The Cost of Coastal Living.

As a born and bred Houstonian,There were certain times of the year when weather became more than a throw away topic of discussion. When paper grocery bags had hurricane tracking charts on them. Pin point landfall was a science fiction. and those folks in the lowest geographic areas would have parties. Darwinism awards were given posthumously.

It was also when Houston hadn’t swallowed the entire landmass of Harris country with unbridled development. When Highway 290 ended at Jersey Village. When my aunt and Uncle built their house on the Katy Prairie. Off a dirt farm to market road with dodgy street signs.  One of three house on the vast expense of flat nothing except cows, barbed wire fences and solitary trees. The late 70s and early 80s planted the seeds for the man made disaster Harvey caused.

Watching it all unfold from Michigan has been hard. I still have family there. Seeing streets you’ve driven on many times flooded. Knowing the depth because the geography  was a familiar background in the writing of  the mundane historic record of your life. Twice in twenty five years have I returned to the city of my younger years. The sense of foreignness was greater than my return from three years overseas in the Navy.

A time of isolation. There were no great plans of striving or even a promise of help from my family for employment. Having a close knit family like where my home is now, is impossible with time lost in Houston traffic. Being an Ex pat in experience but not location set me apart. Both of my trips revolved around my elderly mother. The last anchor to that chapter of my past. The one constant thread for all those that followed. Familiar landmarks still existed. The context was changed. all the personal meaning was gone.

The fourth largest city in America has suffered three 500 year floods in three years. Add the stationary hurricane that dumped millions of gallons of extraordinarily warm Gulf water in a vast region where all the natural retention area had been paved. There will be a political reckoning. It will start in the neighborhoods of the poor and working class. Nothing new there. Inner city residents. Immigrants. Those nameless faceless minimum wage workers that keep the economy together. Ignore them and they’ll go away. Move on to the newest celebrity event.

But this will be different. Harvey was an equal opportunity destroyer of  everyday comfort. The thing that ripped away the illusion of safety. The middle class neighborhoods saw deep water. Those areas near the reservoirs that stayed dry got flooded by the release of the spillways to prevent dam failure. All the water from up stream funnels into the natural low spot, Buffalo Bayou. Along which Houston’s downtown and early neighborhoods are built. All that water flowing back into the Gulf from which it came. Carrying a toxic brew of chemicals and debris that will slowly change the waters of the world.

It will take a decade or more for The Houston Metroplex to recover. An area of 8929 square miles. Detroit and Southeast Michigan, in comparison is 1337 square miles. That’s a factor of 6.5x larger in area. Also leading contributor, other than oil, to the GDP of Texas, inc. the 10th ranking economy in the world.  And that where the battle will be waged. Michigan has a strong centralized government. Elected officials can and are held accountable.. Texas is run by business interest. Nameless, faceless corporation concerned about their bottom line. It’s good business to care about the public. Those they make money on. But. Their driven self interest will rebuild what? At what cost to all those systems nurtured slowly over decades to help those most vulnerable to this type of sudden destruction?

They torn down the public housing in New Orleans. Housing that suffered no water damage from Katrina. Privatized the public schools. New Orleans and Louisiana are a shining example of corrupt and incompetent state governance. Complete with the cronyism of generational political machines ensuring business as usual to the benefit of the few. Sins smoothed over by the economy of Houston.

The election of 2016 has exposed the wounds America has never dealt with. Intolerances hidden by classism and economic segregation. Harvey has done the same to the unrestricted and arrogant greed of Houston developers. I have nothing against growth or capitalism. But it has to offset by some rational degree of common sense. Fort Bend country watched what Harris country was allowing and said not us. Building codes demanded natural retention pond. That in turn became valuable green spaces home owners were willing to pay a premium to live near. Imagine that. Regulations that saved catastrophic destruction and made private business money.

I hope my family members can stay in the place were they have built their lives. The ripples from all the man made problems will effect them. No way around it. By choosing to live in a state that has struggled with a stagnate economy before 2008 and the occasional two to three feet of snow, I have found a place to call home. It is my hope that all those who call Houston home can find that state of peace again.

A Look back while Looking Forward.

Standing on the plateau after the long climb of 2016 gives me a chance to reflect. The dense fog that dogged my existence the past three years was a one way mirror. From here it’s so very clear. The decades long descent into chaos laid out. While another fog shrouds future lies ahead. This is the first flat spot in my journey. One my new reality allowed me to found. Funny what you can see when you’re not focused only on the next step.

Three and half years ago the rowboat I took out into the swells sank. No amount of bailing  could keep out the waves. Finding the bottom was easy. Wait for the pain of rolling across the rocks seen in the troughs between towering seas. Some helping hands guided me over to the sand. My undying gratitude goes out to the nameless faces in the past that fought against the people wanting to cut away of the government support system for those of us suddenly drowning in the unknown. I survived in large part for where I live. While it was an act of escape to something in reaction, it is Home now. Being poor in a poor state is easier than one of rising effluence.

There were two saving graces. The first was I fell from a from a place of stability. Being raised in an upper middle class home left me unprepared for the moment but gave me the tools to think the way through. The second? My status has a Homeless Vet during a time when the nation and politicians actually cared about us.  The sad fact is the political will only exist during that short period when the true cost of war intersects with the public’s exhaustion and horror of the headlong rush into it. The 24/7 news has brought the sanitized scenes into the home. Smart phones streams the unedited to sway the emotions towards a particular narrative. A new tool in the asymmetric warfare of tech savvy Vets against the coming political indifference.

In order to understand for the non military reader, some facts. The VA funding is considered discretionary. A source of funds that are victim to the whims of Congress. The current state of VA services has been building for decades. Underfunded by both parties in yearly budgets. Just enough taken away to keep up the appearance of caring for the Veterans to hide the backroom reelection deals hurting them. Likehe aging Baby Boomers populations are causing budget problems in social programs, many are aging vets. Add to that Korea, Vietnam and all the far flung little armed actions that the VA is responsible for, any cut hurts. One figure is it will cost on average $1 million from the day he or she separates from active duty. That’s also the cost of treatment for each combat critically wounded soldier from battlefield to evacuation for top flight first world hospital.(Iraq) Here’s the numbers of FY2016 of the US budget.

Submitted	February 2, 2015
Total expenditures	$3.999 trillion (requested) $3.854 trillion (estimate)
Deficit	$474 billion (requested) $587 billion (estimate)
GDP	$18.819 trillion (projected)
Website	Office of Management and Budget

Here’s the entire list of Discretionary Spending. The Political football used to fund the budget deficits created by tax cuts and corporate welfare.

Department	Budget	Emergency	Total
Dept of Defense	$523.9	$58.8	$582.7
HHS	$77.9	$0.4	$78.3
Education	$69.4		$69.4
VA	$75.1		$75.1
Homeland Security	$40.6	$6.7	$47.3
Energy Dept	$30.2		$30.2
(NNSA)	$12.9
HUD	$38.0		$38.0
Justice Dept	$18.1		$18.1
State Dept	$37.8	$15.0	$52.8
NASA	$18.3		$18.3
All Other Agencies	$135.9	$3.5	$139.2
TOTAL	$1,065.2	$84.4	$1,149.4

 

How does VA spending stack up in the overall percentage? Since 9/11 it’s increased every year. Why? Social Media. The important part for me is “since 9/11”. I’m a peacetime Vet. My GI Bill disappeared after 5 years. Guess being part of Reagan’s 600 ship navy to break the USSR did mean that much in Washington. Luckily I became Homeless. Think about that sentence.

Housing. SNAP. Preference in agencies. Low or no cost medication to control my Bipolar craziness. The water isn’t up to my nose anymore. More at knee level. The shore is a vague glimmer than a visible fact. There are still deep hidden holes in my path. One Aha moment let me find a compass. One of those deeply subconscious operating systems strengthened by the perception it creates. The deepest of the magical thinking children use to fill in the gaps to an incomplete understanding to the world we sought to navigate. The machine binary code on which all computer programs need to run. There’s a maxim fundamentally understood by every programmer. Garbage in. Garbage out.

I have written about the results. The endless dominoes hitting the next for last 40 years. Small nudges will shift the next 40. At this point my old reaction would have been Run Away. Run Away. Followed by the deep depression for the lost opportunity. Lock the door. Cover the windows. That parallel path is very close. The Middle Way is my response.

This past election cycle was a distraction in following that path. It also help to strip away the muck. That layer of randomly collected ideas that bury core values by sheer volume. The Downsizing of my physical world was the first step in changing how I navigated through the interior one. For the first time the wind on my face isn’t the gust front of a coming storm. The calm isn’t the eye of the hurricane. All the dips and detours of the coming climb won’t be seen has a descent into darkness. More  a period where the  absence of light is a temporary condition to be passed through. That’s my hope. Experience has taught me backtracking will happen.

Which is where my binary programming can be changed the most. That change will take a long time. One day all these blogs will be collected into a book. If by throwing my thoughts and words out into the digital ether brings help to someone, my purpose has been fulfilled. Maybe for more than one. Right this minute is a good place. One to be appreciated. Never to be repeated. It’s unique. So that’s where I’ll leave it.

 

Not another Day.

My life could be one of the great Russian novels without the brutal violence. Not ever having read one I have to depend on other’s impressions. Self knowledge prevents me from reading 18th and 19th literature about the Human Condition. It became a real problem in two of the three college English classes required for my degree. My 102 professor assigned the Heart of Darkness has a class project. He understood when I explained why this wouldn’t be a good thing for me. Enter The List. Acceptable substitutes to choose from. Heavy on the Russian greats. Some with the English, American and other cultural odds and sods. Two levels above Conrad but still far the door to the light.

What follows will make some angry. Jane Austin was obviously paid by the word. Wrote the paper from what I was told to a feminist point of view. Got the solid C. What absolute Shit. Pandering always makes coin. Good for her during the age in which she lived. Never again. Having said that, it’s my situation without the social circuit, scheming females or happy ending by marriage.

Saturday tried to get a refill for my daily dosage of semi Sanity. VA page blank. Found out today they expired. Didn’t make an appointment. A death of a thousand missed or forgotten appointments.  Therapy sessions and important dates. Today would have been my 28th wedding anniversary. Or 29th. You see the problem. Calendars or post it notes. Doesn’t matter. Just a nagging feeling of missing something. Started being an issue when large chunks of empty time became part of my life. Anything outside of work. Chaos ensues. Small setbacks became insurmountable. Casting larger shadows. A familiar grayness. One I known intimately everyday for as long has my memory extends back. Nothing before 14. Nothing of childhood. Pictures without emotional binding.

There have been three wonderful women who found something in me of worth. Past tense. A Facebook post from a relationship expert explained her take on the hardships of maintaining one. We have written the personal novel of our life. No one will every know or understand it like we do. Expecting that is folly. Beautiful moments between two people are has fleeting has the light magical snow coating branches on a still night. One breath of wind will change this point of perfect balance. Imagine you are that wind. A whisper or the zephyr on that clear magical night.

Being in a relationship can’t be possible until I find peace inside me. Can’t is the acknowledgement of the physical barrier.  That split second when all the questions that my subconscious has been crunching spits out the answer. And it ain’t 42. I’ve operating on one more theme.  The self fulfilling belief the I don’t deserve anything good to happen for me. Ever.

Can’t change until you admit have a problem. That’s the basis for any good recovery program. An honest self assessment. Followed by some small action to change. There’s a movie Pushing Tin. John Cusack’s character ask Billy Bob Thornton’s how me got his Mojo back. Scene is while Thornton is trout fishing.  Urban dweller Cusack is on the shore. “Jump in the water.”

“No. Are you crazy.”

“You want the answer. Jump in the fucking water.”

“No.”

“Fine. The hard way.”

Scene back of landing strip at airport. They are air traffic controls. Jet wash knocks them back ten feet.  Cusack could now walk back into the one job he was good at.

Great movie in general. Change is the sharp stick jabbing at us. Not the gentle reminder. Forty years of disquieting dissatisfaction. Always asking is this it. To everyone I’ve pushed away. Hurt in the course of knowing me. Being the asshole co worker. I apologize. Unqualified by excuses or rationalizations. For many there is no way to make it better. That you good reader will notice this is posted on the 14th. Not the day this was started. It joined the other drafts in limbo. Such is my life at this instant in time.

A Blustery Day.

On this gray windy Fall day by Lake Huron any remnants of desire for home ownership have been blown away. Mature trees that block the street lights in Summer turn the colors I dreamed of seeing. The South Texas climate dictate what grows. The leaves don’t fall. Brown. Not a glorious palate of red, yellows and gold. Riding through a tunnel of them is magical. They tumble through the air on the unseen whim of the cool air. Forget the science of how and why. The adult gives way to a child like wonder of the season. A youthful period of endless possible futures.

Then they met the hard surface of the street. A reality meant for the adult self. Raking. Bagging. Work after getting off work. Unless you have kids. Then it work of a different sort to make sure it’s done. Not done right. Just done. Home ownership is a lifestyle choice. One which I’ve opted out of. Apartment dweller for 10 years.

At first the desire was still strong. Get my life back together. Look to get a small house in a older neighborhood. Problem being having done that early in my marriage. The neighborhood changed around us. One house at a time. Deep community roots replaced by very shallow transitory ones. Big single family homes of the past were made into apartments by absent landlords. We started the journey a couple. Continued it a family. And yes, did the White Flight route. Build a house in the country.

The land had been found 3 years before. Got a shell of a modular ranch style house. One which I would finish off after work. Every night and weekends.  Antique reclaimed pine floors. Done in a picture frame pattern to separate the Dining/Living room area. Ceiling fans. Tile work. Kitchen. 1 am was when I wondered if it was something we could afford? Was it something I wanted? There had always been a building tension inside about how this desire matched the reality I was evolving in. The process of vision to physical completion is still one of my greatest pleasures. Building is an addictive tactile experience. To much of our modern existence has no ending. It’s all continuum.

Mowing was and is a hated chore. Growing up maintaining a smallish slice of green to match everyone else’s shade of green was a duty my father entrusted me to. No leaves. No mature trees. First house? Yes. Been there, done that. My time is better spent. On anything else. How about meadow grass or a vegetable garden. No mowing or food. Something useful for the time spent after work. Leaves are the one equalizer in my city. Lumber Baron mansions. Larger upscale homes behind. Working class houses marching down the street with the sameness of having been built wholesale. Gray weathered concrete repaired with black asphalt is a carpet of gold. Beauty in decay.

The Seasons rule our lives. Even those climes that have subtle changes. Festivals mark the time we humans have proscribed over centuries. Markers we carry with us where ever we chose to live. All, except in densely packed urban areas, centered around a separate structure. A house. In a grouping of such structures. Neighborhoods. All bound to together by peer pressure to rake the fallen leaves.

Leaves I ride through with child like joy. On a bicycle.  That magical invention that give me that first taste of freedom. A milestone in a child’s life. The dominate figures in your young life trust you enough to let you out of their sight. Nose in the wind. Going fast. Or slow. My choice. I will gladly ride through all those adults raking and bagging in the growing darkness.

Is it November 9th yet?

Despite my efforts to deflect the politically charged environment in which I move, it caught up with me. In another world I could have been a Trump supporter. Except for my understanding of the How and Why they came to be. So what does a person in the midst of low grade depression do? Drink sugary soda. Caffeine. Boxes of Hot Tamales. Rent movies. Why Rent? No internet or cable or satellite. No Netflix or Hulu or YouTube so I’d never have to leave the apartment except to work to pay for it all. Who needs felsh and blood friends. Virtual masks of people around the world. So ride my bike over to Family Video. Car is mechanically unsafe to drive. Then the next problem pops up?

What to watch? Having selective taste is a limiting factor. Foreign movies with subtitles? Not the market in my town. Newest movies? Gotta be in the mood for it. Check your brain at the door. Same script recycled to a younger market. I do seem to be drawn to the English crime genre. Guy comes out of prison. Did the time for the Firm. Expected to pick up his old life. Except he was the smart one of the group. In other circumstances he would have been a successful business owner. In a respected position. Wants it to happen while still in same neighborhood and associates. The stupid violence kills him in the end. Smart writing. Deeply flawed interesting characters. Non medicated sociopaths and limited opportunity locals. Lite viewing. Of course I rented one.

The other? The Big Short. Wanna understand Trump. Watch it. The unvarnished story of the massive hubris driven greed of colossally amoral people who didn’t understand the matches or fuse they were playing with. In the movie, dialogue exposes them all. There are no knights in shining armor in the end. The good guys are morally conflicted. In others words real life.

But it exposes the lies the American public built their lives on. I’ll be able to retire like my parents did. The 401(k) floating on the psychological Ponzi scheme that is the modern stock market. Plans no one understands. Or wants to. Like Health Care options. If I can get my kids in a more stable environment than mine growing up, The American Dream. Move to where there are better schools. IF I work hard and pay my taxes, Everything will workout. Things will be tight but the economy’s good. One day I’ll be mine own boss. Greatest con job in the world.

Here’s the difference between the wealthy and the workers. We work for a paycheck. One that a budget is based on. A set sum of money after taxes. Run short? Who doesn’t get paid this month. The Elites worry about servicing their debt. Cash flow. Need extra money? Take out a loan from one of your companies. All tax free. Monthly payments paid back that show up has a operating lose to be written off. Private banks that cater to the ultimate Insider club. Money becomes markers in a massive poker game played with other Elites. They marry. Consolidation of wealth. Live in the same zip codes. Consolidation. Network. Business deals. Insider trades. Pool money to buy influence in political system. Michigan Republicans must get the blessing of the DeVos family to be successful. National candidates. Koches and Sheldon in Vegas. Consolidation of 90% of America’s through the inevitability of compound interest. Millions become multi-millions. Which morphs into Billions. Go to the library and read the first five pages of Blackwater. The Elites manifesto is there. How they gather out of the public eye. ALEC has been exposed. Old hat for these folks.

The ending of the  movie talks about the bankers going to jail. The banks to big to fail being broken up. New regulations to prevent it happening again. Yeah right. A House of Cards that insiders knew the government would bail out. Two minutes explains the Tea Party. Trump. Bernie. The populist anger for anything Establishment. The danger is the damage to the basic institutions that form the pillars our experiment in Democracy support.

If you think the the Trump train will disappear after the election, Think Again. He’s creating a Brand.  Glenn Beck called him a shallow thinker. A famous face surround by very deep thinkers with a definite national agenda backed by an ocean of Dark Money. The whack a mole Michelle Bachman, Sarah Palin or Ann Coulter are distractions. The real money buys are at the state level. Kansas. Hence a extended period of low grade depression where the only choice is being hermit in the mountains. Unless that mountain has valuable resources. Then it fuck off. Get out. North Dakota access pipeline. The rules only apply to Us.  Is it November 9th yet?

The Teenage years met Reality.

My teenage kids had the Come to Jesus meeting conducted by Mom this afternoon. It was also mine. Ten years since the split. Two years from walking into the homeless shelter. Two month since my car has been parked due to mechanic issues. That one fact separated me from everyone else in the shelter. What all this adds up to is I’m unable to help her. In any tangible way. a single mom working two jobs. A highly educated teacher needing to work two jobs.

There types of pain no one wants to face head on. Chunks? No problem. The Buddha talks about working through the pain to achieve wisdom. Great words. The actual doing, not so much. That I was listening from the doorway in many ways was worse. Being in the room would make me part of something. A united front. My kids got the full brunt of the unrelenting catalog of actions have consequences.  The end of a long relationship or marriage has such a recounting. Brutal is too kind a word.

Listening had me facing the totality of my situation. 53. Separated. On good terms but still separated. Physically and emotionally unable to applying skills achieved while working. In government subsidizing house. On food stamps. In a region filled with too many men like myself competing for the same part-time jobs. And knowing the rules are written to punish any drive to reclaim my old full-time status. Once I fell down the rabbit hole, all my energy has been to find a stable floor. Not trying to climb back up.

For someone who once lived on the corner of Pain and Despair, today cut deeper than the bone. Thinking there’s difference between an old life and new reality is wrong. I’m still pulling a continuation of all past decisions. A new outlook or thinking doesn’t kill the older self’s accountability for actions or consequences. Whether the reason seemed right at the time. Standing in the doorway I was a visitor in a world both familiar and foreign. Not fully part of either. The rules changed years ago. Rules and boundaries absent in my marriage now mark those out of bounds areas I so often rushed into.

My children are fully immersed in the modern connected world. An echo chamber of illusions that steal time from the real world of chores. The games are based on a psychology the majority don’t understand or recognize. At one point it got to be too much. Being outside on a bright beautiful Michigan fall day is a jarring experience. Underneath the surface of the pleasant tree lined streets, I’m sure the same conversation has happened. In some houses it never has. Little things matter in decoding how they act. The question of did they hear the underlying love or just the fury of the disappointment is one all parents struggle with. The good ones at least.

Staying for a visit didn’t feel right. Everyone’s emotions were too raw. Writing about the same day is just as difficult. But necessary. Part of my processing. Before leaving i talked to my son. At 14 expecting him to be the Man of the House is too much. I told him to do the best he could. Mistakes are part of life. Apologize. Make it right. Learn from them. Try not to repeat them. Things my father was incapable of passing on.

Raising semi well adjusted kids today is hard. There’s little I can do for Jayme at this moment. Being a good Dad in those small parts of my kids life is one. To their mom, we became the people we were meant to be. That those people weren’t happy together doesn’t take away from the amazing Mom and person you always have been. I’ll leave it there.

 

Lightning in a Bottle.

It’s all about timing.  A confluence of component beyond your control. Being ready for when the right waves rolls in.  And a bit of luck.  The nature of  the moment is riding the tiger. Too many times we fall off.  That’s writing in a nutshell.  My post Doors struck a chord.  Lightning flowed out of hands. Words appeared into a laptop  to then rode the energy out to the world. It found like minded travelers on their journey.  Then reality of calling yourself a writer was waiting by the door.  Mel Brooks said it best.  Writing is 80% inspiration and 20% perspiration.  That discipline is hardest to learn.  I have five drafts that stand defiant to my efforts.  There are at least a hundred unfinished short stories and 5 novels on my laptop. Writing about my struggles to live better is reflected in my small percentage of completed work.

Why do I call myself a writer?  It’s a compulsion.  There’s always something to write with and on within reach.  Interesting thoughts or dialogue pop into my head all day. In dreams or overhearing a great phrase in passing.  All of this was buried under the premedicated craziness of being Bipolar. And interrupted by factory jobs to pay the rent.  The type of work I can’t do anymore.  Controlling the insanity exposed the insanity of that type of work.  The work is mind numbing boring.  Never doubt the work ethic required to walk into the door everyday.  Any paycheck has a strong allure living in an area that been struggling for years. The worse part is that it’s a trap.  And we knew it.  That stripping away of any hope is what I can’t do anymore.

College writing and literature survey course turned me off being a writer.  I think they were designed by someone who believed 18 years read the wrong books. Reading from an early age became a handicap. Liking  hard Science Fiction was another strike.  Then there having an imagination combining old things in a new way. Find you own path. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.  Now it’s finding a way through the electronic noise to find an audience. In the past 11 months, I’ve worked 4 months. That time off gave me space to discover I like being outside of a windowless metal building.  A new way to look at where I call home.  The joy of writing.  Those lesson are being tested with all the stress of my situation.  My calm is something I’m still getting used to.

Thank you to all those that have found my observations helpful or useful.

Light and Dark

Living Aware brings  the forgotten out of  the background. Renting forced me into conforming to someone else’s  frame. Pictures can’t hide an indifferent wall color. Blackout shades with heat reflective backing  became another element that faded to background noise. A necessity for working third shift. Sleeping in a  cool dark room while the rest of the world moved in the light. This morning that dichotomy became apparent once again.  External choices  became internalized. A self constructed illusion of limitations.  That stress is amplified by other negative illusions hidden in the background.  Illusion that are inescapable in daily culture.

Home magazine use set designers to spin the illusion of what the perfect home should be. It can change your life.  No kids. No dogs. All the hard work is putting it all together. Peace and time to enjoy after. One scene from The Devil Wears Prada summed it up best.  The cerulean color and accessories created a 250 million dollar demand in the billion dollar fashion culture. For one season. Airbrushed models create the illusion of perfect beauty.  Another Billion dollar industry.  An unobtainable goal. Genetic freaks and designers with an army of unseen assistants.  The dream disappears in the growing light of your messy house filled with noisy kids and wet dogs. Change takes an energy obligations suck away.

The heat and humidity on coastal plains of  Texas make life miserable for anyone with my body type.  That’s my answer of why I won’t go back.  I would rather sit on shady deck looking out on a sunny vista than being out in it.  Eight years of 12 hour days and overtime stopped any chance at improving myself through school.  It was a trap that only now injecting its poison.   No computer skills with paperwork to prove, no job.  After 2008, not having the right computer skills, no job.  Fail at your one chance at high school? Welcome to the world of minimum wage. In a  rapidly changing technology driven world it takes money to keep up. Slavery has another color now, green.

I’m a fan of Eric Flint’s 1632 universe.  What happens when a small dying W. Virginia coal town is transported to the Germanies during the 30 years war.  After 10 books and 54 volumes of an Ezine, a central question has been asked.  How can a bunch of Uptime small town people thrive and succeed where back in the 20th they couldn’t?  Opportunity. The ultimate chance to move into the light. Post Civil War the economy was wide open to anyone with the drive to make themselves rich. Today it’s variations on a theme imagined by someone else. Small cracks of opportunity. Right place, right time, knowing the right people.  This is the world in which my employment source is taking place.

It’s a cloudy day.  A changeable mixture of shades of  grays.   Neither light or dark. My favorite type of day.

Getting Swamped

Yesterday was one of those days that started with small waves.  When it was done it was the storm had me fanatically baling.  Urban school districts are where the most resources are needed but are getting squeezed the hardest. The schoolteachesr in the Saginaw city schools just took a 9% pay cut.  This after years of 1 to 2% wage increases all the while paying more for everything.  In effect a pay cut.  My Ex is a teacher and an adjunct professor at the local university.  Two jobs.  Both teaching.  Our son in Jr. high and a daughter just starting high school.  And I’m unemployed.  Perfect storm.  An inability to plan has once more cause this.  The place where I write this is a parade of youthful hope.  A bright future ahead.

Thinking back to that point in my own life, hope wasn’t a driving force.  Darkness has always been a travelling companion.  All those years of having a schedule that let me pick up my kids in the afternoon have ended. The other side of that that equation limited social contacts outside of work.  A central thread in my life. Being addicted to Chaos and crazy, it was normal. Get bored, create a crisis to manage.  There are 12 step programs for addicts of every stripe. Chaos doesn’t count. It’s considered part of everyday life.  So is alcohol in moderation. Working so hard to manage the chaos is creating a dangerous undertow.  The only way to escape any undertow is to swim out at an angle.  Fighting it will kill you.  The other option to let it sweep you  out to sea.  Passive suicide.  Had to rest and lost the angle.

One of my favorite movies has a line that applied to me.  I women told the male lead he was a serial dater.  Always one at a time.  I have spent my life being a serial worker. My working life has been a series of 3 year cycles. Other circumstances stretched the last one to 8 years.  The tension was always there.  The person I’ve become can’t work those jobs anymore.  My lack of skills from just surviving, have added me to the pile of with no perceived value.  It used to be having a middle class work ethic was a good thing to have.  Show up. Do your job.  The job that supported your family in a place that took discipline to walk into.  Go home.  Repeat for years.  E-learning and on line classes has brought flexible to otherwise inflexible positions.  Getting a glimpse of the possible makes the present so much harder. Discipline is critical. I have an AS. Wrong subject. The apartment has become a place to sleep. I have to lose all stability to receive help. Policies written in another time.  Not the new normal.  Now my old normal is calling.  Transporting kids from one place to another. The one bright spot in my day.

7 years

A significant number in popular culture or those religious inclined.  Pre Christians held the number in special regard.  For me it’s how long I’ve lived in my apartment.  Where it became my neighborhood.  My place where I grew my own roots.  My choice. Not someone else’s.  After the sorting of my life to this point, I had to stop.  To breathe.  The blank canvas of  a newness within four walls won’t be happening.  That’s in the future. Somewhere.  Furniture still anchors the space.  Carefully chosen for size. Bookcases made to fit tight spaces.  All of it’s staying.  Part of that decision is laziness.  The larger element  is closure.  I no longer need a physical anchor point.  The soft place to land was also a trap.  Time slowed inside the sparse walls.  The windows allowed me to observe the world passing outside.  The exterior surroundings became unimportant. My inner self awareness expanded into the space carved has fake barriers fell.

Old habits keep me looking backwards.  Hanging on the past. It’s a common theme for the human race. A selective remembrance for simpler times. The future is an unknown.  Too many possibilities. The present is the sum of all our choices.  Not always the best choices.  That’s the pain I’m working my through now.  Marking off the days until the last closing of the door.  The day when the only key I have is for my car. I can only imagine what’s like to lose anything. Lingering obligations are quietly waiting to be dealt with.  Some are not so quiet.  Not having the resources to take care of them is both a relief and with a sense of dread.  Once more starting over in a hole.  Owing a $100 is a more understandable than $5000. A daily reminder of a job we hate.  Some small impulse item at the gas station. Understanding small denominations becomes ritual.

Fear is attached to a $100 bill.  Of the unknown.  For your personal safety if it’s seen.  The quick cash cash from an ATM is set at $50. Not a single bill. A combination of denominations with the wear of use by others. Easy to count.  At least those of us that still use cash. The world is going digital.  The very idea of having the tactile feel of money is becoming a thing of the past.  Something from your childhood.  The charge from one large creates a greater space.  Which disappear into nothingness by daily interactions.  That can’y happen with a debit card.  Knowing your balance. A disconnect.

Being a cash only person, the inability to pay the rent for my apartment has become very personal. The loss of an important connection to the world.  The only grounding will be the one I carry with me.  It was weak before the time of medication.  Removing the chaos has exposed a strength.  One I never realized.  Becoming rootless has a certain romantic freedom.  That may sound insane to many of the people following my blog.  Welcome to my world.  What sound crazy makes some kind of sense.  Reality is the illusion we create for ourselves.  That I can admit it is a huge step.  If taking a sidestep from your life removes some of the pain, why step back on the path?  My life has become a series of  changing perspective.