Sunday, April 13, 2014

The Long Island Medium

I find the "Long Island Medium" show on TLC very peaceful to watch. (I was about to provide a link to the site, but the site was such a mess of loud, intrusive, junky ads that it completely belied my "peaceful" feeling after watching Theresa Caputo in action all day today.)

Watching the show itself, though: I'm respectful of her channeling ability. She makes me feel hopeful. After watching her, I feel that things aren't so utterly random and meaningless. I feel a connection with other souls.

And I'm an intellectual hard-ass. I hate bullshit, "feel-good" stuff based on nothing other than creepy, rah-rah "let's all feel good!" stuff that the vast majority of surface society is based on. Caputo has said herself that she's not going to channel negative energy, which I think is false, but I also understand it... (In my mind, surely the family/friends that have died violently aren't all going to be hovering there giving off sweetness and light. Yet, equally logically, they're also not going to be there in ALL hatred.) Caputo channels the positive -- i.e., the spirits from the other side saying "hi," giving her signals like numbers, tattoos, specific injuries... Stuff that Caputo herself couldn't have known but that the person that she's meeting with knows about her departed.

Given that 75% of the universe is "dark matter"/"dark energy" that even the most brilliant of physicists cannot explain... I'm quite comfortable thinking that the 75% is the energy (which cannot be created or destroyed) of those passed away.

Me, personally: I wish that the dead Ginny (my high-school love when I was 18 and she was 17) still loved me and watched over me. But she was 22 when she died, and in love with someone else at the time. I'm not sure that her spirit is wise enough to be anything to me at 48. (What does a dead 22-year-old know?) My relatives: My grandmother on my father's side was always especially nice to me when I was 8-10. And I always liked my mother's middle German sister. But what do they have to do with me? They both had others, more important to them, to think about, to visit, once dead.

Psychologically, from what I've heard, my mother's German grandfather, and my father's East Texas grandfather, might be closest to my own mind-set (intellectually curious and confrontational, and geographically restless) -- but again... what do these guys care about me?

Who is watching over me? After watching Caputo, I feel that someone must be, but... who? I am 100% alone in the material world.

Friday, April 04, 2014

Candid on the set with cake and ax

This is the title of something brilliant. (Below is the picture that inspired it.)

Monday, March 31, 2014


Last Saturday night/Sunday morning, I ended up SHRIEKING at the world. This has happened ONE time in the past 4 years since I've been back in Austin (in 2011, waiting for the bus on my way to my mother's house to drop off the birthday gifts I'd bought, after she'd made it clear that she didn't want a birthday after my brother was going out of town to party with his friends; it was about 7 in the morning; I screamed out loud at the bus-stop; once I'd dropped off her fucking presents, I cried profusely all the way back home.).

Prior to these two Austin shriekings, the last time I was howling was back in my Weehawken apartment. I lived there for 2 years (2008 to 2010), and I lost it (aka "howled") maybe twice.

Why? Utter desolation at utter isolation. Ya'd think ya'd get used to it after 30 years, huh? I think what sets it off is hints at closeness (like a mom's birthday, where you think things should be nice; or Sandra in town, needing help) --- and then the kick in the face of the ones you wanted to love you not loving you at all.

The worst part of all of this: Things might be going decently (i.e., not necessarily "great," but they're "going"; the loneliness has begun to seem "pure"). But then once you start wanting, and don't receive... your nothingness, instead of being Zen-like, feels all utterly shitty again.

Friday, March 28, 2014

Even I can be soothing

From my uncle via Facebook months ago:

"I was very happy to receive your message. I carried your baby picture in my wallet for many years until I misplaced the wallet. Four and one half years in Vietnam, your picture was in my pocket. Of course, I still love you and wish our families had not been so scattered. Hope to hear so all of us could have known and been closer to each other."

Soothing, like a forgiveness phone-call

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

The House is Rockin' (with Domestic Problems)

My parents divorced in late fall of '78 after my father came home drunk from a bar and then tried to shoot my mother when she wouldn't go to the bedroom with him.

Hours before, I'd watched him strutting around the house, getting ready to go out, putting on his cologne and his 70s suede "going out" jacket. This show didn't happen very often, but when it did, there was always some problem afterwards. I knew that the "suede jacket" and the "cologne" were bad news.

He came home a couple of hours later, while my mother and I were still up watching TV, demanding that my mother have sex with him. She said no. I got sent to my room. Peering out from down the hall, I saw him slap her around; at some point in their arguing, she grabbed the gold chain around his neck and tore it while falling to her knees. At that point, pissed off that his gold chain was torn, he went to the hall closet for his gun. She ran out the back door. He ran out after her. I closed my bedroom door and huddled by it, my ear pressed against it to find out what was happening.

I don't know how long I waited like that, but at some point I heard my father come back into the house. Luckily, he went straight to his bed and fell into a drunken stupor. Once I heard him snore, I crept out and went to make sure he was asleep, then went outside to look for my mother. I have a fuzzy memory of seeing her huddled in the garage and her gesturing to me to go back inside, but I'm not sure about this. At any rate, I eventually went to sleep. The next day, my father was not in the house. A day or so later, my mother told me that they were divorcing.

All of this a preface to '79, after the divorce, when my father was living in a one-bedroom apartment in Fort Worth, and my 13-year-old self and my 7-year-old brother were forced to visit him on weekends for several months before my military dad got himself transferred out of town. My brother missed his dad and didn't at all mind visiting, but I hated it. Not just hated my father, but also the whole crappy apartment and being forced to spend time with someone who had been mean to me since I was about 5. I had about 10% fond memories of him as a little kid, and the other 90% of the memories were of hate and fear. And now I had to be cooped up in a tiny apartment with him to make him feel better about losing his family... (At one point, he even showed me a classified ad he'd taken out in the Fort Worth paper: "Wish we were together, 3 and me.")

I never did anything to make him feel better about losing his family. I was glad that he'd lost all of us. (I'd always seen on TV that kids were upset when told that their parents were divorcing. When my mother came to tell me, the first thing I said was, "Thank god." While thinking, "What took you so long.")

One weekend of forced visitation, I knew that a local album-rock station was going to play the entire just-released "Dream Police" album by Cheap Trick, a band I liked, at a certain time. Dad gave me "permission" to go listen to it on his clock-radio in the bedroom. Hearing it felt like something illicit and strange. Dad kept coming in the room to see what I was "doing." (This time not getting violent with me as he had with me in his/our old home -- this time, wanting desperately to get back with my mother, he had to be on his best behavior.)

Used to own the "Dream Police" album, just recently re-purchased it for cheap as a CD. Listening to it tonight flashed me back to a very strange, unpleasant place.