Humor: # 1 - "A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court"

        'The vessel with the pestle has the pellet with poison; the chalice from the palace has the brew that is true'
        'They've broken the vessel with the pestle and replaced it with a flagon with the figure of a dragon on it.  Now the pellet with the poison's in the chalice from the palace and the flagon with the dragon has the brew that is true'

"A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court"

Across A Crowded Room

I started in narrative fashion and was unhappy with the result.  I'm trying to write the truth and an absolute minimum.  I am describing an experience.  I fear that whatever I say will not be adequate, I feel so much emotion and am trying to write objectively about what was (and is) totally subjective.

     I went to an office downtown, doing by-election work for the municipality.  I rode the elevator to the seventh floor - I was anticipating something, like I was coming home.  Inside the office, instead of talking to the receptionist, I moved left, toward a side room.
     There were two men at a desk.  One of them was tall, perhaps middle to late 40s, looking at me.  I had never seen this man before, yet I stood there, waiting for him to come and talk to me.  I knew he'd been waiting patiently for me, missing me.  Just like I had ached to see him.  I felt like I was coming home, returning to this man.  I felt great joy, I was relieved to be back, relieved I was looking at this man with whom I had a loving, strong stable relationship.
     His expression was wonderful.  He looked so happy to see me. He really had been waiting for me. Somehow, he'd known I'd be coming.  I could see he felt the connection as much as I did. Then I looked down and saw his wedding ring.  It made me turn away, disappointed, just in time to answer the receptionist's questions.
     I saw him a total of three times.  Each time, there was no opportunity to speak to him, though I tried to make myself available, sitting in the foyer, staying by the water-cooler, .  Every time I saw him, my heart would pound, I'd get cotton-mouth, my hands and knees would tremble.  I'd be happy, sad, angry, disappointed, lost & resentful.  I knew he'd had the same emotions about me.  He couldn't keep the knowledge from me, just as he knew how I was feeling.
     When we looked at each other, there was some deep, deep soul-conncection - as if we had been lovers, partners, something serious and permanent.  My hands would itch to touch him, my arms felt empty, my eyes would  start to tear up.  He was always there - He'd look at me.  I knew him then, somewhere deep inside me, just as I know him now.  He's out there.  He belongs to me. I wish I could see him, talk to him, hold him, listen to his voice, come home to him.
     I know I hadn't met this man before the experience and I've never seen him again.  I wonder where he is, if he's okay, if he misses me, if he think of me at all.   I haven't mentioned this to anyone before and keeping silent has been very difficult.  I can't believe I'd have this connection with somebody and not know who he is or what he is to me.

I'm driven to write about him.  Perhaps this will find him and bring him to me. 

A Relationship vs Freedom

     I don't want someone because it's a good idea, and I don't want them because it's a bad one.  And it isn't a case of the grass being greener on the other side of the fence.  Those are just words.  The truth is, I don't know how to say what I want or even what the hell it is.
     I started thinking about the word "freedom".  I always think about it, I say I have it, but the fact is, I can't ever get there.  No matter how free I am, there's always one more restriction I could get rid of that would make me a little bit more free.  The only way I can get there, really, is to be God.  But, I'm not God, obviously.  I'm only halfway there.
     The world is set up so that we humans imagine something like freedom, and want it, but just by the nature of being who we are, we'll never have it.  And, freedom's not the only thing that's like that.  But at least we know the name of it.  There's something we want that we not only can't have, we can't even know what it is.

     If you talk about the grass being greener on the other side, you're saying that it's just an illusion, it's the same grass that's over here.  Deep down, we're convinced there is another side, and the grass is really greener there; in fact it's a whole different thing, it's not even grass anymore, and that's where we really belong.  And the things we want on this side, it's not that we don't want them, but what we really want is what they represent.  That other thing, whatever it is that we can't have.

Dentist Days # 2

     There've been a number of sessions between Dentist Days # 1 and # 2.  Dentist Days're remarkable because of an extraction.  Today, the removal was a tedious struggle to remove the offending tusk!  Eventually, the deed was done.
     I sit, tongue avoiding the sutures Chatty-Cathy-ing with you.  I'd mention the heroics, gore, sanguine bundles of gauze, if I could wring some pity from you.  I do ask you to note my dedication (and opportunism), with no topic left unaddressed.  Dentist Day # 3 is in early April.  I'll comment then.. Ta-ta from my bed of pain!

To Be Or Not To Be, That Is The Question

     I live in Supported Housing.  This building, High Park Villa (HPV henceforth), is one of ten rooming houses for people with mood disorders. I moved here in January, 2009.  The buildings belong to a numbered company. 
     The numbered company buys two buildings at a time.  Both are gutted & re-furbished.  One building becomes part of the not-for-profit lineup.  The other is a rental or flipped (sold for a profit).
     Habitat Housing, a Not-For-Profit, handles intake, monitoring, advocacy, care, feeding and oversight of (approximately) 500 individuals in these homes around Toronto. HPV is considered the "Cadillac" of the ten locations.  I'm always amused by the "Cadillac" reference - Do they mean the others are bumper-cars on the highway of life? Or, Haven't they heard of General Motor's troubles?
     Habitat workers set up various activities - coffee outings, Mickey D's for ice-cream, Bingo and movies.  Last Wednesday's (the 17th of March) special treat was a St. Paddy's Day dance.  All the ready, willing and able residents congregated at The 519 Church Street Community Centre. There were pizzas, fresh fruit for after, soft drinks, little green Derbys and plastic favors, and so on.  One of the loons was DJ-ing and there were door prizes.  The male-female ratio was something like 8-9 men to every female.  From what I've seen in the past 15 months, this disparity is reflected in the residents of most of the locations.
The 519 is where I've been volunteering for the last three years, with the LGBTQ (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgendered, Queer) Seniors' Monday Afternoon Drop-In.  This program is the only one of its kind in North America and I'm very fortunate to be included in their roster of volunteers.

     The attendees were a conglomeration of every mood disorder known to mankind and science.  The dancers - there was a giant leprechaun, a Santa Clause gone wrong, in a green t-shirt as far as his sternum, a giant belly and shiny, tiny shorts.  Upon his chrome-dome was a wee green fedora.  The memorable parts of the leprechaun was the previously mentioned belly and a beard like Gandalf Lord Of The Rings. There was a woman running around doing "The Bump", creating mayhem with her left hip.  There were yet others who were totally unselfconscious, dancing alone and doing their own thing/s. Watching them was hilarious & enlightening due to my split perception.
     One of my facets is the healthy, balanced person with enough control and self-awareness to venture out alone, go to school, start a new career, etc. Keeping that healthy individual in mind, there have been times when I've asked myself what I'm doing here in Supported Housing when, evidently (evident to me at least), I don't belong here.
     Another facet needs lots of quiet time, daily naps and solitude. This Sa'ad only ventures as far as the dining room (one floor down) twice or thrice a day.   There are times when I look at what I'm saying, thinking or doing and and tell myself it's a good thing I live here.  If I lived anyplace else, men in white coats would come after me with elephant tranquilizers and a super-sized butterfly net!
     The things I gained from watching the attendees, people who were oblivious to the onlookers, dancing for love of movement, the music, the freedom to just get out there and do what THEY pleased, without fear or favor.  I envied them their lack of self-awareness, if that was what I was seeing.  A woman alone on the dance-floor, moving in time to the pounding beat, her eyes closed, a beatific expression on her face. "The Bump" lady, doing her hip-thing, clearly enjoying what she was up to, ignoring the dismayed faces of her "victims" and rushing off to go accost somebody else. The giant leprechaun, unashamed of his equally giant belly, greeted everyone.  I wondered about their back-stories, diagnoses, prognoses and their understanding of themselves, of their self-images.
     So, here's the $64,000 question.... When Sa'ad is mentally and/or emotionally unwell, does he know he's unwell?  And, joking aside, when he's scrubbing the bathroom floor with a toothbrush, does he realize this activity stems from his Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder?  Or, does he say it's the right way to clean a bathroom floor and leave off the questioning?
     One of the symptoms of depression is to neglect one's personal hygiene, another is neglect of one's surroundings.  It's strange to be cleaning something and to have to ask myself,
    * Am I cleaning this to prove I'm NOT depressed?
    * Am I cleaning this because I've OCD?
    * Am I cleaning this because it NEEDS to be cleaned?
    * ALL of the above?
    * NONE of the above?

Humor As Tonic aka Self-Actualization 101

     In the subway a couple of nights ago - I was pondering an epiphany and wanted to write a note at once.  I was nibbling my ball-point and gazing off into space, deep in choosing adjectives and ruminating on run-on sentences.
     I became aware of a young couple, he (Nat 'King' Cole lookalike fitness purveyor, embossed red leather jacket), she (60's Nudist Lifestyle, peroxided French Braid).  I began to understand I must have stared right at or through her in my brown study.  She'd informed him of my supposed "interest" which was why they kept craning, staring, glancing at each other and laughing.
     It appeared they thought I was leering at her; all I thought was I'd looked vaguely at them once or twice .  I was caught up in grammatical deliberations and perhaps they perceived me as a weirdo from 999 Queen West (the old asylum from where they turfed all the resident loons) now CAM-H {Center for Addictions and Mental Health) or a lecherous middle-aged brown man, muttering to himself.  Either way, I was suspect.
     The thought flashed across my brain-pan to stop looking or say something..  That thought got lost in further scribbling.  The next time I roused myself from my catharsis, the couple were gone, I'd missed my stop and the train was arriving at Jane Station. I removed myself from the train forthwith and began strolling back.
     There, on cold dark Bloor St. West and all at once, I wanted to shout as if they could hear me, "See! See! I really was involved with my writing!  I wasn't looking at Barbie!"  I amused myself so much I chuckled all the way home.  My closing thought for this was, "Here we go again!  As usual, Sa'ad thinks it's all about him!"
     Even more humorous and startling was the notion that in some intrinsic way this really IS all about me.  I should believe in myself enough to treat myself gently and not put myself down.  Not necessarily about those gym-bunnies, but in general, and in some permanent way.

Smoke, Choke, Croak!

     I came out of a friend's place and decided to have "a cigarette moment" before I caught the street-car.  The result of the two puffs I took was I realized my lungs were hurting and my mouth tasted vile.  I stubbed it out and started walking away.  A young man came up to me, with wallet open, and asked me to sell him a cigarette.
     I started to take out just one to give him when I suddenly handed him the pack and said, "Take the pack, I just quit."
     He said, "You might just have converted me!"
     My response, "It's every man for himself!" and I walked away.

Realizations arising from this:
1) I don't have to fit in to society, (at 14, I was told & certainly believed, I had to smoke to be welcome),
2) It hurts my lungs, (I was allergic & it made me hurl, yet I persevered & became an addict),
3) I don't like the stink, (I lost my sense of smell altogether),
4) I don't like the taste, (it disguised the flavor of everything I ate),
5) I don't need a crutch anymore, (I can walk away like Lazarus, free at last).

The Secret File of Good Intentions: Rule # 2

Rule # 2

The road to good intentions is paved with hell.

The Secret File of Good Intentions: Rule # I

Rule #1
No act of charity goes unpunished!

Mettle Fatigue!

"A man grows more tired while standing still.  (Chinese Proverb)

When I was unwell,  I appeared, to myself and others, to have an amazing reservoir of energy.  I'd rise at 6 AM, work for ten to twelve hours, go do a volunteer stint, have some sort of social interaction, get high & drunk and lose myself in music till I'd crash for three to four hours.  I did this daily.  Weekends meant I'd finish earlier from one thing to go on to something else.

Since 2003, with diagnoses of depression and sleep apnea, metaphorically speaking, every molehill is a mountain.  I frequently nap once or twice a day.  I break tasks into portions, making each a "baby-step" and spreading the task over the time as I have available.  Else, I start beating myself up for not accomplishing a thing.  I neglect my changed circumstances and make "a stick for my own back" (i.e. giving myself shit or disappointing somebody).  Newton said every action has an equal and opposite reaction.  For instance, I mailed a letter and bought hearing-aid batteries today.  I probably walked 3 to 4 blocks there and back.  Here I sit ready for a nap and not allowing myself that latitude.

This makes me furious at, and disappointed in, myself.  I should be calm, acknowledge my age and the changed levels of energy.  Consciously knowing isn't the same as a firm belief in myself.  Right now, I feel grotty.   I am my own worst enemy, chastising myself for situations I should take in my stride. This is a part of how I view myself vis-a-vis looks, weight, intelligence, wisdom or what have you.  This is part & parcel of my inability to accept compliments, to denigrate myself to myself and to others.  I cannot convince myself, both Id & Ego, that I am a good person, intelligent, loving, kind and worthy of every praise, love and consideration.

Dentist Days

Jokes aside, these medieval "rippers" look ghastly.  I, like many others, dislike visiting the dentist. So, lack of funds and insurance coverage has seemed a blessing in disguise. The "blessing" has backfired and I have to face cleaning, multiple fillings, and (at least) a couple of extractions - thus, today was the first of at least four visits to my new dentist. A couple of minor fillings and one wisdom tooth extracted. Aside: all four of my wisdom-teeth arrived simultaneously and with minimal discomfort. I rather liked lording it over all and sundry while talking of wisdom & teeth. Needless to say, nobody I grew up with would take my talk of wisdom seriously! And, I can't say I blame them!
As for today's session - I haven't grounds to complain. The dentist was as gentle as could be. There was minimal discomfort, some bleeding, numbness, etc. I'll be back in the chair next Monday morning. Now the process has begun, the faster it finishes, the better. Eventually, there will be bridge-work in place and I'll have overcome this hurdle before I find a job and have to pay for dental-work myself.