unrelated, although we are sometimes confused. Just to clarify, we are are not the ones who are confused. We will leave confusion to the sentient.

As a non-artist, I feel a thud instead of a heartbeat. And even louder thuds in place of thoughts. The days pass by as one thud after another until one day the thudding stops which can only mean one of two options.

    I am either making art.
    I am dead.

In option 1, I am grateful to be given another chance to be both sentient and alive. Those are days to savor.

In option 2, I get very clingy. Clinging desperately to reclaim all of those wasted moments when I was taking option 1 for granted.

This has gotten way too complicated. I simply wanted to say that I have been in a styrofoam state of non-being for so many days, I’ve lost sight of how I can be anything else. That still doesn’t really clarify things for anyone who still wonders what it is exactly that I do. But it’s really not that big an issue since most of the time nobody knows I’m even here.

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G minor

I am not quite sure what happened, but my brain completely shut down at my piano lesson today. I was attempting to play Hey Jude. I am now in the 5th month of trying to learn how to play Hey Jude. Not even the melody. I’m talking about the ‘ easy piano’ version of the accompaniment. Made even easier by my teacher, Sara. I thought this might be a fun lesson since I had actually practiced. But the moment I sat down on her piano bench, that very moment, the shutdown occurred.

The keyboard looked bewildering to me, as if I had never seen it before. What were these white and black rectangles and what was I supposed to do with them? And the music, it didn’t make sense to me how 1 note could follow the other. I would play a chord and then I had no idea of how to move my hands to the other. My hands became foreign objects.

I just froze. Like it was some sort of bewildering trigonometry exercise. When in actuality, there was a f major chord, followed by a g minor chord and then a b flat chord and another f chord. I had played these chords thousands of times before, but never with the cognitive freeze I experienced at that moment.

And it was kind of humiliating. Sara was very kind. She actually blamed it on herself since she often sees this happening with her students. She said she wondered if there was something she was giving off that might be throwing her students off. And of course I said “no, it’s not you. It’s me.” I don’t think that line worked this time.

At the end of the lesson, she said that it was difficult with OUR aging brains (she included herself in this), they can’t process as quickly as they used to. And she’s at least 20 years younger than I. And of course I immediately thought, oh god, is it that obvious? That I’m aging? Is she being kind to a doddering old man? I told her that my brain has always processed information slowly. This was not anything new.

The wall I hit in my piano lesson was not all that different than the wall I hit when I was 16, completely frozen at the SAT tests, watching the clock, running out of time. Unable to read or write. And then the clock ran out.

So perhaps that is a good sign. It shows my brain is not really aging since it never really worked all that well when it was still relatively new.

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Moving

Everything feels a little off. Another job interview today and I could barely muster the energy or focus to complete my sentences. I kept getting stuck on finding the right words, but I could not filter out the right ones from the wrong ones and I just uttered these strings of words in the hopes that maybe they would form something with meaning.

It didn’t happen. So much garble in such a small window of time.

The most challenging part of a job search, besides forming coherent sentences, is the performance.

Acting as if you are interested.

Acting as if you know what you are talking about.

Acting as if you are confident.

Acting as if you have the skills required for the job.

Acting as if you have never experienced doubt or fear or anxiety of any kind. Acting as if you have never known despair.

Acting as if you belong to the team.

Acting as if you have passion, real passion, for the job.

Acting as if you have known passion at least one time in your life.

Acting as if you were not afraid of death.

I don’t think I did any of those particularly well. But I did what I could.

But all of that acting. All of that acting in ways you are not. It takes a lot out of a person.

But I know that is what it takes. To move forward. To move, period. And that’s the thing. I just have to move.

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Against invisibility

What to do when you are attracted to someone who is sitting and facing you on the train? Do you try not to gaze in her direction? But it’s so hard to write and every time I stop typing to contemplate the next word I type, I always look up, my gaze shifts from my computer. It’s my habit. And when I look up, I see her facing me and I worry that she thinks I am staring at her. If I made her feel uncomfortable, I would feel horrible about that. It would be the worst. So I try to focus on the door, on the exit sign. But who am I kidding?

The workdays pass by without feeling, without desire or longing. Only absence of feeling, desire and longing. What does one do when they emerge and one has to suppress? The one time all week one feels anything? I wish I knew. Why is everything so misplaced?

Another strange thing. People have told that when I am speaking to them, I often look down, as if I am avoiding their gaze. I’ve been rejected by jobs because this happens in situations where I am uncomfortable, such as an interview. Or dinner with my family.

And now when I look up, I see she is reading. And I sort of miss when she wasn’t reading. It’s all so strange. I hope that she actually likes to read. That it isn’t because of any unease I am making her feel that is forcing her to read. That would feel horrible, too.

I suppose I could move to another part of the train, but then she might think that she is making me uncomfortable. And that would make me feel even more uncomfortable.

These things happen when people aren’t invisible even when they feel invisible. If only one could have more of a say over one’s invisibility. If I had a say, I think I would be against it. In spite of the consequences.

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Williamstown

From the Williamstown Motel.

Drove to North Adams for the Bang on a Can Marathon at Mass MOCA. Mostly really good, especially the 3 Steve Reich pieces. On the surface they all sound the same but if you are paying attention, they are all quite different. Even the pieces you have heard before sound different than the recordings. I rather liked it. The Sextet was exhilarating.

And now in this quiet room in this motel with spotty wifi. I wonder if this is where I am supposed to be? Where the Universe has led me for reasons unknown.

How long is this supposed to last? I am so weary of doing everything alone. It’s hollowing me out. Every day I ask the Universe if this is what it intended for me and plea for it to help me be somewhere else. Somewhere far far from being alone. I never ever would have imagined this is how things would end up for me. So I really hope this is just a very very deep long bump in the road.

Anyone reading this blog has heard this all before. I feel bad that you have to read it again. Forgive me. That is all I can ask.

I did not come all of this way to Williamstown to tell you this. Maybe I will leave here with a different story.

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Urban designers

I had to lead a meeting at work today with a group of urban designers. For most of the meeting, I had no idea what they were talking about, but they would talk and I had to respond and I had no idea what I was talking about. I guess they knew what they were talking about. If they did not, I guess we would probably be speaking the same language. The language of people who cannot be understood.

But that is how it is at work. One has to pretend to be something one is not for 8 hours straight. No wonder why I am tired all of the time. And easily irritated these days. I get extremely irritated walking in public spaces directly behind people who are staring at their cellphones instead of their surroundings, wavering from 1 side of the sidewalk to the other. And they’re not even aware of it.

And then there’s the knee, which is getting worse. It’s painful to even put weight on it. Today I was on the train and of course no one offers to give up their seat to someone wearing a knee brace. I was standing above this woman and I guess my brace accident grazed her leg. And she actually pushed my leg away. I was repulsed and revulsed and all of the hateful I could say ran through my head. But I did my best to talk myself out of it. Telling myself I will most likely never be in this woman’s presence again. I certainly hope so. Perhaps she feels the same.

And there’s this woman at work who rides the same train as myself and I always see her when I get off the train and on the walk from the station to the office. But most of the time she doesn’t see me because she is out walking with her cellphone, or I guess she is walking her cellphone. Taking her cellphone for a walk. I want to tap her on the shoulder and ask what’s happening in there… inside her cellphone? What is happening in there that is not happening out here? It must be something really important, but she is walking so lackadaisically that I it doesn’t seem important at all. I can’t figure it out. She isn’t texting. And she isn’t talking. I guess she must be reading. She has this muted smile on her face, so it’s really hard to tell. And then I am not aware of people who are walking around me because I am so transfixed on watching her walk unaware of me.

Maybe I would be less irritated if there was a lane exclusively for cellphone walkers, And they would get ticketed if they crossed the line. Or zapped if there was an electric fence between the lanes. They would have to pay fines the first 2 times they were caught. The 3rd time their cellphones would be confiscated until they passed the Pedestrian Test. If they couldn’t pass the test, they would either be shamed or deported. The worst offenders would be both.

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Brown noise

Riding the train with white noise in my ears. Actually brown noise. I prefer the lower pitches. I wish I had actually learned to play the acoustic bass when I was in 8th grade instead of merely being photographed with one, pretending. Until one finds one’s authentic instrument, one is always pretending something or other.

My knee was killing me today, The CBD oil and lotion and vape did not seem to do very much, except for making me tense, which may have been the caffeine CDB combo. Stimulated in every sense of the word. Is what I was.

This was a sad day because I had one of my final appointments with my knee spirit guide Katherine who is going off to get married. I did not realize that physical therapists could not be physical therapists once they are married. That’s kind of a big sacrifice, don’t you think? She said that I would assigned to another PT, a man named Merritt. And I already do not like him. The problem being that he is a he. And for whatever reason, I don’t trust men as physical therapists. Although I’ve never had one. But I guess that changes now and wouldn’t it be my luck to work with someone named Merritt. That tells me all I need to know.

But for all I know, he could be the miracle worker. It’s so silly of me to make these pre-judgements. I wonder how I would feel if his name was not Merritt. Now that I think about, I’m beginning to worry that I may disappoint him. I might think he’s great, but then I might learn that I did not live up to his expectations. I think I would feel horrible about that.

I have this image of Merritt as kind of big muscular round man with a loud voice and a yellow tennis shirt. The kind of person I would hope would not sit next to me on the train. And then if he did, I would feel trapped. Suffocated. Unable to focus on anything else. If we were sitting right next to each other on these short commuter train seats, I would try to make myself as small as possible. Or if that didn’t work, maybe invisibility. And if that didn’t work, maybe I could wait it out and learn to accept him. That would be quite a breakthrough. Who knows? It might even be good for me.

And then I will be glad Merritt entered my life. I just have to learn to be more open.

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Further highlessness

For 2 days I have felt literally nothing. Completely devoid of passion or inspiration. What if this is it? What if I never experience pain or inspiration ever again? What do I do about that? I wish I knew. Even my numbing TV escapes from the void are overly numbing. There’s only so much numbness a person can take. I think I’ve maxed out.

Perhaps it’s the CBD. Well maybe not entirely. But perhaps if there were an actual high with the highless high I get on CBD that might change everything. But where can a person find THC in this town, especially when you don’t know anybody and you don’t have a medical marijuana card? It’s tempting to reach out to H who lives, breathes and vapes THC the whole day long but he and his wife (my boss) seem to be avoiding me. And I feel terrible about that because whatever the reason must be my fault. Entirely.

It’s something I never have been able to figure out. When people are extraordinarily generous with me, and I make an effort, at least a token effort to express my appreciation… such as treat them to dinner. And they refuse for whatever reason (such as knowing they are wealthier than). And I stop hearing from them. All of this makes me feel very deficient. Which is a fault.

That’s the risk. There always seems like a risk when I reach out to people. The gap between reaching out and eventually getting a response is terrifying. The waiting feels perilous. But maybe that’s a good thing because if I am feeling a sense of terror and foreboding, at least it is a sign that I am feeling something. And then I can feel like I at least made an effort to break out of numbness before I return to it, empty-handed.

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Gummy bears

So I’ve been doing a little experimenting with CBD oil. You know, tinctures, gummy bears, gummy frogs, lotions, vapes, bottled water, coffee, etc. I like to imagine it is giving me some kind of boost, but a different kind of boost, not the decimating fog of very potent THC.

But, you know, if I am feeling anything, it’s so subtle that I’m barely aware there is anything there. It’s not exactly a high in the ‘high’ sense of the word ‘high’. More like a high with a lack of high. That all too familiar feeling of lack. My life these days consists of searching for things to fill the lack.

But CBD high is not exactly lack either. And I’m not high on lack. So what is it? It’s not a low. And it’s not flat. Although there are no peaks or valleys. But it is kind of oily. And it does taste strange. Like burnt gravel.

But the high itself… the high i imagine when I am trying to find a new way to fill the lack… it feels like I am being transported somewhere. But there’s no real journey. It’s kind of like a journey from the bedroom to the kitchen. And back again. It could be perilous. There might be dangers everywhere, but usually not. What could a person learn on a journey such as this? Maybe a person learns that there is nothing left to learn.

I thought it would make me feel something, at least a faint trace of something I might eventually notice. Something so deep I may never have known was there. Or something I haven’t felt in years and years. Or maybe I only knew of people who had known this feeling was in them. Or knew of people who knew of people who once had this feeling. Or perhaps these people only appeared in dreams. Or maybe I’ve only read about them. They might be fictional, but the feeling is definitely real.

So where did that feeling go? Maybe it’s happening anyway. Maybe it’s happening without me. For all I know I am higher than a kite. Maybe the awareness of the high I am not feeling is so intense that it becomes its own kind of high.

Maybe the high and the lack are completely unrelated. It’s entirely coincidental that they emerge at the same time. All of the time.

Now the question is what to do about this. Do I keep vaping away until I feel something? Until I feel something a bit different,  something that isn’t so literal, a subtle shift? Or perhaps a gummy bear might a better choice than a vape.  Perhaps the answer lies within a gummy bear. Perhaps the answer just lies and lies. It lies all of the time. The question is whether the answer believes its own lies. Perhaps the answer has forgotten the question. That would make the most sense.

It is looking more and more like the answer to the forgotten question lies within a gummy bear. Or maybe a gummy bear followed by a vape. Followed by a shower with CBD shampoo. I imagine that somewhere, people are getting baptized in CBD water. I bet that’s happening right now.

I could really use some sort of guidance with this. There was this very kind woman who worked at the CBD shoppe in Brattleboro Vermont where I made my CBD purchases. She was probably in her late 60, her arms completely covered in tattoos.She must have spent an hour with me, explaining all of the miracles people were experiencing on CBD. And she revealed a lot about her own experience with arthritis and anxiety and depression and how CBD has helped her far more than any drug.

Except for Ambien. Which is understandable. I mean people with serious insomnia are beyond any natural remedy. Believe me, they have tried. They’ve tried everything. And if you start talking with them about your insomnia, they make you feel like an amateur. They’re the professionals. I will never question what they try. That would be unethical.

For some people, CBD is actually a stimulant. Even the tiniest dosage of CBD makes me restless and I’ll jump in a pool and swim as many laps as my brain allows (my body could keep swimming forever on CBD). Or at other times, it might be an aphrodisiac, but only at the most inopportune moments. But that’s another story.

But back to the CBD sales clerk in Vermont. Although she was a fountain of knowledge and experience, the only guidance she could offer was for me to experiment. She could not recommend an effective dose. Because everyone responds to it differently. I guess I am on my own with this one.  I was disappointed she could not offer more, but it was still more than worth 5 hours of driving through the mountains, up and down again.

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