The Culture that has been here all the time

Happy Thanksgiving to those who can have it.

Hard as I try, I am unable to solve the challenge I created by agreeing to be my wife's caregiver. It is open-ended, but I do not have inexhaustible ability or resources.

AI: In a metaphorical sense, the person who "cleans up your messed up life" is yourself; you are ultimately responsible for taking ownership of your actions, making amends, and actively working to improve your situation, with potential support from loved ones, therapists, or other professionals depending on the circumstances. That’s according to Margareta Magnusson, author of the new book, "The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning: How to Make Your Loved Ones’ Lives Easier and Your On Life More Pleasant."

The search for happiness has been replaced with a search for a transient reprise. I need a hiatus, but it is evasive - it is like a Cunning living entity.

or bake a pie?

I need this, and you may need this: when we start to drift back into making an old mistake, we need someone who cares to grab us by the shoulders, shake us, and say, "Look into my eyes and think of what you are about to do." pixabay.com

Okko was a diligent man who worked hard in every undertaking. He excelled in school, and when he achieved all his academic requirements, he began a career in designing bridges for challenging cataracts over precipices, rivers, and vast bodies of water. The work he achieved was excellent, and he was respected and well-renowned. Years became decades, and he realized he had not thought of having a family while still young enough.

He had no time for a social life, let alone a courtship. The only comfort came from a regular visit to spend a night with Lucy, and the following day, he always gave her twice the fee she commanded. They knew each other comprehensively. Neither ever mentioned love but followed the ways of believers in Eros and the teachings of the Kama Sutra. Okko and Lucy were so content with each other that they thought a drastic disruption would never enter their relationship. 

One day, when Okko was flying home in his private jet, he decided to seek a woman for a wife and start a family. This conclusion implicitly meant he would have to make the next visit with Lucy would be his final day with her. When he broke the news, he planned to present a large gift and a sum of money, vastly more than usual. The day came, and he did not mention any plan to Lucy upon his arrival. The night passed as normal, and the next day, he stood before her and began to break the news.

"Lucy, my dear, I will not be returning to you, so for the years of devoted service, here is a gift and a large sum of money for you."

"Okko, I refuse your gift and this golden parachute, my steadfast client. I wish you well. (as tears filled her eyes)"

Okko walked for perhaps an hour, wandering around bewildered, and then as if lightning had hit him, he realized his blunder. He ran back to Lucy and was happily jolted to find her in the doorway. He ran to her, and she stepped down. They embraced in a fashion that lasted for the rest of their lives.

Eric and I enjoyed a few drinks in a new bar my boss in NYC had just opened and decided to take in the night air. He was from Sweden, and my current girlfriend was Swedish, so he volunteered to brief me on the customs in Sweden when a man and a woman were interested in each other. It was good because I was way off the mark in interpreting my girl's behavior, and I was flirting with disaster. That isn't the story, though.

As soon as our feet hit the sidewalk, we spied several young men kicking a young girl who was lying in the gutter. We didn't know why she was there or being treated that way, but we went into action. We beat the "boys" away, lifted her, and looked at her carefully. She was bruised and dirty and had spots of blood on her face and shirt.  She no doubt fit the typical runaway from home girl, probably from a suburb within commuting distance. We took her to my apartment, washed her up, got some clean clothes from a friend, and asked her about herself. She volunteered almost nothing. Eric and I assumed she was well underage and needed to get her to a safe house. My gay friend Joanne gave us the address of a woman who took in young runaway girls off Sixted Avenew.

When we arrived, it was late, about one o'clock in the morning. The apartment was above a store that was closed, as expected. We rang the doorbell several times and then heard voices from above us. We saw several girls with their heads out the window and an older woman who spoke to us. We explained the situation, so she came down, opened the door, and took the girls in.

Wow, we felt so good about doing such an apparent good deed. We went to an all-night restaurant on Sixt Ave and had a breakfast feast.

I don't know how much time passed, but once more, after the gig I had was done, Eric and I went up to the bar and talked about our girlfriends. We went out for a walk, and low and behold, the same girl was on the street again. We took her to my pad, rewashed her, and got clean clothes from a friend, but this time, we handed her over to the generous friend who was so quick to offer clean clothes.

We never saw her after that.

“Because it feels so good when I stop!”   By Catherine Klasne

There’s an old joke that goes something like this:  A man comes upon another man who is repeatedly hitting his thumb with a hammer.  When asked why he’s beating his thumb to a pulp, the man with the hammer replies, “Because it feels so good when I stop!”   While this may not be a shining example of humor, I think there’s a lesson in the joke that lends itself to mediation. But that is not my import here.

Some of you may be like me, your own worst enemy. I keep repeating the same online errors repeatedly, thinking I will meet an important companion. It has been and still is an impotent effort. I ask myself why anyone would want to join me in the furnace. I may be an ardent fool for any vicious and wiley woman. I need not have someone add pain to my life, and why would I recruit another only to inject pain into their life? I may be intelligent in some ways but stupid in other ways.

Yes, when I discovered the proposed paramour was a grifter and cut loose from the quandary, I felt so jovial for an hour, and then I began the process over again.

With ideas, until I was diagnosed with bipolar, the only thing doctors thought was that I was clinically depressed. I am very creative but jump from one writing, art, and music project to another. Deans list, honor society, and scholarships when I am up, but hiding and frustrated when I am down. At times even angry. That is why I am so glad I admitted I am an alcoholic because alcohol is flammable.

I dream that one day, I will have a muse who can tame the wildness of my creativity to accomplish more opuses—a book and an epic, perhaps.

One thing I realized about change recently (within the last thirty minutes) is that once something is gone from your life, you won't miss it if you allow it to be processed away. I realize now since my wife's ADA negated sexual intimacy, I am finally starting to get it out of my mind so soon, I will be free, and my libido can go to . . . I'd say hell, but I don't believe in hell we are already in hell right here on Earth. At least I am.

Blog readers, this thought emerged from my observations and experience. I believe women have the potential to have much greater sexual pleasure than men. They:

• Have more erogenous zones
• Can have multiple orgasms
• Can respond to sight, touch, and words better
• They get pleasure by giving pleasure

This list isn't exhaustive, and it, of course, varies with the individual. Perhaps some males have better experiences than others. Me?

I want lovemaking to last for as long as it can.

pixabay.com

It seems that dreams are a large part of this life

It was deep in the night, rain pelting my window and the wind calling out mournfully in D minors through the wires strung on the utility poses.  Flashes of lightning and thunder gowled; the pounding surf offered a mingling rumble. I got out of bed, walked into the storm, pushed my way to the beach, and found a young woman lying on the sand weeping. 

Lifting her arm to view her tears, I asked, "What is troubling you, my dear?" Leaning on her elbows, revealing her lovely breasts, she sighed.

"Mister, my lovers all departed into the sea. As they left, I heard them talking among themselves, "We can not have sex with her anymore. She has something wrong with her."

I gently helped her to her feet, and we walked in a warm embrace, and I took her home.

IT WAS THEN I AWOKE IN MY BED, INSTANTLY BECOMING DISAPPOINTED. (Photos pixabay.com)

I have been searching for her ever since.

My blog reader friends and acquaintances,

Sometimes, I wonder if I am human or just a human-like machine. I had social issues when my father moved us from the town I loved to a town more like a city and into a questionable neighborhood - not that it was bad for my ultimate view of people of many variations. Then he disappeared for twenty-five years, leaving my mom to raise me and my two brothers who were with us. It may have triggered the Anthropophobia and my struggle to socialize consistently. My salvation was most probably my becoming a singer-songwriter and using that sphere to interact with people (something like an anchor in a storm that keeps me from drifting too much). The music gave me the only genuine social connection to others, yet it had a downside: drugs and alcohol.

My experience with drugs was easy to abandon. It was the 1960s, and Mom alone was not up to dealing with anything like that. When my involvement with drugs became troublesome, I turned to the more tolerated chemical substance, alcohol. Under the effects of alcoholic beverages, I was a social creature. When not, I was a withdrawn, hermit-like being. It required many predicaments and unpleasant vexatiousness to illuminate my problem. It took more than a half-century to accept that I was an alcoholic. It took time to free myself from that malady, and now I have been free from alcoholism for more than a decade.

It is a fortunate thing because I need to be alert and focused on caring for my wife with ADA (Alzheimer's, Dementia, Aphasia). It is living alone with her that keeps me vigilant.

These days, all I see are memories of better times past, and my hope for a better future is growing dimmer every day.

Though I believe it is unlikely, I know another person can alter my steady decline.