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[writingsofgvearwood]

Unfiltered Whining

Am I moored to my memories, without recourse? The simplest of touches or a smile of silent wanting seem but a memory now. Everyone who might understand and reminisce to share my memories is dead. All the players. All. I dreamed of some golden years with more memories than I could ever remember. Little did I know that I was intuiting more than I could've known. Or maybe I set about consuming so much in my zeal that I'd be old with only fleeting and flashes of memories without enough brain or time to remember them and wish they were not so damn fleeting.

[writingsofgvearwood]

Your Music

My family enjoyed "making music". And that is exactly what it was appropriately called. The first warm-fuzzy-I-am-somebody feeling happened at 5 years of age while riding in a 1950 Ford with Dad, Mother, an older brother and an older sister. I don't think there was a working radio in the car, we sang so much in my memories that I'll go ahead and say there wasn't a radio at all. When I suggested we sing "I'll Fly Away", a unanimous favorite to which we all knew all of the words, Dad asked me lead it out. And lead it out I did.

  From that time throughout my entire life, music has been so much more important than I ever imagined. I have a thousand songs in my head. I certainly don't know all the words or even the melodies, but a memory is attached to a majority of the songs I've ever heard. With whom, doing what, wherever, whenever - none of that has ever left my memory even if I can't remember a lot, or much, or anything specific.

  Music quietly accompanies your soul throughout the process of living. The gamut of emotions, the need to remember something you do remember, Music is  the invisible baggage we all carry, and it has no weight but can be as heavy or as light as the moments of you. Carry it proudly and hold on to it with zeal, for even as your specifics become whitewashed or fade away, the memory of that touch, that smile, that joy, that roller coaster, that kiss, that crazy night out with a hooker and a Jew, whatever your memories are, there is a soundtrack.  Enjoy it, for it is as much a part of you as your senses. Live. Shut up, and Dance to your Music!

[writingsofgvearwood]

To All the Mighty Manipulators

To hell with you and all your sort; You come stalking out of my past, trying to order my life around, confusing my judgments and decisions, creating doubts of my happiness, singing your tale of what’s best for me, almost convincing me that I’m wrong. But I don’t hear your rhythms any longer, Neither do I care to know your opinion.

To hell with you and all your sort; You profess to be so concerned, about me and the problems of my life, there’s no way you can be quiet, when you know that I’m screwing up, counseling and patronizing my ego, reminding me of my faults. But I don’t seek your approval any  longer, Neither do I want your possessive love.

To hell with you and all of your sort; If you can’t tell that I’m happy, then you don’t know me at all, you’ll not take this one from me, in spite of all your woe and disbelief, for I am in love with a dreamer, just the two of us, without your ilk. I don’t wish you to leave me alone anymore, Just keep your righteous indignation.

[writingsofgvearwood]

WBC

Bradley was ostentatious, flamboyant, annoying, hysterical, totally loyal, and God's gift to me as my very best friend. Practically the same age, we had much more in common than either of us would ever know. Although he died a few years ago, I am possessed by an occasional shudder with the memory of his raucously obnoxious laugh, albeit contagious.  Although we were never intimate, girls do swap stories.  To Bradley's chagrin, I learned of a curvature of his penis. Thence, when the need arose to take one of those best friend jabs, I would call him Captain Hook. Laughter would ensue, regardless of circumstance, environment or protocol. Doubtless, he had the goods on me as well. Not a peccadillo went unnoticed. Mistakes in pronunciation, usage, and such were a call to engage in a conversation to defend whoever's language was at bar. A consummate cellist and a talented baritone singer, if one didn't mind a vibrato through which you could jump rope - double dutch.  Ah, but when he danced! Now this is difficult to describe, regardless of one's vocabulary or the breadth of grammatical skill.  Bradley loved, loved, loved to dance. His eyes were usually closed (unless a shirtless sick-pack-god should be writhing somewhere nearby). The words that come to mind as I close my eyes and remember include: abandon, joy, wriggling, shaking, jerking, bliss, confidence, and yes, even ridiculously beautiful. Arms flew, legs were inveterate, head was bouncing freely, and hips were - well, somehow still miraculously connected to the rest of his body. Even in the flailing of his surely possessed body parts, his sense of rhythm was impeccable. Photographs, reenactments, and scathing descriptions could not diminish the absolute fun of his dancing. A man who guffawed his laugh to the shock of many when standing in a line for a bank teller just because he overheard a nearby customer say, "He said it. Word for word verbatim!"  Suffice it to say, my best friend Bradley respected little else to the extent he strove for more, because complacency was unacceptable just as disappointment did not exist. There will be many stores about Bradley or that include Bradley. He was an integral and requisite part of my soul and I miss his presence almost as much as I delight in imbibing his memory. But I think it unfair to tease without a healthy taste of what is to come so, my next post is one of those stories of an amazing evening, or so it was for two on disparately similar journeys to define themselves. .

[writingsofgvearwood]

New Orleans, part the first

My older brother, Neil, was my hero, mentor, antagonist, friend, surrogate parent, critic, teacher, role model, and bully. Neal was tall and attractive and superior in a charismatic way. Neil was both protective, demanding and very solicitous when it came to me. His sense of humor was finely honed which added to my delight that he was also Gay. There is much to tell that includes Neil, but for now know that a complete and good man lived. When he died in 1990 at 40 years old, I was devastated.  The foundation of my existence was simply no longer there.  I think the most difficult element of that indescribable grief had to be the innumerable comparisons of me to Neil. Discomforting and confusing, yep, that about describes it. A few months later I (again) ran away. I went to Florida and truly floated around for several weeks, finding a temp job in Jacksonville, then in Daytona, then in Orlando, then in Miami.  Thankfully I had friends or acquaintances in all of these places so I had a couch or better. Still lost and searching, I drove to Key West, went directly to the bar nearest the Southernmost point marker. I was drinking away my last dollars, wondering if I should sleep in the car or on the beach or in the ocean. I smelled marijuana - whoo hooo. With drink in hand I walked toward the smell and was invited to join in the ceremonial passing of the pipe. This guy was loud, had great pot, had fingernails that were larger than his fingertips, and was generous and interesting all on his own. He was vacationing on his way to New Orleans next, but he did hate to fly, and after ten minutes and two (I think) bowls in the pipe, I had car. He had money. I was lost. He had direction. New Orleans bound.  I lived there for four years. It was good times, and I will share.

[writingsofgvearwood]

Myself

It's true enough that it has taken me quite a long while to discover myself, my personality, my peccadillos, my buttons. Oddly enough, the moment I genuinely stopped giving the proverbial fuck about anyone's opinions of me is the exact moment I made that very discovery. Now that I no longer have need to compare or answer-for, there are a few people (past and present) who would be quite happy to learn of my self discovery and bask in the ease of old friends; however, because I am who I am I feel no desire to share any part of my psyche and soul without invitation or, at least, provocation. This condition is also known as I Don't Give A Flying Fuck and if you are my friend, you are happy about that!

[writingsofgvearwood]

Thoughts on Singing

As a child and through my teen years gatherings of my Dad's family invariably included semi-circling around a piano, whether tuned or just a bit off, to enjoy singing gospel hymns. Sometimes there were more instruments, sometimes not even a piano. These always included laughter, hugs, harmony, men straining to sing higher than their range and minor gaggles sharing the latest gossip. Yep, I miss all that cacophony as much as the lilting harmonies and those musical hooks - just waiting for that chord to become natural again. It's emotional, it's hopeful, it's not overly difficult, no training is required, and as I am living proof, religious affiliation or conviction not required.  But damn, such good fun to feel the collective sound of earnest music, just for fun!

[writingsofgvearwood]

October Joy

"It is wonderful to live in a world where there are Octobers", so sayeth Anne of Green Gables.  And I totally agree.  The birds are still chirping but the leaves are showing the brightest and most glorious beauty as they die before our eyes. It's not a bad thing you know, that they die. Leaves don't meet their maker, or do they? Ah, but the glory of their waning days as they display their colorful pride in having fulfilled their purpose to create oxygen. A job well done and a beautiful escape as they slowly pass from productive to accomplished. People have long overlooked the beauty that comes from being of use. To paraphrase Dr. King, ... be the best street sweeper you can be! Most everyone I know is droning through life with infrequent flashes of mediocre joy. Even a leaf works to make this world a better place, and goes out in a blaze of glory. And so do stars!  Find your joy and reach for nothing else, for in it you will find your colors, your purpose, and the world will be better that you were here. I want to see your glorious beauty as you bask in the remembrance of better-than-good moments that helped the world be just a bit better.

[writingsofgvearwood]

Are My Political Views a Bit on the Liberal Side?

I am an intelligent man who does not wish to stagnate in the past or the present, but challenge humanity for the future.  In other words, damn right I'm a liberal, in every possible aspect. To me it is an obnoxious insult for anyone to be so self absorbed, so self serving, as to have much and mock those who  have less. Such behavior is to be expected from the ruling oligarchical few (now called the one percent); however, for these people who make a few hundred thousand dollars a year, it is inexcusable. The same lot are receiving the proverbial drippings from the table of the lords of America, e.g., making $120,000 a year while the CEO makes 68 million dollars in the same year. Therefore, those who make a mere $28,000 a year are the scourge of the earth - they want food stamps, and they cheat on their taxes, and they don't have insurance, and their houses just don't look well kept, and we have to educate their kids, and most don't know who their daddy is, etc., ad nauseum. I'll leave your imagination to expand that altruism into the unemployed, disabled, elderly, homeless ... . The land of the free!? Yes, you're free: to believe in the same god I do; to be as frugal with your money as I; to hungrily absorb the fluffy propagandized graphics of talking head nonsensical media; you're free as well to purchase licenses, pay an assortment of taxes, vote for whomever your nonpolitical pastor tells you God wants to win; dress "appropriately"; be harassed and brutalized by those paid to protect and serve; and, certainly not least of all freedoms, to go to jail in a most degrading manner should you choose to assemble and protest any government- or oligarchy-sponsored injustice. The home of the brave!? Sure, brave enough to hide behind the mortal threat of owning a gun instead of striving to educate those a rung or two down the ladder that pacifism is not a thing of the 60's, but a peaceful way to coexist. As well, most everyone I see these days is brave enough to do as they're told when it comes to elections, seek approval from an Association prior to painting your home, and brave enough to call the police if you see a motorist on the side of the road with the car hood raised (I don't have time or am too scared to actually help someone I don't know).  Modern day bravery in America is tantamount to the duck-and-cover-under-your-desk which those of my generation learned to avoid a nuclear holocaust. Sorry, but it is, quite frankly, laughable. Very few of us think, any more. We are so overwhelmed with information that our minds are not capable of filtering truth from fantasy or opinions from facts. The last vestige of reliable information slipped away in 1981 when Walter Cronkite retired. Prior to that woeful moment, people heard the facts and were then free to form their own opinion, without guidance from the fact-giver. Of course, the sheep were still lead by those highly opinionated acquaintances; however, with commingling among cliques and social contacts, there was an objectivity that also slipped away in 1981 with Walter.  Now we are overwhelmed with opinions, rarely contrasting to any noticeable merit, which may have been formed by the informer based upon a fact. The aggressiveness of the opinions espoused by polished anchor/sales people make life easier if accepted, for then we never have to stretch our minds' capability to filter facts from bullshit or opinions from facts. So, am I to be considered a "Liberal"? Oh hell yes! Every person who has accomplished great things for humanity was called, wait for it, a "Liberal"; to wit: Mohandas Gandhi, Dr. Martin King, Jr., Jesus Christ, John F. Kennedy, Theodore Roosevelt, Franklin Roosevelt, Marie Curie, Mother Theresa, Pope Francis, Robert F. Kennedy, Emperor Constantine, General George Patton, Alexander the Great, Elvis Presley, and, not to be forgotten, the signers of the Declaration of Independence. Damn fine company, I'd say. These are icons who moved society forward, strove to bring about change that each hoped would improve because of their influence over other people. "We're not going to hold anything. We're going to advance, always", in the similar words of General Patton. If you feel the need to contribute one-tenth of your income to a building with a steeple so as to claim and define your morality, then you are simply shading your immorality within a group of sheep. But hell, a recliner and 246 channels on a 56 inch HDTV with a remote is, for Nixon's silent majority and present-day media zombies, much easier, Perhaps I'll even take a nap now since it's world news time - nothing to do with me, anyway.

[writingsofgvearwood]

I’m Camping

Yep, that's Oliver. Granted he is spoiled, he is sometimes rowdy, quite often obnoxious, and usually aggressive when meeting new people. He holds my heart as a constant companion who effuses love as though I am the only person worthy of acknowledgement. Did I mention that he loves to go camping with me?

In the Spring of 2014 I loaded up my Jeep, replete with Oliver riding shotgun, and headed off for a week of solitude, introspection, nature, independence and relaxation. Thanks to the 50% discount we disabled / old people get courtesy of Obama (isn't everything blamed on him?) or the Army Corps of Engineers (who built and run the place for like 50+ years), I paid my ten bucks a night for the week, chose the quasi-private location, set up the tent, unloaded the car, set up the chairs, started a fire, got Oliver in my lap, and lit a joint. Whee - I'm camping now!

As would be typical, Oliver was wriggling in anticipation of the freedom to run about and explore (by that I mean smell of and hike a leg at every perpendicular object). While in my greenful peace, listening to the sounds of civilized nature, I depend upon the half of me that remains awake to locate Oliver and call him back to our campsite. Before I could even call his name out of my peaceful state, I hear the sharp, shrill sound of his bark. Someone, or something has come near. Upon standing I see a runner. Not just any runner, but a damn fine example of the 2010's version of a Hunk. Oliver is approaching him as I start loudly calling Oliver to hopefully get his attention. Oops. Mister Hot 27ish year old body stops dead in his stride, turns to me and exclaims in a rather exasperated tone, "your dog just nipped my ankle".

Now, please keep in mind that there are no other campers within sight of my remote, mid-week seclusion. To my mind, opportunity just struck (or, nipped, as the case were). I walked toward the Hunky muscled-up dude to retrieve Oliver and, as I reached out my hand for the customary shake I couldn't think of an apology fast enough to stop my words from cascading over my tongue, "Damn lucky dog!"  It is only polite and seemly for a Southern Gentleman to offer a glass of sweet tea, or a toke from your joint, or a shot of whiskey to one who has been nipped by your puppy.  Well, it may not be seemly or polite, but it damn sure worked that day. I started the conversation part of our visit with “do you want his insurance card?” An hour and a half later, Justin decided he must leave and get back to ... whatever it was that he needed to get back to. Although the unseen muscles were not as attractive as those he flashed while running, the encounter and a bit of sweating was the perfect addition to, shall we say, settling in to the camping mode. While jogging in place to prepare for the continued run ahead of him, Justin exclaimed ere he jogged out of sight - damn lucky, Justin!

WooHoo - NOW I'm camping!

________________________________________ Sadly, Oliver died in 2021 from heart failure. 

[writingsofgvearwood]

There are men too gentle to live among wolves Who prey upon them with IBM eyes And sell their hearts and gust for martinis at noon and search For other men to prey upon and suck their childhood dry.

That verse was written by James Kavanaugh in 1970 and has long been a favorite of mine. The further into adulthood life pushed, the more I craved and missed and eventually wept for the loss of my childhood. For with it, as it is with everyone, went the lackadaisical absence of imaginary friends, the purity of original thought without concern for what any god or baptist might condemn. It is the simplicity of the soul that is harmed by maturity, responsibility, worrying, and judging. There are, however, a few people, a very, very few people who have or will acquire a god-like soul that is too gentle to live among wolves. There is neither indignity nor success in becoming such a gentle soul. There is only peace. For some of us it has taken most of a lifetime to discern that. For most of us it will never be understood. For a few of us, we shall not fit; we shall not surrender any more of our childhood than living has already cost; and we obviate the interest of IBM eyes, as it were, with honesty of self. Of irony, I was working a temporary job (one of a few hundred throughout my working life) at the IBM offices in Atlanta. After a few mundane and wholly uninteresting days of being what was then commonly called a "word processor", the "floor supervisor" came to me in a most excited way. OK, the money was nice and, in the words of my eldest nephew, "they were paying me to be there, so I was there" Jane, being the perfectly named "floor supervisor" wore her navy blue skirt and blazer over blouses which actually varied in color from time to time, patted me on the back to inform me that my work was so good that she had gotten approval to hire me as a "permanent IBMer". Amidst her glee and expectation of the same from me, I ended my temporary assignment with IBM, but only because I calmed her enough to quote the verse first above as my "favorite" poem.  I still don't know why they wouldn't even let me finish that day's work.  Hell, I needed the money!

[writingsofgvearwood]

Remembering Robin Williams

Out of the night that covers me black as the pit from pole to pole I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul

In the fell clutch of circumstanceI have not winced nor cried aloudUnder the bludgeonings of chancemy head is bloody, but unbowedBeyond this place of wrath and tearslooms but the horror of the shadeand yet the menace of the yearsfinds, and shall find me, unafraidIt matters not how strait the gatehow charged with punishments the scrollI am the master of my fateI am the captain of my soul"Invictus,"by William Earnest Henley

[writingsofgvearwood]

Politics vs. Intelligence

The more I know about Republican politicians and those who vote for them, is all the more I want a tiny house somewhere without news - just Classic Rock, Classical Music, Netflix, and NO news programs. Being a hermit is much preferable to serfdom that awaits the masses in this Country. I can't understand it. Everything relating to politics and government has become a hateful perpetual motion machine. Everything is someone else's fault and nothing is ever to anyone's credit.

If a society does not progress, evolve as it were, the entirety of that society devolves. There is no such thing as stagnant evolution, that is property called devolution. Why would I take the effort to vote for a woman to represent me in government if she wants to control my penis, consider my semen to be protected by God and thus the laws of the land. Why then would any female allow a few hundred people in Washington, DC to legalize or criminalize any part of their bodies?  That is so integral to my sense of freedom that I am baffled upon trying to wrap my mind around the concept. Should there be a law dictating whom I may love?

Law enforcement (the minions of the proverbial Big Brother) may enter your home without a warrant if they remember to cite the Patriot Act, take you to jail for the detestable crime of jaywalking; tax your money when you buy something with money that has already been taxed, at least once; and, there is no honest and reliable source of facts without the yellowed taint of opinion, whether the opinion of the writer or of the corporation from which the writer's paycheck comes. In other words, Walter Cronkite is dead, newspapers have become editorial reports, and if you don't have an offshore banking account you are soon to be so financially encumbered to the government that you will be a servant (or should I use the word "serf").

As a child I respected and admired the Presidents including Dwight Eisenhower, John Kennedy, Lyndon Johnson, who were respectable and dignified the American populace by challenging and improving our Country. And then came Nixon who was a flawed man to begin the perpetuating cycle of dishonesty, disrespect, and contempt. Gerald Ford was a good man in a bad place at a bad time. Jimmy Carter was elected to be exactly what he is, an honest man with good intentions to improve the average person's life. President Carter's problems were brought about by the political machine begun by Nixon because Carter was not a member of the rising oligarchy. Ronald Reagan was the mouthpiece for the wealthy, ruling, and wealthiest individuals in this Country, and he deserved nothing less than an Oscar for his performance, but certainly no praise for any improvement of this Country. George H.W. Bush remains a member of the elitist oligarchy as does his son, George W. Bush and they accomplished much for their cronies with financial power, to the chagrin and dismay of the not-independently-wealthy citizenry. Bill Clinton is, as has oft been said, the perfect; however he struggled against the machine with the intention of being at least a bit above the fray and was a bit more "of" and "for" the citizenry than every President since Lyndon Johnson. Barack Obama seems token to me in many ways. There are no specifics in his abstractly polished and gentrified goals and objectives. And we will never know what President Obama wanted to accomplish for the simple fact that Congress is opposed to him at almost every turn.

American politics is for sale. As is the Supreme Court. As is the Judicial system. And those among us who beg for a minimum wage hike, and those among us who carry debt, and those among us who depend upon the government for our invested sustenance to be finally paid to us, will all find that we cannot afford a politician, or a lawyer, or a home. We, as a people, the citizens of the United States of America, drank the Kool-Aid dispensed by those who could afford to taint it with such things as trickle-down economics, John Boehner and his ilk, and propagandized public media. My problem is that I puked up the Kool-Aid and my mind still works independently.

I think, therefore I am --- disgusted.

[writingsofgvearwood]

the Waffle House

As I turned 15 years old in 1969, I thought my paper route to be a brutal job since it required 2 hours every evening and almost twice as much time in the wee hours of every Sunday morning. I'd delivered The Atlanta Journal since January of 1966. Yep, the dorky kid with the crossed eyes visible through the black horn-rimmed glasses, and long, skinny legs rode a bicycle (when I had one) or walked the few blocks every day, but I was the nerdy kid with a bit of my own money. The work ethic was explained to me as a very young child when I was required to join the rest of the family in a field of cotton, picking the fluffy, white, tiny clouds from those nasty, brittle, finger-cutting bolls in which it grew. Of course, that included lugging a canvas bag behind me strapped to my shoulder and growing heavier and heavier with every seemingly weightless puff I dropped in. Because I was only 5 and 6 years old at the time, my efforts didn't make a noticeable difference in the family's daily production of king cotton. It did, however, contribute to the larger amounts picked by my older siblings and my parents. So, the paper route was high on my list of "things to do" when we moved from the fields of north Georgia to Atlanta. Damn it, I couldn't get a route until I was eleven years old.

January of 1970 was my first job search. I called every business near home, asking whoever answered the phone if they were hiring 15 year old guys with an official Worker's Permit. There were no takers in the first 10 or 15 or 20 calls from a scared sounding kid on the phone. Then, to my total surprise, the manager at a not-so-nearby Waffle House said, "yes"!  I could start as a dishwasher that very night, 7:00 pm to 7:00 a.m. As I asked him to hold on and laid the phone on the rickety table in the dining room center of the house, I grimaced at the prospect of asking my Mother, so I opted for my partially inebriated Dad. With pats on the back and congratulations all around, he assured me that he and Mother would drive me there and pick me up. I returned to the phone, told Mister Manager the excellent news that I would be there at 7:00.

My mother was a protective sort, you know the type, I'm sure. She simply wasn't happy when any of her children were out of her sight. She acquiesced to Dad's approval, then chose the clothes I would wear to ensure that none of my "good" clothes would be yukked up by splashing dish water. I arrived in an excited state and began being trained on the dishwasher, how to bus tables, how to mop the floor once an hour, how to do whatever was asked of me by the professional waitresses, and then, finally, how to clean the bathrooms with a rag and a bottle of bleach. Just before 7:00 a.m. I gathered enough nerve to ask Mister Manager how much I was making per hour and when I would get paid. One US Dollar per hour, paid every two weeks and maybe a few tips if the waitresses really like me. I left at 7 am, worn the hell out, smelling of bleach and grease and steamy dish detergent. There were smell that Mother picked up on as soon as I got into the car. As the questions started and I detailed my night of work, her nose began to scrunch and the corners of her mouth turn downward. I'd said too much. When I awoke later that day, sometime in the afternoon, Mother told me she had already called those people and told them I would not be back. It wasn't the hard work or even the smells, but cleaning a public bathroom with just a cloth and bleach was totally taboo. Thankfully, she called. And thankfully, I still had my little paper route.

Mister Manager at The Waffle House made an executive decision to not pay me the earned twelve dollars because I didn't come back. Dad to the rescue. He drove me to the Waffle House and once out of the car I knew to follow him and stay close. After about three minutes of my John Wayne-esque Dad standing over the sitting Mister Manager, twelve dollars in cash appeared in my hand. It seems that the threat from a serious Teamster had some weight on the truck's main Atlanta thoroughfare. That and the threat quietly communicated by the intensity of Dad's glare got me paid.

I'd long forgotten that failed attempt at a first job until recently when I reviewed my lifetime Social Security earnings and payments. There, for 1970 was twelve dollars paid to me from The Waffle House, and a few cents even went to the Social Security Administration, gratis! Thank God for intimidating Dads and paper routes!

[writingsofgvearwood]

Thoughts On . . .

Movies - Can't anybody sing and make me happy and feel good as I leave the theater anymore. Enough with the mundane visualization of life. Gone With the Wind - The best movie ever made and not because of its subject or period. It soared, it was honest, and it ended with the most classic cliffhanger ever! Opinions - If you know nothing of contrasting views, just shut up! I don't care what you believe simply because you made a choice without objective, intelligent questions in your mind. Religion vs. Science - Facts do not obviate the presence of divinity; however, how vain and egotistical that anyone could think their request for a lottery win or whatever human triviality could be of import. Heterosexual Women - penis envy. Gay Men - zealous penis envy. Straight Men - discrete, guilt laden penis envy. Lesbians - rubber penis envy. Penises - the joy and bane of man's existence. Art - if you look at it with your eyes, you missed the point. AARP - they could have found Osama Bin Laden the day he turned 50 and every day after that if someone had just paid the damned sixteen dollar annual fee. Soulmate - that one human being who knows you're full of shit and tells you when to flush. Soulmate - the person who understands your vanity and egotism and doubts, and considers our request for a lottery win or whatever human triviality to be of import. Funerals - the need to spend money and share with others your hatred and fear of death, in a dignified manner, whilst disposing of an empty, useless vessel. My Youngest Nephew - A hedonist without a dream in search of himself and confused as to purpose, yet gliding on his own steam of choices that are, whether in reality, good opportunities without expectation of outcome. A good soul who has always wanted to be more than he is, kinda. My Eldest Niece - a very ordinary woman whose every opinion can only be formed after fitful projections as to what her long-dead parent(s) might think or do, and then adhered to as an extension of the mourning process. Moderation - moderation in ALL things, including moderation. Farting - flatulence by any other descriptor remains mephitic, unpleasant, necessary, and as private as an expulsion of feces from the same source. Grapes - nature's candy, especially the seedless red ones. Lying - a means to obviate judgment, whether necessary; or, perhaps fulfilling another's expectations but probably what seems to be the easiest answer at the moment. Republican Money - the method by which one's importance to society is measured. Democratic Money - the method by which a government establishes one's importance to society is measured. Bullying - standing on another's shoulders to fool the herd into the perception that one is taller, somehow better than the shoulderer without whom to stand upon the bully would be equal to the sheep who would drink the sand, if told to .

[writingsofgvearwood]

In Love

Because it feels fucking great!

So, why do people want to be in love with just one "someone"? It's a question that has been bandied about since the Big Bang, or when Adam lost that damn rib. There are as many answers to such a question as there are moments of glory when any two people feel interconnected, absorbed with only each other. I think it doesn't matter if it is momentary or intermittent or even if it lingers. An old man will remember many experiences and emotions, but none compare to the now gentle and familiar warmth in the center of his chest that he felt at 16 or 42. Passion, lust, pheromones, insecurity, security, and voracious attraction are incomparable in the human experience. Both frightening and comforting, it feels fucking great to be in love.

Yeah, you will definitely long for that particular rush of glorious worth after it assuages. Well worth the longing though, 'cause being in love feels fucking great!

[writingsofgvearwood]

A Few Musical Thoughts

My family enjoyed "making music". And that is exactly what it was appropriately called. The first warm-fuzzy-I-am-somebody feeling happened at 5 years of age while riding in a 1950 Ford with Dad, Mother, an older brother and an older sister. I don't think there was a working radio in the car, we sang so much in my memories that I'll go ahead and say there wasn't a radio at all. When I suggested we sing "I'll Fly Away", a unanimous favorite to which we all knew all of the words, Dad asked me to lead it out. And lead it out I did.

From that time throughout my entire life, music has been so much more important than I ever imagined. I have a thousand songs in my head. I certainly don't know all the words or even the melodies, but a memory is attached to a majority of the songs I've ever heard. With whom, doing what, wherever, whenever - none of that has ever left my memory even if I can't remember a lot, or much, or anything specific.

Music surreptitiously accompanies your soul throughout the process of living. The gamut of emotions, the need to remember something you do remember, Music is the invisible baggage we all carry, and it has no weight but can be as heavy or as light as the moments of you. Carry it proudly and hold on to it with zeal, for even as your specifics become whitewashed or fade away, the memory of that touch, that smile, that joy, that roller coaster, that kiss, that crazy night out with a hooker and a Jew, whatever your memories are, there is a soundtrack.  Enjoy it, for it is as much a part of you as your five or six senses. Live. Shut up, and Dance to your Music!