Would You Believe

I was going through my past journal entries, and I mean from way back.  I stumbled on this one and toyed with posting it several times, but ultimately decided to find something different.  Today is perhaps that different day.  We're putting up the holiday decorations outside, and this will be the first of getting it done so soon before Christmas.  That's promising.

So, echoes from the past ~ 

   I was awoken at 5:30 this morning by the clock radio, I can't recall the last time it was a song, most times some overly chipper commentator comes on blathering.  He has learned to ratchet up his radio personality happiness quotients with constant doses of caffeine, I know the type, I'm familiar with the technique.   But that's not my commentary to How are you today.

I ache, from the renewed exercise program. 

Of course, yesterday I also ached so I excused myself from working out and went straight to the sauna to tend those persistent reminders of my frailty. 

Its not much better, I turn to my conclusion that I need another hour of sleep. 

I stretch over and make the adjustment to the radio and fall back into my cubbyhole of pillows.  Almost instantly erotic ideas begin to parade my thoughts keeping me from regaining a few extra moments of rest.  Just like the glittering baton throwers preceding the band, they pass glittering to be followed by mundane details that have been left unattended or partially completed.  Self accusations of being a malingerer and slacker.  Countered with the realization that others are involved and I just am unable to obtain resolution to any of my self appointed tasks without their help, or that the objective is complex with many unknowns. 

In either case, I notice I'm writing as if Nicholas Cage were speaking in my head as he portrayed a writer talking to himself in his head and writing as he was developing his story. Oddly, that would be the general everyday situation for  many of us, certainly is for me...right Nick? 

He agrees. 

Few have the luxury of sole charge of an action from beginning to end. 

I relax to the notion to give it time and like a pulled knot, gentle fingers release the bindings. 

I reheat some coffee, and am surprised once again how much of it bubbles on to the glass retaining plate in the microwave.  I wonder if I'll master that technique of predicting to the point of filling the cup only a percentage of its capacity.  Then congratulate myself on the art of that, followed but mutterings that I need to get a life if that's the height of my success for the day.

I figure by now you are listening to Nicholas talking in your head too, and consider if my Nicholas Cage said hi to Your Nicholas Cage we'd be able to prove you could be in two places at the same time.  But really that's not true, because I didn't consider the Real Nicholas Cage and his own inner dialog, so that's like at the least four of him roaming around in the ether. 

Is this like being John Markowitz? I wonder if I spelled his name wrong, I wonder if Nicholas Cage knows John Markowitz.  And if they ever meet for lunch. What would they talk about? What would they eat? 

This Nicholas Cage thing is really beginning to rattle me.

I ponder these distracting needs to do, in an effort to convince myself I'm taking care of me. 

Renew the Web site, call this guy, at this extension and I'll get a twenty per cent discount. 

Remember to drop by the store some time and get a light bulb for the refrigerator, can't have skittish food afraid of the dark don't you know. 

Thursday night should be laundry night.

I don't want to do laundry on the weekend. 

There will be other pressing chores that I'd want to tend, the ones I don't accomplish during the week and stack up. 

Not that I'll start new week any saner.

That kind or mental negotiation with self appointed tasks that appear to make life run smoothly, but in fact are leaching attention and become running my life period. 

I had a dream where I had escorted a friend's kid to a martial arts class. 

The kid was hot on the idea. 

All around me were people being beaten, or rooms with signs of internal explosions going off, as if the plaster of the walls were windows shattered by bullets. 

There were hushed cries and muffled whimpers of pain; me knowing that in the martial arts to admit to the pain was a sign of mental weakness. 

In this Dojo, it was down right blaspheme.

The lad was merrily distracted with those things young children are, and scampers off joyfully.

I recall he was wearing flip flops and I tried to keep track of him by the volume of the sound.

Meanwhile a smiling greeter was regurgitating the benefits of their center and how glad they all were that we chose to come by to visit. 

I made agreement noises and faint interested questions but all along I slowly rounded up the child and steered us towards the door. 

I didn't want to be rude, but I was getting this kid the heck out of this hell. 

Oddly the greeting young man would not relent. 

He climbed into the back of the sedan and continued to give his spiel as we drove off towards what was supposed to be home in dream land.  I can't recall if he even resembled Nicholas Cage or John Markowitz, I don't think so.

Leaving with a thankful feeling I didn't subject that kid to such torture.

Time to make my way to the dungeon tasks.  Perhaps find some meaning in the moving of ideas.  Yeah, that's like....creation....Godlike....now that's a job!

John Markowitz and Nicholas Cage are eating salad and nodding agreement.  That's totally unrealistic.  Heck, the west coast is three hours behind us, so it’s only 7:06 am there....who has salad at that time?  Unless they were out all night...but still...that's not lunch.  I think they're agreeing on not letting Charles Bronson raise the ante on food named after them.  Me obsessing on this will be seen as not working on real business again.

Wonder if anyone will notice. Probably not....unless Nick or Jack snitches