making it up...

Name... o.k. we'll go with Thomas.. Williams,
why... because I got to, mister...
The sound was something like a goose choking, or wildly wielding the melody to Peter and the wolf. The kid who lived next door to Thomas Williams reminded him of himself at that age: annoying, loud, and pithy. The clarinet is not something to be practiced outdoors, nor is the trumpet, but there the two sat, like Miles Davis and Benny Goodman. The neighbors walking dogs and strolling children would cringe as their feet moved into a frenzied pace, just long enough to escape the distorted jazz. It was like John Coltrane's "Ascension," but without the brilliance. But for the child and Thomas, it wasn't about making good music. No. It was about making a noise, a collaborative noise, that would cause others to stand up and take notice, or notice enough to move faster, but, nonetheless, take notice. Each had their own deep-seeded reasons. I'm sure Freud would say it was something to do with sex, others would blame the mothers, and others would say...well, they would say something, that is what shrinks are paid to do.

Moderations

It is apparent, having a sober glimpse at my previous two entries, that there may be a serious malfunction with my edit button while drinking. But what has been said has been said, and regret or remorse can be expressed to any parties that may have taken offense (I am sorry, whether you believe it or not- not for what was said, as no one should ever apologize for such expressions, but rather the manner in which they were expressed and the harm they may have caused.)

I have been told I have a tendency to recoil. This is true. I would love to not be this way, but when you see as I see, and logic the way I logic, this is how it comes about: I may have something to offer, but to those I would like to offer I would appreciate (and nearly demand) a certain level of social protocol be maintained. Violation of such protocols are taken to mean a minimal level of (not respect)caring is absent... how should I confide, or share, with someone who doesn't care? So communication becomes distorted... and since I have nobody to really confide, or share, with/in I must withdraw and either confront the problems alone, or find a space in that very crowded closet of mine- either of which takes a tremendous amount of time, emotional stress, and creates a burden on my soul.

As far as social interractions go... I only need someone to alleviate the demand I place on myself in private, in the solitude of my mind- here in my thought cathedral. It is much akin to the way people go to the movies, seeking distractions from their problems. Having someone to share the time with allows me to remove focus from myself and place it on another- to give attention to them (I do adore this), but... who really needs/wants to have me around in this capacity? Surely if I were not me, and saw this person, I would shun him too.

I understand a person's want/need to feel wanted/needed. And that sometimes people like to be chased... it may be that I'm just that jaded, but I would, and have always, preferred things to be simple. I call you- if I leave a message, you call me back. It is simple things that form foundations- curtains and lamps and coffee tables are always the last things when building a house.

I have always maintained the strictest rules on helping others... it goes like this:
If you ask for something, or something of me, it must meet these criteria:
1. I must be capable
2. It must be reasonable (ambiguous I know, but chances are, if you ask, its probably reasonable).
3. I prefer it to be legal.
If these criteria are satisfied, I really can't say no.
Questions.. I don't like open ended questions... this only stems from my lack of social interaction- I don't understand the question, am unsure of what is considered an adequate response. I don't really have any secrets (other than those two things that shall go unmentioned forevermore), so any question presented to me will be answered- though my nature is to give the simplest answer possible; I know this causes grief to those wishing to know more about me, but continue to ask questions and I shall continue to have answers. The only caveat to this is that if a question makes me uncomfortable, as in it pertains to the two unmentionables, then I may not answer.

I don't know. What I do know is that I'm recoiling, and giving up alcohol- drunk is not a pretty mood on me. I have never been a wordsmith, and when personal things are being expressed it is often a painful cluttered mess (I imagine a wall feels the same way)- confusing- even I'm confused. Must I be a social leper? I can only be me, even if I can't see the lesions.

the brighter side...

I don't know where to start, so I shall just begin.
I don't trust people. Recently I disclosed two pieces of information that I have never (and will never again) disclosed to any other person. And while I do not hold the person responsible for their adequate response, nonetheless, the communication has all but ceased. This is what I get for opening up.
You get what you give, and I am unwilling to give of my inner-self any more. I have absolutely no qualms with giving of my time, support, empathy, love to another person, but I will never tear down my walls-I am not Gorbachev.
I shall share with you (whoever you are) this piece of information (never before revealed, but only because I am positive of the three people who may read this):
After 8pm on any given day, I am suicidal. I wish with feverish anticipation that this life should end, but I can't take it- though I know many ways. This may be why I enjoy being with others... it dulls the pain of an existence that is otherwise meaningless... the meaning is in helping others- in caring for others. Despite your belief, this does not require opening up.
I am in constant need of a good friend, but they are more rare than diamonds, and harder to find than a needle in a haystack.. and when I seem to find one... it is only an illusion. For my finale I will transpose the first page of my journal entry, something I have never considered...

How deep does this evil run? The days are long and each consumes me in its own way. A weight, perhaps not mine to carry, is upon my shoulders. My neck is tight- perhaps a sign of my unwilingness to change.
At night I'm left to my thoughts, and rarely is it an uplifting event. I struggle to go to sleep, and then it is often interrupted by dreams that do not comfort (there is little to go around). I do find so little comfort these days.
I awake groggy and stiff, casting off what I believe to be right with the sheets of my bed.
Why are the things I want to do, the last I would think to do? How deep does this evil run, that I cannot bend my ways. I know that heaaven exists- and that makes the days all the harder to bear. I know a piece of the truth, of its sweetness, and all I want is more. (end journal entry)
All I can say is, "whatever," and "f-off, nobody should ever make me feel like this."
but then... I'm sure I'm deserving of all I receive- except the good.
I don't even deserve that.

seriously??

I title my blog entries before I even type... so this one has me shaking my head before even I begin. I am not a very open person, but effort is valued (I am unsure why). I keep nearly everything inside with the greatest of ease, and to cause this well to bubble over may be more difficult than the analogy. I am loved by a few people, and sometimes wish to give it. But it is those times at which I feel I may wish to give it, I... (dramatic effect) I hesitate.
And because of this, or partly due to the short attention span and "now" mentality, people withdraw from me as quickly as they came. Oh, they can be so excited initially, and there excitement excites me to the point where I nearly unleash... so close, but always so reserved. And though I may pine inside, and my face remain stone-carved as effigy- I go on with the toil of light and dark, through day and night. My place is my place, though I may never understand it, and the things I may wish for could be the very things I am never meant for.
In matters of the heart I will always be patient-be sure- because what is bound is bound, and I may hold that more sacred... more tight than my own life.

What is in name?

In a reflection, or musing, I contemplated names: meaning, purpose, and perception.
A name, first and foremost, is a title and typically one of the first things about a person we learn. In biblical times, names were chosen, typically, as a thanks to God, expressing a triumph of sorts (this is why many biblical names refer to God). Today names are chosen more through the steady application of a specific criteria: vanity. Of course thought is still given to meaning, but the emphasis is on originality and sound.
But upon the perception of a name: not of others on the person, but of the named and the namers. Growing up, as many of us did, I often expelled contempt for my name and wished to live by another. I believe that this is tied into the general rebellious nature of children against their parents. The name is, or was, a symbol of what the parents hoped for in their child, and rebellion was against that hope, against the feeling of being forced into a box that is uncomfortable to the one stuffed inside. So when anyone wants to change their name, it is not necessarily the image they wish to change, but the deep seeded hope for their own life that they wish to express.
I came upon this while pondering over my pen name, the one you see on the side of my profile, RS Althaus. It is a vanity, the "RS," chosen specifically to draw out the question, "what does it stand for?" But I will tell you, and I will tell you the meaning, thus divulging the hope I have for my own life.

Rema Sterling Althaus (faithful little star from the old house).

Call me Bert...

Only I don't have the candy-striped jacket or straw hat, but give me a moderate breeze and I'll be out flying a kite. Life is a lot like that I think: tension on the line; dependendant on the breeze; when there's slack you pull it in, but your never really in control.
I'm not sure if you should find this comforting, but I do, given the right amount of breeze you can let your kite go as high as you want. I'm not given to words lately, a dry spell, or dust bowl- there is plenty of.. hmm.. emotion, but never focused. I have noticed, or am becoming more aware, that I don't show emotion much- I like to think I keep it in my eyes, but sometimes it hides in my chest, but rarely is it on my face.
Still not sure if anyone reads this thing... I'm hoping to add a think-tank twist to it, though it would probably feel more like a dunk tank. I do like a good fair.

St. Patrick's Day

I am fortunate enough to know that a little bit of Irish blood runs through my veins, and I have never really indulged in the most Irish of holidays. But I am dissapointed that people seem to think it's o.k. to celebrate any holiday on any day that is not that holiday (follow?)
On a related note: One of the greatest movies ever made is "Boondock Saints," and I was pleased to hear last month that they are creating a "Boondock Saints 2: All Saints Day" I am really looking forward to this movie as they seemed to have locked up all the main members of the original cast, minus Willem Dafoe.
And finally, St. Patrick's day is the unofficial end of winter and beginning of spring- contrary to the beliefs of my hoosier fellows, it is not basketball- and the end of the winter relationships that were doomed to fail.
Happy St. Patrick's Day (by the by, it's on Tuesday!)

Weekend Reflections upon Oily surfaces

This last weekend I ventured out from my thought cathedral in search of inspiration, the kind found in the quiet wings of art museums. First let me say that it was enjoyable, in spite of there being no baroque works hung from the walls. It was my first visit to the Indianapolis Museum of Art since before the completion of the new entrance: an extravagant clear layered cake. It took me nearly four hours to tour (that includes skipping all the entire second floor) and by the end I had a limp that would make House jealous (seriously, my knee just can't take the abuse it used to). On the first floor is European art from renaissance to impressionism, dutch impressionist, romanticism and realism. There was also American art, placed towards the end and a selection of Hoosier artists including a T.C. Steele piece that I have always enjoyed but can never remember the name of. Back in the European section there was a sad face that drooped near the eyes, as if the tears weighed upon it immensely (I imagine this is what I'll look like if I ever cry again). The third floor contained the new European Design exhibit that was quite a bit smaller than I had anticipated, but the modern art on the same floor more than made up for the disappointment (I am not so fond of design). It was a lovely way to spend a Saturday afternoon, and I shall see to it that my "should replenish" becomes a "does replenish" more frequently (I do think they miss me something fierce, and some even tried to talk to me, but I digress...).

intricate woven rug

If you pay attention to the subtleties of the world around you may notice that more than one thing recurring through the days. An idea, or word, or person, comes into a day, not like the blinding light of a midday sun, though this may be where you notice it, but instead like the dawn, and fades like the sunset or the leaves from the autumn tree. Each is its own colored thread of a tapestry woven with great care, and where one thread ends another has already begun to take its place, just as the birds fly south before the last leaf falls, but never before the first leaf turns, and you can continue to see the migratory patterns when the first snow falls.

It is these threads that give me comfort, for I belief it is a recognition of the blanket I am wrapped within, alive with life and full of color.

My worst 4 days

(backstory) I have always reviled hospitals for nearly as long as I can remember. The cold, lackluster halls drenched in a sterile stench that draws on the soul- like a cord to the blinds. When I was in high school, a dear friend of mine was placed in one for having the condition of bipolar disorder, and though I did not understand, I empathised and shared a burden that was not mine. His pain was my pain, but my sanity remained my own for me to lose at another turn.

It has been three years now, in a life measured in three year cycles, since I made the turn that landed me in a similar position: locked behind double doors with nothing to do but walk the circular hallway and sip on a variety of carbonated drinks. It was then that I fully understood the burden which had been heaped upon my good-natured friend. The hours were long, still they are long, and the numbness, induced by the combination of medication and sterile air, induced tremors and constipated thought (mostly it was the medication). It was the furthest from myself I have ever traveled. It was the absolute worst 4 days of my life. I often complain that life is cage; that the rules we live by constrict us so much that I am often bewildered that we do not suffocate; but when I remember these days, even with great languishing and shallow breaths, I understand that, given a choice between the two cages, I have yet to suffocate here.

Life got you down??

Yeah, I've been there, in the not too distant past-ever not so distant past. May I advise for your consumption a honey packet or two to start your morning off a little sweeter, a little slower- the lower me would say life is long enough without slowing it down any. True, life is long, but it is the enjoyment that seems to shorten the distance, the sweetness that slower steps would allow us to enjoy all the more. So a honey packet or two should do; a honey packet or two.

On a side note: I'm listening to Peter Cincotti's rendition of "Rainbow Connection" and I can't stop picturing a young Kermit on a log in the intro to "Swamp Years"

Sanded Wood

I am hickory split from the tree: odd in shape and texture, and as hard as I may try to bend my vision to suit my shape, I am still oddly complex and difficult to find a place amongst the whittled and sanded timbers- guided and leveled and nailed into place. I don't really know why I'm writing this, I think I'm merely trying to work my way around a poem, the beginnings of which formed in the faint hours of starlight:
The carpenter works to a sanded board/ never an enigmatic smile adored
true it doesn't make much sense, but often I attribute this to the mixture of several unmixable ideas- such as blue, red, and yellow (making brown) when you're trying for a faded violet, or earthy orange or green- never sure which color you really wish to use, so you end up with all of them.
It reminds me of a line from a Remy Zero song, "we're built from the old frames"

Have you ever seen the bark of a tree to flow like a river (up and it's the Nile, down and its much less intriguing) or do you only see a trunk, a shield, if it were Norse, from the weather?

Smile...

Denial,
Anger,
Bargaining,
Depression,
Acceptance,

This comes to light after certain thought- concerted thought, about the behavior I've been exhibiting, and brought to the front of my mind with the passing of my Aunt's father. I did not know him well, but he seemed of the friendly sort as we would often intermingle at larger family events- usually surrounding the holidays.

I am trying to transition from 4 to 5 but find it difficult as certain ideas remain unanswered, such as: is it all in my mind. My mind is an elaborate mixture, perhaps concocted by some mad scientist, or it is the result of my giving it free reign- allowing it to wander where it pleases as opposed to controlling the line of thought. It is my nature to see the worst, and believe it, regardless of whether the continuity of events supports it.

thank you

I wish to extend thanks to anyone who may have read even the glimmer of a letter here on my blog. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I feel I have nothing left to say that may bear any consequence on future events. Although I believe in hope, seeing it daily, and bear a faint hope that someday I may stumble upon some words, or that the wind may carry them to me lightly and with the fresh scent of spring, I also believe that they shall not be transcribed here. Thank you again, and though I know you are few, there is only that much more thanks to be divided amongst you.

The Mirror Grave

Samuel Oliveri had trouble sleeping. It always starts this way, and with the haunting dreams. He had found that the only remedy worth pursuing were midnight walks around town. It was quiet and calm, and the heavy air of the night seemed to slow his mind enough to allow an adequate amount of sleep.

The city’s greenway trail, though not really green, cut through the southern corner of the cemetery. It never troubled him before, nor did it this night, until he approached a peculiar headstone that he had not seen before. It was on the edge of the greenway and stood alone, away from the others. As he approached it he read the inscription with great wonder. The granite headstone reflected his name: Samuel W. Oliveri, there were no dates, no in memoriam, no last words.

The grass grew plentiful beneath the moon-cast shadow, thick and leaning over from the weight of the dew. Leaning lightly against the headstone was a spade shovel with a wooden handle, slightly worn, and it begged as it stood there to be used, and he begged from the inside wanting only to know. It would be hours before the sun would lighten the sky, and there was nobody to be seen walking around.

The shovel felt proper in his hands, as if it were his own, the same one he had used to tend to his garden at home. With a thrust downward he stabbed at the soil, then hesitated before pulling back on the handle leveraging up the soil so unfortunate to be chosen first. The hole started small and grew wider and deeper in an awkward manner- as if there was no real intent, just a raucous digging. But deeper and wider the hole became, and the mounds of soil placed on either side of the headstone grew proportionally bigger. The shovel made an awful broken sound when it hit bottom, and was cast up and over the ledge onto a patch of dirty grass after Samuel remove what he could from atop the casket. Kneeling down, he brushed the layer of dirt off to the side as he searched for an opening.

The casket was simple but sturdy, and he was unsure of what he would find. A thousand images flashed through his mind as to what the outcome of the next moments would be. His heart palpitated. His throat clamped down. His breaths became shallow and forced. His eyes widened as his hand found the latch, and when his fingers began to pull- at this point he tried to stop but his hand was in control- he shut his eyes tighter than he did as a child in the dark. Only the top half opened. He slowly, squeamishly, began to open his eyes and turn away in disgust before even he could see. The casket was empty, but contained this oddity: the bottom of the casket was a mirror, and as he looked at it, befuddled and amazed, his face attained a slight smile only the moment after his heart gave out.

another week

Another week has passed in seemingly slow motion. I fear I may be living in a school zone, in fact, there is one around the corner- James Whitcomb Riley Elementary, I think the name is a disservice to the namesake, almost like creating an Albert Einstein pre-school. My taskboard, created to own preformed ideas for writing, is doing nothing to encourage me to write. It sits idle above my desk nearly filled- Winter bloom; A steeple in the distance; Hold the line; Sickle and Wheat; Linear Causality and Spatial relationships; A weathered copper soul; and several other ideas. I have, on top of my file cabinet, a few unfinished poems; at night they cry for attention, but I am heartless towards them, and deride them under my breath as I try to go to sleep.
At work on Friday the tension of the workers was high. A rumour had been floated that it would be known as "black friday"- the day when the corporate structure would be lightened by 80 or so bodies- for the most part, I knew it to be untrue, having knowledge that this day won't come until the end of March, but I still waited to see if I would receive word of my departure. I almost hoped for it, and still do. It isn't that I dislike my job, in fact, of all the positions I've held, it is the most enjoyable, but still... it is something to consider.
My Sunday shows only disturbed me. I reached the point of trying to go back to bed, with hopes of starting my day all over at a later time, but I was already awake, and nothing can be done for the morning once it arrives; nothing can be done for the mourning once it dies. (?) I'm not sure what that's about, perhaps my own meaning can be revealed at a later time; a drawback to writing without concerted thought.

Leaning the other way

Today I had planned on railing against logic but, instead, I shall lean the other way, having doubts about my own: in understanding that I may be the only one who thinks the way I do- who reasons the way I do- I have decided that, according to the common logic, I must be wrong. So now, having to rebuild the mental algorithms and synapses of the brain, I digress into mental oblivion: a wasteland of lucidity and doubt.

So the other way shall we. I stayed at my parents' last night, coming home to a powerless home (man, the analogies never cease!), I wanted coffee and was in no position to fulfill my desires (shaking my head). I stepped outside to smoke around 10 or 11 and while sitting on the back steps I was frightened when an owl glided from a set of trees the border the property up to the peak of roof that runs the depth of the garage. I should not have been startled, having planned for his arrival-the hoots had continued for some time- but the stealth of the owl never fails to surprise: ninjas of the night sky. Shall I take it as omen? Or shall I simply, as the Beatles sang, "let it be." I shall break the chain of events to let you know that this isn't the first time this has happened to me in exactly the same spot, also I have been stared down, in this exact location, by a peregrine falcon who had made its way to an antanae located above the same peak. But I can't let anything be, it is not in my nature. If ever there was a chance to go internal with a sledghammer, I would take it. Archaeology of the self is not nearly as delicate as dealing with dwindling carbon. So I took the bait- again I am a sucker for that line and reel- and decided to look up several omens and dream interpretations. So here is the owl (its application has limited value):

Stupid Nova

The best/worst thing about getting older has to be the increasing affinity for programs such as Nova and those on the History Channel and NatGeo. Last night I was sucked in to the Nova program on the debate between Evolution and Intelligent Design. I am sure, assuming you have read my blog, that you know where I stand. But frequently in such instances when this debate is raging, the first ammendment is thrown into the mix (The applicable section reads, "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof;") Now, I am not a student of law, and my level of intelligence seems to diminish with each passing day, but I liken this portion of the first ammendment to sugar and tea. Often this is referred to as the separation of church and state, and I believe this does mean a mutual exclusion the way it is written, I find the sugar and tea to be a more ideal analogy. Sugar is religion and tea is government. You do not want to put tea in the sugar bowl because you will ruin the sugar, but occasionally you put some sugar in your tea. I think the problem with this clause, in these times, is that too many people enjoy want their tea without sugar.

Impossibility...

one of my all time favorites

youtube... remy zero impossibility

The way it has to be.

Today I was driving down to my parents' home, to pick up my new phone, listening to the droll voices of talk radio and drifting in and out of thoughts, like a fish unsure of taking the bait. I'm a sucker, of course I bit, but here are the thoughts of that catch:

I have heard people discuss the implications of prophecies, both of God and men (most notably Nostradamus), and frequently in these discussions the debate ensues about whether they are destined to be, or merely warnings so that we may turn our course. Inevitably someone will state that these are warnings for our benefit, that we may glance upon ourselves as a race and determine that the road we're heading down leads to destruction, change, and continue on. But I must tell you that, at least in my view, and I cannot speak on all prophetics, the prophecies of both God and Nostradamus are destined to be. They cannot be changed or manipulated (of course agreement is based upon a basic understanding that God exists). This is because a fundamental purpose of the prophecies revealed to the prophets of biblical times by God is to turn the hearts of men to him; to provide proof of his existence. Also, in keeping with the above understanding, God created the stars by which Nostradamus came to his quattrains (Genesis 1:14 allows the lights of the sky to be for signs), so we could accept Nostradamus as someone who had a great understanding of the design of the universe, being able to discern the signs of the skies and thus being the plan laid out from the beginning. So, you see, everything that is has been planned, at least in a general sense, and the things to come are destined to be, so that as time goes on, more may come unto Him, seeing the things He has done.