Tweets - 07-31-2009

My long hiatus has come to an end and now it's time to get back to normal. I'm interested in seeing that. 5:34 PM Jul 31st from web

Time off was a lot of fun. But I'm built for work. I have the stamina of several workhorses. Ask anyone. 5:57 PM Jul 31st from web

The first order of business is to brainstorm some ideas. This is harder than I thought. There's an idea, how hard it is to think. 6:05 PM Jul 31st from txt

I think I'll fill the stock tank and take a well deserved bath. 6:18 PM Jul 31st from txt

I'm texting from the stock tank. Technically this is public nudity, but a man is allowed on his own property, as long as no one notices. 7:06 PM Jul 31st from txt

I could skim some of the bugs out of the water. I tried to help one but he crawled to the back side of my arm. That's what I get for being a nice guy. 7:33 PM Jul 31st from txt

Tonight's meditation: Obama called me A STUPID DOG on national TV. Now he has to invite me to the White House for beer. I shook myself dry. 9:33 PM Jul 31st from web

Save The Last Hiatus For Me

Here I sit, my heart filled with pride that I endured so much and survived. If anyone has a right to shake his fist triumphantly and shout the words "I did it," any fair gauging of the issue would have to reveal that that person would have to be me.

But while my heart has that pride, I need to confess that I'm also suffering a little bit of lethargy, the feeling I get when something is finished. So I essentially staggered out of bed, stumbled going to the bathroom, and slipped when I sat down to write this. I've had numerous false starts. Abraham Lincoln never had a worse day.

But ending something's like in the movies, the last night at Porky's, the end of the American Graffiti gang, Curly's last film as one of the Three Stooges. You sit and run the film back and forth and say "That's it." There might be a reason to go on, but you need serious counseling and a prayer retreat with a houseful of sincere monks to figure out what it is.

I was going to use this last day of July for last minute chronicling of my hiatus. But really there's not much left to say. It was a run. Now I'm taking my final bow. I'm looking straight ahead, not expecting a lot of pats on the back. But it would be gratifying if the others -- here they come! -- came from the wings to lift hands with me in a solid row and do a few Rockette kicks. There's a little girl and an enormous armload of roses coming down the center aisle.

In my Mind's Eye, I'm here at the house, my hiatus ended. And I'm standing on a little stage. There's a few of my closest friends off to my left. An unseen orchestra starts playing something softly with feeling, which swells, and I sing of the things I've come to realize. There's no place like home.

But just as I end the song, from the back of the room, Garrett Al breaks through with a big laser gun, and, with him, my sexy cousin Jill Bob has her hair done up like the Bride of Frankenstein. (Picture this. It's a lot like the ending of "The Rocky Horror Picture Show.") Geritol sings in this weird, wavery metallic voice, "D.B. Kundalini! The party is all over. Your hiatus was a failure, your lifestyle too extreme. I'm your new commander, you now are my prisoner. We return to Transylvania and Grandma will be mine!"

I struggle to retreat but Geritol is on me. I'm climbing the curtains in our living room when he zaps me from behind with the laser. This is a cue for Cousin Roto to come out of our freezer on a motorcycle. Grandma screams, "Roto!"

We all join for an incredible '50s dance, kicking out the jams. Then we're in a pool singing, "Don't be it, dream it." Then we're on the stage again, me singing happily, "My, my, my, my, my, my, my hiatus was a wild and an untamed thing..."

Finally, a terrific red/pink slimy blob crawls in from the North, envelopes the house, everything crashes around us, the house is lifted off its foundation, and I see it all flying toward space. I am left writhing in a big hole with my sexy cousin Jill Bob. Proudly writhing, crawling, pusillanimous creatures, she and I will inhabit a new Eden. Which will mean us being occasionally nude and partaking of forbidden fruit.

A puppet master, an criminologist kind of guy, shakes his head and leaves the room.

Chronicling My Hiatus

PUBLIC NOTICE: The hiatus posts will end tomorrow, giving us a free horizon starting with August. I will explain the significance of that when August gets here. But just a clue, it has to do with the sense of the word August, its feel. Compelling stuff.

As for now, we're still in July. And while the hiatus proper has definitely ended, I'm going to take the last couple days of July to chronicle it.

I think this is very important, if for no other reason than to fill up the time between now and August. These last days of July are crying out for a little chronicling.

I wanted to put out some of the little known bits of trivia about my hiatus. But I don't really have the time to do it completely. Like "When did the hiatus begin?" Sometime in April. "When did it officially end?" The day before yesterday, whenever it was that it headed north. "How many words and letters were used in all the hiatus posts combined?" I'm not going to know stuff like that. It would take a super computer to tell us that, the likes of which man is not capable of inventing.

One thing I do know is "Who was the pervert mentioned numerous times in the hiatus posts?" That would be my ex-friend Garrett Al, who also goes by Geritol. He's obviously a notorious skin merchant.

What follows is a very special historical document, detailing my original hiatus ideas, projected as a 15-16 day breather back in April. As you will readily notice, some of these ideas actually made it into my hiatus posts; they made the cut. The only lacuna in this important document is "No. 1," which must have been deleted as I began. But an educated guess as to what it would have been is the initial announcement of the hiatus.

The document proper will be separated from the body of this post by a series of 25 hyphens, which will now be typed, after this period.

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Hiatus Ideas:

2) Reviewing where the blog has been, what's been revealed. Various instances of paranoia, which I call by some more benign name.

3) Encouraging those who were in contact with me, the newsletters, the real life visits; I thought I was a people person.

4) Bemoaning a couple of the real life visits, one in particular, the guy ended up in jail; whittling with him, whittling makes me sullen. Drinking always made Grandpa mad, whittling made him mellow. But with me, too much whittling equals too much thinking. Too much thinking means going down. This guy noticed that and pulled a knife on me. Going to whittle something out of me. Garrett Al (Geritol).

5) The personal strain that the blog has caused me, very dour.

6) But growth has been real, personal discovery ... heights previously unknown.

7) Well wishes that people have sent, feeling your prayers, concerns; no, I haven't got a life threatening illness.

8) No, I haven't got a life threatening illness; As for illnesses, yes, the olfactory hallucinations have been bad, but that's not the biggest reason for my hiatus.

9) Sometimes a hiatus is just a personal choice, without needing any further explanation. Then go on to explain it again. Might even go on a yearly hiatus. Johnny Carson took 15 weeks vacation a year.

10) What I'm doing with all the time now that I'm on hiatus.

11) Things are going to pot around me, so much time on my hands, still little to complain about; all in all hiatus is a positive thing.

12) Recommending hiatus for everyone, think of it as a transitional phase to nowhere.

13) Vegetating. Looking ahead to full retirement.

14) Easing back into the blog, feel the only way up is to get up, get back in the swing of things. Idle hands.

15) Relaunching -- announcing I'm back in a big way.

16) Dream of my sexy cousin, Jill Bob.

Several posts follow about my mind gone to pot.

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I like that word "lacuna." It sounds like a car name. You could have it like this: "All new for 1966, the Plymouth Lacuna! [Whoosh]. Now you see it, now you don't! You know what 'lacuna' means? It means something that's not there! So whether you're leaving the beach after a big beer bust or dragging down Main Street, by the time the fuzz gets there, you're gone! [Whoosh]. The fabulous Plymouth Lacuna, 'Car of the Year' for 1966! Get yours before they're all gone!"

Also lacuna sounds like something a French butterfly might crawl out of. No more plain old cocoon, now you've got "La coona," but "la cuna" looks more French. "Coona" looks more Spanish with a touch of Dutch. Ha ha, a "touch of Dutch." That's what Nancy Reagan got on her honeymoon.

How about the great pizzeria we used to go to, "Mama Lacuna's"! We used to go there for a pizza and the kids loved it so much it was simply gone. "This pizza's a Lacuna and now all we have is a lacuna!" Mama Lacuna died so there's another lacuna. And they closed Mama Lacuna's so that's our last lacuna of the day.

OK, one last thing about chronicling my hiatus for today ... I totally forgot about my sexy cousin, Jill Bob. Her disappearance is a lacuna.

A Hiatus Hangover

I'm going to need a day or two to recoup from my hiatus. There's a whole swirl of feelings and emotions to work through. My entire psyche has been through the wringer.

I was especially attached to the thing in a positive way early on and midway. It wasn't till it became oppressive and repulsively personified that I recognized the terrible trap I was in. And that I needed to get out.

Now that it's gone, I'm left with a very quiet house. The heaving and hissing, and even the refrigerator opening and closing during all its midnight raids, are all now stilled. It's peace, peace, wonderful peace. But the difference is so stark that anyone would be set back.

I did get out yesterday afternoon. I used a knife to cut my way through some of the scum that had the south door sealed. Then I kicked it open and it felt great to have the bright sunshine of the south side. Truly it was an "Afternoon Delight"!

I walked out in the backyard. I have this thing in my mind with songs, how they speak of everyone's personal history. So I started the day with "The Morning After," striking an historic pose as I listened to it, heroic with an image of being huddled yet having prevailed. The record ends and it's wobbling back and forth in the inner grooves and I need to shake it off and get back to reality. Then, as described already, I kicked open the door and went outside, and soaked up the bright sunshine. "Afternoon Delight" running through my mind, I again struck an historic pose, meant to proclaim I was no longer huddled but joyous and free.

The TV news indeed told about the homes that were destroyed yesterday by fire. But according to the proper authorities, it's going to remain "an unsolvable mystery" as to what happened. It appears that they thought at first they should track it back and determine where the thing came from. But thankfully, with the manpower shortage and the city and county budget in the red, they decided not to go to the extra expense, saving about five bucks by ending the investigation a half mile from my house. So I'm off the hook.

As to the numerous families displaced, they said it's working out well for them. The Salvation Army gave each family a $50 voucher for clothes at any of their retail outlets. As to insurance covering the damage, since there's no officially known cause of the disaster, it's all being declared an act of God, meaning they're out. So what can you say? All's well that ends well.

I'm hoping I can see a happy ending come out of all this for myself too. It's been a long, drawn out hiatus. I've been very identified by this thing -- immersed in it. We shall see.

I might take a few days off, with your kind forbearance, and look back, documenting some of the different aspects of the hiatus, what possibly we can learn from it, and hoping to know where things should go from here. It's unlike the investigation the authorities did. With an extraordinary situation like this, you don't just give up. You poke and prod and follow the trail where it leads. And I believe you do that even if it takes great effort, more than you think you have. I don't personally think you spend a second worrying about the extra expense.

To me, knowing the truth itself is the reward and that's well worth any price I have to pay.

The Hiatus Heads North

We had something of a romantic interlude yesterday, although I want all the world to know that I maintained my chastity even against the relentless persistence of the lovely Dulcinea, the Lady of the Lake.

She came at me with everything she had, including a barrage of cleavage shots, the swiveling of her lower extremities in such a way as to evoke the Dance of the Seven Veils, and she even threatened a rug act, truly a devious means of sashaying in such a way as to allure, entice, and otherwise possess. But you will recall that I said something like, "Not so fast, sister! Not until we're legal!"

It must seem to you like I have rugged discipline to resist such a thing, and that's true. Going back a few months, looking back, it's really hard to believe Garrett Al thought he had a chance with me. But of course his means of allurement is to thrust it out there and bulldoze full steam ahead. It may work at the rest stop and with guys who etch their schedule on the walls of restrooms on lonely country back roads. But there's no way it works with me. I have an iron will, which, admittedly was more sorely tested by Dulcinea's charms than Geritol's charmless act.

Whether I will ever actually marry the Lady of the Lake, it's doubtful. Because as you will also recall, the relations I had with her were all in my Mind's Eye. It was a brief romp in the reverie meant only to give me fortitude against the very real menace of [an unnamed party.]

As to room widening throughout the house, it seems that I can fairly safely declare victory over [an unnamed party.] There's only dribs and drabs of pink slime and blob excrescence at the window sashes and door cracks, all on the north side.

I looked out the window -- seeking to see only the yard, the tree, and the school in the distance, wanting to maintain my posture of strict ignoring of [an unnamed party.] It was weird. There seems to be nothing out there, although looking across the road I can see the fence is caved in, sloped to the north, and beyond that there is a wide burnt pathway across the field. Maybe a mile or just under a mile away, I can see a weird pink/orange glowing in the sky, emanating from below, pulsating. Perhaps destroying a few houses with fire. I'll have to wait for the news.

What a great relief it is. And there in the corner, by the door, right where [an unnamed party] made its last stand, are my weapons. Sacred swords, knives, guns, my gnarly club with the railroad spikes. Seeming to be no worse for the wear, except there's some slime that's seeped into the cracks. I'll probably have to roast them over an open fire to make sure all the residue is utterly, certainly, and finally dead. Maybe one of the local homes being destroyed can spare me a few embers. Just kidding there. Of course I hope those folks are able to rebuild with a minimum of hassle.

Anyway, my great victory calls for a song. I'll see if I can find my 45 of this. Ahh, here it is.

It's been a long hard struggle but my [unnamed party] is finally over, headed north where evil belongs ... So with this final victory (for me) and defeat (for it), let us listen to this record together.

Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Maureen McGovern:

There's got to be a morning after
If we can hold on through the night
We have a chance to find the sunshine
Let's keep on lookin' for the light...

[Song by All Kasha and Joel Hirshhorn]

My Hiatus Takes A Sword

There was great widening and expansiveness in my room today, no signs of [an unnamed party]. The kitchen also had a real freedom and clearness. The dining area for the most part was clean, just some skittering of disparate parts looking for the main body. Even Grandma's room was free and clear, with only some minor clamoring at the cracks around the north window.

I knew it would be the living room and the north door in particular that would be the true test. In order to keep up my strict plan of ignoring [an unnamed party], I peeked in with the greatest discretion. I noticed the room for the most part was free and clear, but unfortunately there was much accumulation toward the door. My sense of hearing told me before glancing that it was there, breathing and hissing.

Through the north window I could see the heaving of a form mostly outside, and in my imagination I knew the north part of the yard must be a hotbed of activity on the part of [an unnamed party]. Then I thought the more I look, the less I'm ignoring it, so I had the immediate idea that I should retreat back to my room. But just then I saw the weapons in the northeast corner, scattered, and I guess the temptation was too much.

Since it seemed the seething was a self-contained interest solely at the base of the door, I inched my way toward the weapons. Seizing one sacred sword by the handle -- and here we're switching to the Mind's Eye Cam -- I saw myself rising up from a lake, like the Lady of the Lake with Arthur's sword in hand. But I myself was the one wielding it.

My body was dripping wet as I shed the lake's water. I was built like an Adonis, a real hunk, with exactly the right kind of man breasts, meaning taut and of a piece with a finely shaped, physically fit body. The Lady of the Lake was holding me at the shoulder, like on the cover of a romance novel. I had the sword aimed straight up, as though set to invoke the mighty power of heaven. If you've ever seen one of those old Wilkinson Sword commercials where the lightning hits the sword, yet somehow doesn't kill the wielder but makes him stronger and his razor sharper, that's precisely what it looked like.

I was rising from the lake, my body the size of a Titan if it was an inch. I had on a very ruggedly cut loin cloth, not so neat as to look sissified but not so gnarly as to make me look like a bum. It was cut in a ruggedly handsome way and arranged to cover but not fully obscure what had to have been part of the Lady of the Lake's real interest in me. No one's that clingy if she's not working a selfish angle, which I fully understand.

Then I glanced down toward her cleavage, to see what she offered, giving it an appraisal not unlike a jeweler's, fully aware that the cut was keen and the various facets endless. This is something I could seriously enjoy, I thought.

All of a sudden reality bit me, or threatened to, as I looked before me in the living room and saw with shock what appeared to be a serpent's head rise up from the smoldering mess that lay before me. This would be either its last gasp or the first breath on its way back to ascendancy. Invoking the power of my Lady Fair, I moved that sword so fast through the air that the whoosh is still registering on very sensitive radars in government listening posts. But the head was fast and dodged me successfully. I spun again and it dodged the opposite way. It had me 2-0 and I felt my life force starting to flag. I can't be defeated, can I?

In an instant I was back in my Mind's Eye, and Dulcinea lifted a Golden Chalice to my lips and gave me a sip of some kind of nectar. It tasted like a root beer float with something extra creamy added, maybe her satin sheets that had gone through a blender. She was rubbing down my chest, kissing her way from my neck downward. She got almost to my navel when my morality kicked in, and I said, "Thus far, my dear, and no farther ... until we're legal."

The promise therein awoke me to a new determination and I was back in the living room. The serpent had dodged me twice and thought we were going for the best two out of three. But My Lady beckoned me to swing what I've got, then I heard her whisper, "Now." I spun that sacred sword through the air with such raw fury and dead aim that not only was the serpent's head immediately severed but it lay at my feet like a dozen separate pieces of meat, like a ginsu knife demonstration.

As to the other activities of this morning, I have no choice but to say "To be continued..." It's time for me and her to find a justice of the peace.

A Wasted Hiatus

I've been up and around for a while. I'm quietly celebrating the ongoing success of my housewide campaign to ignore [an unnamed party]. The success of course is seen in the widening spaces within the house, a welcome disencroachment of a house guest that was becoming too big for its britches, or had outgrown whatever britches it may have owned years ago when it transitioned out of the short pants phase of life.

If this works, and it seems to be working so far, it'll be great to wake up someday and not even have to think about it. It'll be great to have breakfast without a pink slab of something reaching around on my plate. I hate to see [an unnamed party] reaching up there or lying in wait, like a slice of ham waiting for beans. It's an unwelcome ambush, as most ambushes are.

As for now, I'm not declaring victory just yet. There's still a lot of heaving, hissing, heavy breathing, and slithering going on. The house is still suffering a major infestation. But for the most part, and this is just how I might've predicted it, the southern reaches of the house are widening out. That essentially frees up my room and the kitchen and the little hallway that goes from my room to the kitchen past the cellar door. But the dining area, Grandma's room, and the living room are still clogged to semi-clogged. Getting toward the north door, probably because it is north, is where the worst congestion is. A lot of the heaving and hissing are coming from that part of the house. At its loudest it's like sandblasting the side of a brick building. Typically it's like a balloon released in a room, that kind of snorting sound.

But the best policy I can follow -- and I'm coming awfully close to the edge of violating the policy -- is to ignore all this activity. Anything under there need not be encouraged by my attention at this point. Since I have no other good choice right now -- I suppose I could go out to the garage, since the kitchen door is freed up, and get the garden shears, but I'm going to wait till [an unnamed party] is smaller -- I decide to retire to my room, where I'm able to type this. Another good reason to avoid the shears is that the thing could still threaten Grandma's life. One thing I don't want to provoke is a choke hold, with my last memory of Grandma being anything like the contortions that would have to result.

And yet, biding my time, how great it would be to put a sacred sword or some other weapon up to [an unnamed party's] neck and thrust it in! It'd be very satisfying to slice [so and so] into pieces like a chicken. But that will have to wait.

I figured the weapons [an unnamed party] hid have to be on the north side, right where the thickness is the greatest. Now that the south side is pretty clear and the middle is fairly well wasted away, that's looking more and more certain.

The thing to do is to continue ignoring [an unnamed party], like I said, biding my time. And then, if there's any opening for last minute vengeance, I will seek the satisfaction of expressing and venting my blistering rage by hacking and hewing [an unnamed party] to a terrible death.

My Wits Vs. The Hiatus

I've always wondered how the owners of a Bed & Breakfast can stand to be around other people that much, especially with them staying with you.

Up and down the hall you can hear snoring, bathroom noises, bed springs creaking. Maybe the couple is arguing, and the man or the woman has rage issues, like me, and they can barely contain their anger over something that did or did not happen that day. Or they're in a big stew about what they're going to do tomorrow. Then the Bed & Breakfast owners are there at the table the next morning, hoping these people get out of their place so they can get some rest. Over time they hone their wits, keeping computer profiles of all the signs and personality types, so they'll have a better idea which ones need a tranquilizer dropped in their water at dinner.

I definitely prefer having the house to myself. I prefer not having [an unnamed party] as a house guest. Before all this came to a head [it] was growing and taking over by leaps and bounds. Surrounding and encroaching on my bed, I could hear such loud breathing, the sucking in of air and the hiss of breathing it out, that I could barely sleep. And if this became quieter, apparently with the different phases of the sleep cycle of the typical [species of creature], there were plenty of other noises from around the house: digestive noises, the refrigerator opening and closing, lamps being tipped over, etc. You'd have to be dead or nearly dead to sleep through that, which, thankfully Grandma has been able to do.

But then my wits kicked in. Making me very proud to be a part of the human race. We humans have it going on, for sure. We're always at least five moves ahead of the smartest members of any other species. A monkey will be rattling its cage in the zoo, having some kind of hormonal issue. But somewhere in the laboratory a scientist will be watching it on closed circuit TV, having anticipated this trouble by consulting books on the sex lives of monkeys. They already have another monkey, a female, on loan from a neighboring zoo, who will be let down by a helicopter, then picked up after they've had their thing. If we flipped the scene and it was one of us in the cage, with a hormonal issue, and the monkeys were in charge, they'd be sitting at their desk eating a banana and never notice us.

So it's good to have my human wits, which I've been using to my advantage. The increase of space in the house has proceeded, and you know why that is. It's the opposite of what's happening to the principal in this particular drama. I've been up, ignoring anything that may or may not be in my path, getting my breakfast. As I've walked through the rooms, I've been glancing here and there, into corners, under things, looking for the weapons. How could [an unnamed party] hide that many sacred swords? Unless they're still underneath, or somewhere in the room, some part of the room that is not yet widened or exposed.

I would love to be on the offensive, brandishing a sword right about now, to be able to hack and hew, offering up a full head of steam for my spirit of vengeance. But I'm like a respectful monk as of this moment, letting the room widen with a peace and apparent patience. I might be able after all this to write a self-help book on managing your surroundings by the power of patience, and, of course, your wits.

Tiptoe Through The Hiatus

Shhh, be very very quiet. We're treading lightly today, soft shoeing it, tiptoeing, maintaining a new level of stillness throughout the house.

I'm typing this very slowly, so old what's his face will sleep on. And as he sleeps, the big hope is that he will continue to shrink. No wakesy, no need for attention. No attention, being ignored, he'll shrink to nothing and go away.

Just saying it like that, though, is a mistake on my part -- but what's said is said. I'll state the quandary in general terms: Any attention, just giving attention to [a problem, let's say], creates a vibe that has a ripple effect. It's tough too to mitigate the effect by speaking of opposites, since reality knows the intimate connections between opposites and their principals. And you ultimately can't fool Mother Reality.

On the other hand it's important for my own understanding and peace of mind -- as well as my desire to communicate these key issues to a broader readership, if for no other reason than to satisfy their morbid curiosity -- that some description be made of the actual circumstances of my situation. So there's a delicate balance, a gentle dance underway.

This tiptoeing is part of the dance. Because tiptoeing around itself calls attention to the circumstances of why you're tiptoeing. You might think there's no winning, but that's where you'd be wrong. Because [an unnamed party] is also under the thumb of Mother Reality; [unnamed party] doesn't get a free pass either.

So the sleeping, the extreme lethargy I'm noting on the part of [the unnamed party] is likely a payback for his inflationary moves as of late. It seems that not even [the unnamed party] can hold full sway. And with me actively, if not mentally, ignoring him, it's piling on. I'm expecting the weapons eventually to appear. Then I will be able to hack to death [an unnamed party].

I tiptoed around the house, squeezing by-- through some wider areas, suddenly passable. I was unable to discern any other being in this house awake except myself. Grandma sleeps on. I wonder what she dreams about. Maybe heaven. She always used to clip out the "Family Circus" cartoons, which would portray heaven. Heaven to Bil Keane was a place on the clouds where the grandfather and everyone else were transparent, black and white outlines of their former selves. Someday Grandma will be up there -- I'm sure she pictures it that way -- with Grandpa. He's up there, transparent, maybe with one of his signature flannel shirts and a couple of wings jutting out his back. Flitting hither, thither, and yon. Fishing up there maybe if they have fish. Fish who were killed on earth went to heaven and are caught all over again. But what happens to a fish that's killed in heaven? I could guess it goes to the second heaven, then the third, as many as they are. Then eventually it retires.

Anyway, I went all through the house, and I noticed some widening of the rooms, more room than I've seen for some time. But I want to keep quiet, keep to myself, sit here in my room and just act like nothing's going on. Then, let's say eventually the weapons do appear, I can go on a bloody rampage and literally hack and hew [this unnamed party] to a terrible death. Then [an unnamed party] can go to heaven as well. [An unnamed party] won't know what happened. [An unnamed party] will be sitting transparent on a cloud scratching its ectoplasm, or whatever you call that sticky, jelly, blob hide it has.

That'll teach [an unnamed party] not to mess with me.

Operation Ignore Hiatus

Now I know why they don't want to mention Voldemort, which sounds a lot like Wal-Mart, at Hogwarts. Because they're ignoring him and hoping he'll go away.

I see the same thing at family reunions. We have certain favorites and certain ones who are a burr under everyone's saddle. They've been married so many times we don't know what their name is. And every time they come over we have to put away the pictures so we don't accidentally have one of their ex's in front of the current. Or they have some mental eruption. Or they have their hand out. It's a huge burden being the normal ones, but we stick together and it works out OK.

Today, my friends (and I believe you are all my friends, the normal ones anyway, not someone like Garret Al, which sounds a lot like Geritol), I'm going to do my best to ignore ... you know who, he who must not be named. This might be a challenge but I have a definite idea, that if you describe surroundings you can assume the surroundings are being described in different ways as they relate to Mr. X.

As an example, this ignoring has been going on for the last eight hours at least. I went to the bathroom at around 10:20 p.m. and the wall and floor space were tight. But I didn't say anything, nor did I "see" anything. I got up around 5:30 and went to the bathroom again and the wall and floor space seemed like there was more room. Going through the rooms on the way back to my room I noticed some added floor space. These are good signs but it is still early.

Today I hope to read internet news, putter around the house as though nothing was wrong, watch a little TV, have a bottle of pop, and make a day of it. Yep, that's what I'm planning on doing. And why shouldn't I? There's certainly nothing in my way, nothing stopping me. I'm quite free to do as I please, you see, because everything's normal. There's no obstructions that I can detect, nor do I know of any that should be in my way. The path is normal. There's no clutter, nothing whatsoever stretched out from room to room that might bring me down. I am unencumbered.

After I type this, I think I might go back to bed and sleep a little longer. There's no reason I shouldn't. The way is free and clear to get to my room. There's nothing I need to step over, nothing gumming up the works. Nothing sticky up against the wall. Nothing I know of coiled upon my dresser or blocking my wardrobe. My bed is vast and empty as far as I can tell. I can stretch, kick the covers off if I so choose, and see clearly out the window, the freshly risen sun reflecting off the garage window.

Ahh, life has beckoned the sun to rise on another day. In fact, it's up early. I guess it couldn't wait to get the day started, a sentiment that I echo and applaud. Soon it will have stretched all it's going to, getting its rays all loosened up for a busy day. Then it will be roused to full wakefulness and will be ready to get down to business. By the time it ascends to where it has an unobstructed view of our half acre, it'll be up and at 'em to stay, no turning back. And as it beams down its glorious joy, I hope it looks down on our little house with favor. And perhaps, maybe, give us just a little flare to burn out any residue, any bacteria that could be encroaching on our property. Whether it sees me or not, I'll do that arm pump like the kids do when trucks come by, and hope it responds.

It'd be a great day to open the windows and let in the breeze. It's cool this morning. Why shouldn't I? There's nothing stopping me. I can open them freely if that's what I choose to do, and there's no reason I should expect any kind of gummy, dominating jelly monster, if such there ever were, to prevent me.

A Step By Step Hiatus

Getting from place to place to me is constantly an experience calling for reflection. Seriously. I can't put one foot in front of the other, it seems, without doing what Neil Armstrong did on the moon, which is considering it in its historical context and framing it with the right words. It's with a great struggle right now that I'm even able to type this paragraph in under 10 minutes. It all has to be done step by step.

Here's what I'm considering: I've got it set before me, as everyone knows, a titanic battle, a battle of wits, perhaps to the death of one or both of us, with my hiatus, who has overgrown all bounds and now is the dominant force in our house. I say 'dominant force' and I mean it, but we shall see, because perhaps I will prove to have been the dominant force all along, depending on how it all works out.

At this point I haven't got what it would take to kill the thing by violent means. I have only my hands and feet -- my body -- as all the weapons have been confiscated and hidden. And in this I feel some regret, that over the years I didn't do what it would've taken for my body to be a lethal weapon, like they say in the movies. I suppose I could've learned karate or jiu-jitsu, in which case I would be able, with the skills of karate, to chop the thing to death. (Hah! Huuh! Kuh-rack!) Or with jiu-jitsu I could walk up to shake its hand, then flip it over my hip, then stand back in a menacing pose, a threatening look of scorn on my face, and watch it crawl scared out the North door. Evil cometh from the North, and to the North it must return!

But in the absence of the martial arts, those skills, and in the absence of good old fashioned American weaponry, I need to rely on my wits. My wits might get the job done, although I'm sure they're not as honed as they could be either. I'm a little soft. But if I ever get out of here alive I need to do something about that. Like check out the self-help books at the mall that say You've got the power in you, etc. Hmm, that's an idea. I think they do have books that say that, You've got the power in you. And if those books are true at all, then it stands to reason that I've got the power in me right now, even without reading them. Somehow I've known all along that I've got the power in me or I wouldn't know about the books, so why would I now need page after page of explaining what I've already got? We shall see!

I'm looking over at the big lug. He's a creature who exists in several rooms at once, being stretched out and amorphously crawling or inching out here and there, depending on where his consciousness decrees his particular parts should be. What I'm seeing just there in the corner seems to be in a state of slumber, getting his mental refreshment. But that doesn't mean that the part of him in the kitchen would necessarily be sleeping; in fact I think I just heard some gargling from the kitchen area and I know Grandma's in her room asleep.

My big idea is to ignore him into shrinking, then when he's shrunken to the point of being manageable, hope that I see the weapons -- my sacred swords among them -- so that I can hack what remains to little bits. I don't know what might happen after that. I might find a little tail and fling him in the road like a dead mouse.

The whole job of ignoring is starting ... right NOW ... then it will go step by step until the job is done ...

Wait a second. Someone should say something historic, like me. I need to say something like with the moon landing ... Let me work something up:

"I'm writing this today as a person with an unusual problem. I took a hiatus from many of my responsibilities. But somehow it appears to have become a living creature, who now is holding me captive, having taken over my life and house. My grandmother's life is also in danger. I am going to try my level best, relying not on weapons but my wits, to kill the monster. I may not live, but it is my intention, of course, which should go without saying, that I want to live and I want it to die. We shall see what happens. To God be the glory."

OK, I said that ... then crossed myself in a very ritualistic way, bowing to the three good directions, East, West, and South.

Ignoring Or Nurturing A Hiatus

To ignore something in the proper way means withholding from it the attention it craves. With the goal being to ignore it and hope it goes away. That's what I do with tornado warnings and I haven't been hit yet.

Withholding life support and heroic measures from a dying person -- perhaps your mother, father, brother, sister, or grandparent -- is a form of ignoring them. It's not that you don't appreciate all the good times in life you've shared, all the laughs you've had together together, but to prolong their life at this critical juncture, right when your insurance has run out, would be devastating to all. And unless you're a seriously committed Republican or with Al Qaeda or some other dysfunctional ideological cell group, you hate human suffering.

I guess we all know about ignoring and nurturing things. But it's not always true that ignoring something makes it go away. Like, just looking around the room here, if you ignore dust bunnies they don't go away; they get bigger and become full grown dust rabbits, and you know how rabbits multiply. If you ignore mold or toilet bacteria it doesn't go away either. With mold, it eats through boxes, walls, bread, oranges. And of course with toilet bacteria, if it gets too thick in there, pretty soon they're throwing up grappling hooks and catching hold of you, and next thing you know you're stuffing your pants with Sani Flush pads.

I'm actually trying to think of some good examples of things that go away when they're ignored. Maybe I need to rethink this. If you ignore the cat it just gets hungrier and won't let you have any peace. If you ignore the dog you have puddles and poop everywhere. If you ignore your mail it piles up. If you ignore basic hygiene you stink. If you ignore maintaining your car it breaks down and ends up as parts for someone who doesn't.

Dogs, cats, mail, the car ... these are the concrete things of your everyday life and they need tended to. But those things don't apply to my hiatus. The best I can say is hiatuses are different. They better be because ignoring it is what I'm going to do!

My hiatus has become a big bloated unwelcome oafish leech, trading off my good name and living off the fat of someone else's land. It's lounging around the house like it owns the place. At first it was slithering, inching along, very lethargic, like a house guest reticent to make itself too comfortable at someone else's expense. But with constant attention and being in the spotlight for so long, now it's strutting proudly from room to room, comfortable like Hugh Hefner. And I'm seething every time I see it, with every little annoying movement accentuated.

I would love to take the biggest butcher knife I could hold and hack it to bits. Then I'd drill right to its rotten core, if there is one, and take its life force, its consciousness, its center, and do something with it. What? I don't know. It'd be cool to keep it in a dish, hooked up to wires like "The Brain That Wouldn't Die." And to make sure it was plexiglassed in so it couldn't escape back to the wild, with minimal airholes. Then I could sit and fire up a few electrodes and watch it dance to my tune for a change.

But like I said, at this point I don't have access to butcher knives or any sharp objects. They've all been confiscated and hidden. He's well aware of much of what's going on, but not this scheme I've got to shrink him by ignoring him. So it has a good chance of working. Then when I get him shrunk down to a manageable size, maybe I'll be able to snuff out his life, or put him on life support and moisten his lips like once a month. If he dies, I could be like one of those boolah boolah witchdoctors and have a shrunken hiatus on my wall.

A Real Hiatus?

I may be writing this or I may not be.

When it occurred to me yesterday that perhaps my hiatus isn't real, that opened the floodgates and I've been questioning everything.

The whole thing with the olfactory hallucinations ought to have been a warning all along. If I'm smelling things that aren't there -- that the people around claim they don't smell -- how do I know that the things I see are really there? For that matter, how do I know the people around are really there and aren't just an illusion?

Perhaps you can see the quandary here. I can look up and see an enormous reddish pink blob in my house, stretched throughout the house, breathing, heaving, blocking entrances, even making midnight raids on the refrigerator. But it doesn't make any sense that such a thing would be real, and that it could be identified as my hiatus. A hiatus doesn't have personal qualities, presence. A hiatus doesn't eat that late at night.

But it doesn't stop there. If that's not real, where does it stop? Is Grandma real? Is she a 104-year-old woman, alive in 2009? Or could she have died, say, in 1973? Is this house really here? Do I type a blog on the computer in actual fact? Do I have a game toe? Are The Three Stooges still alive? Are they just now transitioning to Shemp? In that case I haven't yet been born.

It seems I have more questions than answers. Just like when I took tests in school.

It brings up the whole thing about reality. Does it even matter what reality really is? Since I could just cozy into this particular scene -- if I can get rid of the blob -- and live. Why not? Who's going to tell me I can't?

Let's say Grandma isn't in her room right this second sleeping late. It doesn't make any difference really. It looks like she's in there to me and that's what counts. And this house, it seems real enough, at least enough that I haven't worried about it before. So nothing's really changed.

So the answer seems to be that there's no answer and that's OK. The blob I see is my hiatus. I still can kill it by ignoring it. That's a good plan, as good as any at this point. That is what I will do.

The whole idea, though, isn't so easily dismissed. If none of this is real -- this house, Grandma, my life as it appears -- then what really is my situation in life? Maybe I'm an inmate in a state hospital, holding the bars, then erupting and being shocked back into submission. I don't know. Could be.

How To Kill A Hiatus

First, let me say I'm not a natural born killer. I don't like killing but am a strong believer in the doctrine Kill or Be Killed. So if a guy is coming at me with a knife, and my precious life is in mortal danger, then his precious life is in mortal danger. I'd rather be a lover than a fighter. Just don't bring a knife. Which goes double for Garrett Al.

I don't like killing animals. If people leave carp out of the water after catching them, it bugs me. I don't go hunting anymore just because I don't want a bunch of baby squirrels up in the nest wondering what's keeping Mom with dinner. I do eat animals -- slices of them, chops, steaks, legs, wings, filets, fish sticks, baby back ribs -- for dinner myself, but they're all pre-killed before they get to the grocery store. They've got a guy who does that in the factory. Black tights, no shirt, hairy back, black hood, medieval axe. Very mean.

But I've been scheming in the last few weeks how to kill my hiatus. Maybe it's not even here. Let me explain. I see it but maybe it's not literally here.* But like I've said several times, what I see is a huge blob filling my house, who has hidden my swords, knives, battle axes, even an old compass from the junk drawer. Grandpa's old guns are also missing. The only thing in the gun case is some pink blob slime.

The blob himself is constantly here, who is a lazy layabout who likes to eat and drink. Everywhere you go he's there looking at you with little holes that seem like eyes. He blocks the door, he's always underfoot. Like right now, my hand is resting on a mouse pad that's about three inches thicker than usual and breathing.

I'm sure he could read this, but nothing is hindering me so maybe he's just giving me enough rope to hang myself. Or maybe he wants to know my plans. Or maybe he's not paying attention. He seems to be roused more by body language. Like if I raise my hand apparently in anger or make a loud noise, that's when he's spooked. Even when it's accidental. We had some breeze. I pushed the door shut and the breeze caught it and it slammed. In an instant the hiatus had me pinned against the wall, a meaty tentacle against my neck so I couldn't breathe. At least I knew enough not to fight back. Just relax like a 'possum.

And that's what I'm thinking will be the key to killing him. Relax. Don't do anything. Ignore him. Which is ironic, because just like you fight fire with fire, it takes a hiatus to kill a hiatus. Whatever you're doing feeds him. So do nothing, ignore him, relax and take a load off, and he might just die. Then with the new little hiatus you're taking, kill it while it's still in the crib.

As to the benefits of ignoring things, I used to hear it a million times, Instead of going to the doctor, "ignore it and it'll go away." And I've tested it and it's pretty much true. You can see it with common everyday things. If you ignore food it goes bad. Put it in the refrigerator and forget it. It won't be the same when you get back. It's like it's too depressed to go so it just curls up and rots. This even happened with the toothpaste a couple weeks ago. It ended up in a drawer. Then about six months later we ran out of toothpaste. I thought I'd use the one I saw in the drawer. But when I tried to, the toothpaste inside had literally dried up and hardened. Which means ignoring something makes a difference. And who hasn't noticed that air leaves tires when they're ignored, like on on your bike in the winter?

I might just try it. He'll be starved for attention. But this could be a disaster. He might see my plans and thwart me. Then whatever little hiatus I'm taking as a means of killing the bigger guy, he would grow to the point that the world was overrun by my inbreeding hiatuses. Vicious cycle and nasty thought. Somewhere under there are hiatus genitals. I better take another look at this mouse pad.

*Now, one other thing. I said above that maybe my hiatus is not literally here. That's true. It could be a hallucination. Like the olfactory hallucinations I get, smelling things that others don't smell. But I'm still thinking I might be able to kill it by ignoring it, maybe even more easily if it's not even here to begin with. And there'll be a rich payoff, because either way he'll be gone.

This Pouty Red-Lipped Hiatus

Ahh, the glories of morning with dew on the grass, when your thoughts are at their clearest and great ideas are low hanging fruit. You know, I really could change the world for the better and they would erect big statues to me, which I wouldn't really want (maybe just one, in the park near my home). "Local Man Changes World For Better." That's a nice headline.

I said I wouldn't really want statues to me and that's true. That would conflict with my conviction that glory is useless. I'm not really seeking glory through statues, being Grand Marshall of the parade, special newspaper editions, commemorative coins or plates, laminated bookmarks with my more famous quotations, a movie of the week, or even a wooden historical marker and tiny driveway offset from the road for sightseers.

What would I do then? I'd have to comb my hair every morning before stepping out with a mouse from the trap to fling it in the road. I'd need to side the house and spruce up the place. Because appearances can be deceiving. How can someone who changed the world live in such an ordinary looking house? Just because Abraham Lincoln came from squalor and did so well doesn't mean the rest of us can expect the same luxury.

I'd have families out there with their Instamatics -- Mom, Dad, their twin boys, and their slightly older daughter, of age but still not quite out of the house, Vanessa, who didn't even want to get out of the car to see another idiotic landmark but had to. She stands about 5 foot 4, cute strawberry blonde hair pulled back, breezy top, blue jean shorts, black boots up to her shins, pouty red lips, and she refuses to turn off her transistor radio. I'm standing on the north porch, ostensibly knocking down cobwebs with my broom but in truth I'm transfixed at the sight. Everything about my eyes goes gauzy and it's not just the cobwebs in my face. I can see us frolicking in a field, like the picture on the first Morning Dew album. I'm celebrating her existence by singing "Strawberry Girl" by Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart.

Vanessa looks up at me. Our eyes meet for the first time, and it's like we're suddenly in a beautiful garden, with Donovan behind us there in the weeds, gently strumming his guitar and singing "Wear Your Love Like Heaven." Eventually we marry, the twins go to school, Mom gets a job at Mode-a-Day, Dad becomes our handyman, Donovan stays, marries Grandma and becomes my step-grandfather. We live off his royalties, Mom's dress shop pay, and my disability checks (I have a game toe). Vanessa and I can barely leave our honeymoon citadel. In honor of the 40th anniversary of Apollo 11, I might say, the first time anyway, "Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed."

But, setting all that aside, I can't act on any of my great ideas to change the world -- for one big stupid reason, I'm on hiatus. I've got time off, time to kill, and that's my lot in life. But, you know, there's something else I just might kill, and that's my hiatus itself. It's stunting me, drying up all my moss. It's got me surrounded, hemmed in on every side. I'm not its master but its victim! I gave it life ... and now I'm afraid it's up to me to take its life away.

But how? My weapons it's hidden. Knives, swords, clubs, guns, my complete arsenal. The hiatus -- in its blob form -- has enveloped my weapons, knowing my plans. (It seems I have at least one reader.) The only deadly weapon in the house is the rolling pin, and it's doubtful that could do much damage to a shapeshifting blob. It'd be like striking a beanbag chair. Or a sponge, which would only spring back spongier than before.

I do have one idea that I think could very well get the job done. But I need the day to think it over. My first thought is that it just might work!

Resting In My Hiatus

Today is a day just to stretch out ... Ahhhh .... and rest ... and let the world go by, to take my hiatus, maybe feed and groom it, and be happy.

Wow, what a wild ride's it's been. I remember the day I said "I'm going on hiatus," I trembled a little with fear and felt a cold chill, not knowing if it'd be right and proper or good. But I pressed ahead anyway -- raising quite a stink at the beginning -- and I've been through a lot since then.

I'm smiling now as I look back on all of it. Of course at that time I was full of questions, wondering what would happen. Would I be happy? It's nice to go back and leaf through my many hiatus posts to remind myself of where I've been. Perhaps therein are clues for where I'm headed. There were some downer moments, to be sure, but for the most part ... I've been happy. I was very unhappy that the "friends" and "followers" of the blog abandoned me, but you know what they say in the blog business ... Good riddance.

I know I agonized quite a bit over it, and that wasn't always a happy thing. But now's not the time for regrets, just forget it. And think of the good times, there've been a few, like the great rest I've had, the ability to stretch back and let the world spin past me.

My hiatus itself is stretched out right here and seems to be in a mellow mood. His big blob body for the most part fills three rooms now, with his gut sucked in or stretched at doorways so we can still get around the house. He's of course a big breathing, seething mass, with some air vents that give off a sweet, cool breeze. In one room I've got some wet shirts and towels draped around being dried. And we're saving money on air conditioning.

As I sit here at the computer, I can feel his cool, clammy, gummy mass pressed up against my legs. It's kind of nice, like a security blanket. I'm not alone. I can reach my hand down and then reach out as far as I can stretch, and it's naked hiatus tissue all the way. The undulating, heaving motions are very comforting. But they're also a reminder to me, I need to refill his water dishes or he'll be hogging the toilet all day.

He needs several dishes, because just about anywhere you go it seems one of his mouths is nearby, or what appears to be mouths. I found this out when I had food on a tray, thinking his mouth was in the kitchen sucking in snacks. But right here I'd notice movement toward me, like he was asking for handouts. So I'd set a piece on his skin, or blubber, or whatever you want to call it -- it's like Silly Putty with a sheen -- and his mass would enfold the food and soon it'd disappear. It's a very lazy style of eating, just quietly sucking it through your skin.

I have to confess, there are times when I feel uncomfortable with such a weird thing stretched out all around the house. But we're getting by. Grandma's in bed half the time anyway, so it's not like we need the space. And she doesn't seem to mind the big jelly creature encroaching on her space, part of him crawled up on her bed. It gives her a cool place to rest her head or cushion her arms.

Right now I'm writing this about half the speed as normal. Because I'm typing in a very lazy mood, and using some of the time between phrases to rest grapes on his outer form. It's fun to watch them disappear. I'm going to try that myself -- hang on -- let me get my pants down -- OK -- I'm putting a grape on my leg -- so far it's just setting there doing nothing -- need to be patient -- concentrate on my leg -- open sesame! Nothing so far, no progress, nada -- What's this? A glob of my hiatus is slowly reaching over and touching it ... and there goes the grape, whether into him or me I don't know -- it looks like it went into him because I don't feel any fuller. And my leg isn't tasting anything. So I'll just pull up my pants again -- and eat a few grapes the old fashioned way, the only way I know how, in my mouth.

There's some good discoveries going on here. My leg's already plump enough, so it doesn't matter if it eats. But I won't be giving up. If the blob can do it, why can't I? He's a fascinating creature and I could learn so much. More's the pity that eventually I have to kill him.

Tree Top Hiatus

The idea I had yesterday for a tree house theme was very exciting. I thought of it in depth through the morning, and then after a while the mania wore off and I was back to normal.

Those are interesting times, when you feel like you need a recorder to get down every detail, because it's wild. I was thinking, What is that primal tree? Yggdrasil? Something like that. That is one weird looking word, assuming that's close enough to the spelling. Looks like something Frank Zappa might name a kid.

What exactly Yggdrasil is I'm not sure. But something in my mind tells me it's like everything else in life, in mythology, just another way of representing what's inside us. That's always the short answer. Put that as the answer and you'll never be too far off.

So the great concept of yesterday, which hasn't carried over to today, to tell the truth (nothing's quite as expansive as yesterday, since it's all lightning in a bottle anyway, tough to capture at will), zeroed in on that. And it was just a tossed off idea.

Anyway, the idea became, as yesterday morning went on, that my hiatus would not formally end but would be transsimplified (or transimplicated) into or with the tree house theme. This would serve a couple very useful purposes. 1) That my hiatus would for all practical purposes end; 2) That I would not be psychologically injured when it was suddenly gone. Because I really am invested in it, even identified with it. If you see a forlorn guy on the square with a button that pleads, "Ask Me About My Hiatus," that's me. By this time next week it might say "Ask Me About My Tree."

Oh, what I could do with this! Only time will tell, but my mind is racing so far ahead I'm going to need bloodhounds to find it later. The only thing more cosmic than a tree is an egg, and of course I like both. If I'm up in a tree house, wow!

Getting My Hiatus Groove On

Preamble: OK, may I write this now in peace? I've had a comedy of errors thing going on with a piece of paper that fell into my keyboard. It was tiny and stuck there between a couple of the keys. Everything I tried to get it out with, it kept going lower and lower. I used a pen, a toothpick, nothing would work. I flipped it over and gravity wasn't even any help. And I was thinking, we don't have any force more reliable than gravity. Day and night gravity's at work, and you never have to change the batteries or plug it in. So gravity's usually better than a cellphone, let's say, but in this case gravity isn't working and my cellphone's fully charged.

Then I had to jump up to change a record I was recording. Plus, it's breakfast, and my fingers are greasy from leftover pizza. Need to wipe them off. Then the first two or three attempts at typing my "y" key appeared not to work, or maybe I was missing it. If this is what my day is going to consist of today, I might just go back to bed and tell anyone who asks, Grandma, that I'm sick.

Body: I know I've been talking about ending my hiatus, and I know I will one of these days. I'm going to stick the knife in and turn it. Actually I'm going to be a lot more violent than that. I'm going to stick the knife in. I might do it like a bullfight, where I have a lot of little darts with tail feathers on them. I'm going to bury about 10 swords in it all the way to the hilt. I'm going to collect its blood in about 10 cups. I'm going to batter it about the head with about 10 clubs. And I'm going to make it see about 10 stars over its head. Who am I?

My hiatus has made itself at home around the house. Like I said the other day it has reached the proportions of the Blob, from the old movie. It's so big and so amorphous, I'm thinking that when I bury the 10 swords they might indeed be buried. His gastric juices might dissolve them and all that will come out in the end is some gummy metallic waste. To kill a thing like that that possibly can't be killed will be a challenge.

But today I'm not that concerned with killing it. Today I'm thinking it's all not so bad. Why should I worry about it? It's time off. It's companionship. It's a reason to get up in the morning? To see what it's doing and what might be next for me. Yes, I know I'm stagnating, that life is passing me by. And that continuing on with my hiatus like this is only depriving me of the better things of life. Now I know what Hugh Hefner feels like everyday, only I can't afford a bevy to take my mind off my suffering.

But, hey, this is something, isn't it? I'm sitting here, now that I've got my keyboard situation straightened out, clacking away. This is something. No one can deny it that my hiatus has brought its own groove. In a roundabout way it's been fulfilling, fulfilling with a twist. Anything I need to say -- it's just like that Kindergarten guy who learned everything he needed to know in Kindergarten, so was able to drop out in first grade and actually get a diploma -- I can say by relating it to my hiatus.

It was just theoretical. I used to think this. That I could take anything. Anything. Name something. Living in a tree house. I could take the concept of living in a tree house and relate everything in life to it. I could have a whole blog based on me living in a tree house. So the tree house is your center. There's vital things coming up to you, vital things coming down to you, and obviously you have the surroundings. Now that I think of it that's almost too easy. It'd be easier than relating everything to your hiatus, which itself is quite easy.

Let's think of that Kindergarten guy again. He did it and made a lot of money in the process, which, since Kindergarten was his whole thing, they say, he promptly spent on candy, crayons, and all the playhouses he wanted. He wrote his book in record time, which was quite an achievement, since his bedtime was 7 o'clock and he spent all morning working on phonics. But let's think of him. He could relate everything in life to his stunted growth as a Kindergartner. I don't begrudge him his fetish. He was very successful with it. But I've always felt a little sorry for him in spite of the success, because there are some great things in the other grades that he missed out on. Like the train ride they take you on in 2nd grade.

So, it can be done. I didn't do a tree house thing or a school grade thing. I went on hiatus. And that's been enough to keep me busy. I've been inspired. Like today. I've got my groove on. I'm feeling my writer oats. I'm cutting the linguistic mustard.

I will be ending the hiatus -- and I keep thinking it's going to be sooner rather than later. Again, I'm looking for an auspicious day. I don't want it to drag on forever, and it won't. I definitely don't want to use it for a crutch, like I don't have anything to say outside this one thing. Because I believe I do.

A Hiatus For All Seasons

I've always been a fan of the seasons. There are four, of course, as is familiar to all, and they are called Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter. So far, so good...

When Spring is here we know it's time to fall in love. "Birds do it, bees do it," and so do we. Spring is when we howl at the moon every time something in a short skirt breezes by, or for the ladies, something in a skimpy pair of underpants. I believe nature's technical word for it is fecundation.

Summer follows Spring and is also a time to fall in love, if you missed your chance in Spring. In Summer we climb the walls and make wolf calls every time something in a tight little bikini and saucy tan struts by, or, again, for the ladies, something in a skimpy pair of swim trunks.

Then there's Fall and Winter and they're not much good for anything. It's hard to fall in love in Fall or Winter, unless your hormones are wacky. But the seasons are what they are and there's no getting away from it.

One thing I've always thought was cool is to use the seasons as metaphors for the other aspects of life. Hear me out. Let's say Spring is like your childhood and teen years, Summer your young adult years (up to 39), Fall the mid adult years, and Winter your golden years, or, as it is with Grandma, last call.

So, thinking like that, we could say, I'm still in the late Summer of my years. Or, like in my actual case, I'm in the Fall of my life but sometimes it still seems like Summer. I actually believe I'm still not too old to cut the mustard if the opportunity were to present itself and could enjoy the sight of, hypothetically speaking, something saucy in a tight bikini. But I'm in the Fall years. True, but I'm not in the Winter years.

I'm wondering what the Winter years will be like. Already I know the Fall years are a time of some dropping off, some interest is waning. If you ever see Cialis ads on TV, look closely. You'll see most of the guys with this problem are in their Fall years. But one day I saw one who seemed closer to his Winter years, and I thought, You old goat! I'm thinking the Winter years will be a time to focus on the issues of morality, such as saying your prayers with more diligence. Not worrying about bikinis. Hope I'm wrong.

Well, I was thinking of the seasons in relation to my hiatus. The seasons relate to everything! A few months ago was the Spring, when I was bucking free like a baby lamb, feeling my oats and enjoying a bowl or two. Then came Summer, a great time to stretch out and feel the full sunshine of my time off. But quickly followed Fall, a cautionary time, still a time to try for happiness even if it means taking medicine. And now, it seems, I'm into the Winter, a time for prayers and diligence. I'm second guessing even what it's all about, what I'm here for, whether any of it was worth it. And thinking, to recapture the youthfulness of Spring I'm going to have to terminate the hiatus.

That's a great way to look at it. It's not that I personally am done for, even though I definitely am in my Fall years. But I can revivify myself mentally by bailing out on this Wintry hiatus, and change it all back to Spring and get into some halfway decent mental fecundation. I have a few spry cells left in my hiatus-addled brain. How could I imagine it if I didn't? I can see before me many many Spring-like days to come!

No More Flack On My Hiatus

I started my hiatus in an instant. I said, "I am going on hiatus," and it was done. I quit everything just like that and found myself with lots of time off. And people really noticed at first. I got a lot of flack, incoming flack lobbed at me by those who thought they knew better.

But my memories aren't that great to remember who everyone was and all they did. I didn't write it down, except maybe on bits of paper that have since been swept up and thrown away. All I have is the memory of a few of the people from the blog's real life visits showing up and giving me flack.

The worst flack of all, I clearly remember, came from Garrett Al. And I remember this best, of course, because his frustration with me came with a serious erotic component. Garrett Al is a very vile person, not ashamed to put his needs out there and to insist on his own way with someone he thinks could be his partner. Weapons were brandished, he gave me some flack, and the short version is the police showed up and took him away. As far as I know he slept that night on a metal cot with very tight mesh, very tight. Whether the other prisoners gave him any flack, I don't know, but he would've enjoyed it.

They always say that other prisoners keep track of what you're in for. And whereas they don't seem to have any scruples when they're out in society -- without conscience they engage in heinous crimes -- in prison these same individuals become very conscientious. Each crime is ranked as something they approve of, tolerate, barely tolerate, can't tolerate, or strongly disapprove of. They obviously approve of murder because that's the penalty they deal for any crime that's barely tolerable or below. They won't take flack from anyone. They're very censorious. They've always got their sensors in the air, listening for any gossip or appraisal of someone else's crime. Then they swoop in to exact the murderous penalty.

We've all heard some of this. Anyone who kidnaps a child, they say prisoners hate that. So you're dead. Anyone who abuses a child, they hate that. Really, anything that involves children, prisoners have a very soft spot in their heart for kids. Either they're very sentimental, which I doubt, or they're just looking for a good excuse to kill people, more likely, because they know society will not look unfavorably on them for killing a child molester. The prisoner's reasoning is maybe he can get an early release, which indeed does usually happen.

The way I've heard it is in prison the average guard just winks and looks the other way. Then you've got this child molester being pummeled behind him as he flips through the latest issue of "Guard Life," reading the cover article on "What's Going On When Your Back's Turned -- You Don't Wanna Know." The officials don't give him any flack. Everyone knows the score.

Now, what prisoners at the county jail think of a guy like Garrett Al, in the clink for lascivious liberties with an unwilling adult male and his grandmother, I don't 100% know. Probably the added bonus of Grandma suffering his thrusting advances would add to my case. That's barely tolerable for even me to think about. But I'd rather not settle the score on my own. I'll leave it to the police to rough him up. I turned my back so there wouldn't be any witnesses, plus I also don't wanna know. Anyway, I needed to get Grandma back to her room, whether she wanted to go or not. She gave me a little flack, but some warm apricot juice got her back to sleep.

But those days are past. And the hiatus at the heart of it goes on. However, and this is something I announced yesterday, I'm hoping to end it very soon and get back to work. But when to end it, that's something that's undecided. Maybe after the 100th day. That could be a significant marker, and I need to figure out when that is so I don't overshoot it, assuming I haven't already. I've put up with a lot of flack, that's for sure. And I don't need any more now.

A Fitting Hiatus

My hiatus is continuing on, at least technically, until I can think of some way to bring it to a fitting conclusion. Just to end it abruptly like biting off a piece of licorice is not my style.

But I'm roused to the idea that the end needs to be very soon. I'm well rested and, I believe stoked to what the future may hold. At this point it's just a matter of thinking of a fitting time, some significant day, to pull the plug or stick in the knife and going about it in the safest way.

I'm trying to think back if I started my hiatus in a fitting way. Probably not. I was just overworked, stressed, and feeling put upon -- and I cried out, "I'm going on hiatus." It happened just like that. With not much malice aforethought. Then certain things about it took over. It made itself at home.

As we went on, it really came to life. At first I celebrated it, relished it, and I even fought for it. We had plenty of good times. But a few times, as I recall, we had some real difficulties, and our relationship alternated between wrestling and rasslin'. I wanted to wrestle with it, but it wanted to rassle with me. Then vice versa, which is only fitting. We had a hard time knowing who would be top dog, knowing that no one can be top dog forever. I remember taking a few two-by-fours to its head, and, yes, I took a shiv to the gut more than once! That's what rasslin' is all about.

Having all that time off really did something for my day. I was able to fit in all kinds of new and clever ways of killing time. I got some sleep. I took leisurely walks. I was up in my citadel looking out over a very tiny world. I saw a lot of former "friends" and "followers" from there, all about the size of ants, very fitting.

Then there were times when the whole thing seemed like a bad fit, like when I was stewing to get something done but my hiatus was always in my face insisting on its own way. I can confess it now, there were a couple times I left the light on in my citadel and sneaked out the back way, creeping noiselessly past my hiatus as it kept watch there as a vigilant sentry. What did I do on these outings? I went and did some work and got a few things done, frankly, but then inevitably I'd feel guilty, creep back past the sentry and back up to the citadel. Then I'd come down as thought nothing had happened.

For the most part all the pieces fit into place. We've lived together, shared together, fought together, and grown together. But, as so often happens, what was once a cute, newborn pet, became an unmanageable behemoth. And that's when you just need to step up and put it to sleep -- kill it -- if you dare. I'm typing this with my hiatus surrounding me in this room like a blob. There's barely room to fit me in. Part of it's snoring in the corner behind me and another part's in the other room taking a leak. A couple more weeks of growth like this and it'll simultaneously be outside flying a kite and inside working on its stamp collection.

Outwardly I chuckle. If I don't kill it it'll die soon anyway. Pituitary problems, heart disease, hiatal hernia. But inwardly I'm seething, having fits while I wait. If I took a knife to it, I might escape with one arm intact, I don't know. Joshua fit the battle of Jericho, of course. But this final battle with my hiatus might not be so easy.

It's somehow strangely fitting that I would be overrun by it. I asked for it. But how can I overcome it? I taught it everything I know about both wrestling and rasslin'.

This Clamorous Hiatus

I've got some things on my mind and I need to get them out as fast as possible. So often, perhaps you know how it is, you feel like you have something to say but then you stammer for the right words. Or you feel like you're an empty slate and words are stymied for a whole other reason.

I think of this in terms of a foreigner, who's able to speak his language 100 mph, but what he's saying I don't know. Then he gets to listen to me speak English, again, 100 mph, and he has no idea what I'm saying. The point being we have a lot to say, and the words we use to say it with are there whether we can think of them at the moment or not.

There'll be no unnecessary pausing today in what I have to say, no searching for the right word, no second guessing, no doubtful judgments; my friends, I'm going to spit it out and it shall remain spat!

The simple fact of the matter is that my hiatus is clamoring to cease. I'm feeling all the commotion, all the uncomfortable, persistent rancor that transpires in a head when my inmost thoughts are engaging in conflict with other more public aspects of my consciousness. It's like a battle royale, but more on that later.

It's funny, really, how I have insisted on this hiatus. Right from the start I was insistent and said "I am going on hiatus." That led to the whole tussle, which started out as horseplay but escalated into this battle royale, between myself and my so-called friends and followers. Even my family got in on the act, although I've been strict not to drag my family into the more public laying out of the conflict or situation. But the more they dug at me, picked, and scorned, the more I felt I was justified and right to not only take the hiatus but to rub their faces in it.

Much of the conflict has been well-documented, and it would've made a great book or newspaper article had investigative journalists found themselves at the scene. I have put forth my own side of the struggle, including some insinuations about the various individuals doing the majority of the picking. One, Garrett Al, was mentioned by name several times, much to his chagrin and at great cost, I'm assuming, to his reputation among both female and male acquaintances and possible partners.

Everything came to a clamorous head, then it all trailed off, and I have been left very much alone. No one outside my door, visitors to my blog have departed. Friends and family, even those I knew quite outside the purview of this blog and controversy, have sensed the spirit of estrangement even without knowing the particulars, and have kept to themselves. Even Grandma I've had to coax to the dinner table a time or two, but the promise of apricots and a nicely executed tickle under her chin usually brings her around.

All that said, and now that no one is clamoring for my hiatus to end, my own thoughts, engaged as I said in a battle royale, are clamoring for it. And these I must listen to! I'll repeat that, I must!

A battle royale is what? I could look it up. But I'm thinking it's a battle like Armageddon, it's so royal that it's royale. I don't know what that means exactly, but I'm thinking it means you bring out the good truncheons, for sure. Like the good china at Thanksgiving. The deadliest numchucks, nuclear cannons, the gnarliest battle axes you can muster, gold chains wrapped around your fist, and every spear's point whetted so sharp that it can only been seen under a microscope. And no one gets a tetanus shot before or after.

It's like the difference between wrestling and rasslin.' Wrestling is a battle for points. In rasslin' the point is to battle. In wrestling you take down your opponent, in rasslin' you take him out. In wrestling, you amble away under your own power. With rasslin' the ambulance has the power. And so on. Wrestling is executing quick moves. Rasslin' is executing your victim. In wrestling the ref's polite tap breaks all holds. But with rasslin' the jaws of life fails.

I don't know when it's going to happen, but this clamorous hiatus has to end soon. I'm hoping it'll be sooner rather than later. The day has to be auspicious. I must win this battle royale!

The Hiatus Life

I've been giving a lot of thought recently to my mortality. There's been some long livers in my family, like Grandma still going strong at 104. But there's been some short livers, too, shorter than that. Like Grandpa, who was only around 80, who went peacefully in his sleep, or maybe he was cracking hickory nuts at the kitchen table, I don't remember. And I'm sure we've had some, like one of my great uncles in Chicago, who was killed by a jealous husband when he was in his '40s. You just never know.

When I'm thinking about this, it makes me feel like having all the time off I can. And that's part of the reason being on hiatus is so important to me. Because I could be working like a dog and suddenly keel over. And that's no good. The only good thing about work is that they pay you for it. But then you spend the money to buy work shoes so you can go back to work. So it's a vicious cycle. And the place you work for, they don't care about you anyway. If you get mangled up in a punch press, they put you in a car and roll you over a cliff, then coerce the other employees to keep silent "Or you'll be next."

If you told one of the people working there they only had two months to live, they'd thank you, immediately quit, and really live. But the thing to do is quit now and really live. Why work just so you can afford work shoes? Stay home. Go barefoot. Live it up. Time is shorter than you think. Quit, and if you can't think of what to do then, just sit and stew and enjoy yourself.

As for me, I don't know when my time's up. But it's coming. Everyone's time is coming. It's as sure as having a number. When your number's up... I've heard people say that, how it's not in your hands. We don't know when. And nothing we can do will speed it up or slow it down.

If your number's not up you could play on the interstate, frolic out there in the middle of the night in a black suit, camp, sleep, whatever, you're not going to die. But if your number is up, you could be living in your doctor's guest room and it wouldn't do any good. (The fact that most people who play, frolic, and camp on the interstate do indeed die only proves that their number was up. So it could be that you can have some knowledge of when your number's up, in that if you do extremely dangerous, stupid stuff like that, your number is getting close.)

I don't know when my number will be up, but I don't think it's all that close. I have a good self image, I'm optimistic, and I don't engage in a lot of exercise that only saps your strength. I made a great choice going on hiatus. It's calmed my nerves to the point that I'm only a frantic wreck on the average of every other day. Before, it was like half the time.

Think on your own mortality, then guide yourself accordingly. Sometimes in life, like if the doctor tells you that you only have two weeks to live, you have to really pack it in -- life -- before you really pack it in -- death. To think, you're not going to be here. That you'll be stretched out in a metal box on satin cushions, your suit slit up the back and your lips sewn shut. It's almost too much. Someone could make millions with a simple Velcro lip fastener for undertakers.

All of it's something to think about.

The Hiatus Bloom Is Fading

Today I may sound a little wistful, as I feel that I could be lost in my own thoughts, with some regrets about the way my hiatus is going.

When I start comparing my hiatus with others, like I was doing yesterday, that's a thing of pride. Then when that takes hold, it's not long, obviously, before my self identification is wrapped up in a particular aspect of my day to day life, in this case my hiatus. Very dangerous.

Why do we pin our hopes on such fleeting nonsense, externals? I can't be known simply for my hiatus. Someday the newspaper will say, "Local Man On Hiatus Dies." That's ridiculous. So I shouldn't be comparing myself to others and feeling lifted up over them simply because I've taken time off and have made a big deal out of it. Need to get away from that.

Today I'm thinking rationally. Yesterday I was lost in the rarefied mist that encircles my citadel. I was up there looking down on the small, small world. And when you do that, everything up there seems a lot bigger. So much so that my pride got the best of me. When the fact of the matter is very clear, that this hiatus is actually consuming me. I'm going to have to try to break it off. But maybe its hold is already too great.

The bloom is definitely fading. That's flower language. That's language that florists, botanists, gardeners, and undertakers understand. A flower is nature's most fleeting child. That's why you never see a well rested bee. They know if they're not up 24/7 the flower's going to be gone. They have to suck the juice while it's there. Because tomorrow it'll be shriveled like a prune. (Maybe that's why flowers shrivel so fast. The bees are too anxious and are sucking the lives out of them unnecessarily, lest they shrivel. So if we could reeducate bees, maybe flowers would last longer.)

I've been amazed over the years about the lifespan of flowers. It could be, like me, that it has nothing to do with anxious bees. It could simply be the penalty for pride is universal. Who's more prideful than a flower? They've got their bright, gay colors, happy-go-lucky attitude, cock of the walk struttin', talking trash to the weeds to the left and right. They think they're really bad (meaning really good). But then the bees come swooping in, nature's pride police, looking for the proudest flowers, and those they suck dry first. That's why you never see a well rested bee, because there's so many proud flowers to kill.

Or another possibility, and this one could be the best, is that flowers know when to give up a good thing. Unlike me. I get something and I keep it till I'm dust and it'll still be on the shelf. Like my hiatus. I've got it, then it's got me. I tend to it, keep it well preserved, exalt it, parade it around, display it, brag about it, and dis other people who have a lesser hiatus simply to make myself look more important. But not the flowers. The flowers think, "We are beautiful, but we must not glory in our beauty. We must simply be a cog in the great machinery of nature. And if we become exalted, or are tempted toward the same, we must willingly fade and fall, the quicker the better."

If flowers give up their lives like that, to avoid pride, we're back to the anxious bee theory. The bees need that flower juice for their young. So they're sucking like their lives depend on it, because they do! Those would be the largest number of bees. Then there's a few bees -- almost like monk bees -- who have foregone families and providing for families. It is their task in life to suck flowers only to kill them off with mercy. For monk bees know the flowers' plight, being so beautiful, yet eschewing pride. They come swooping in, their monk habits, cowls, and whips trailing after them and making flight extremely difficult. And that's why you never see a well rested monk bee. (But they like it that way.)

Well, nature has its way -- and I have mine. I hope to live and learn, and to know when the bloom has faded and when to give it up. But right now I'm too much in the grasp of something ... my hiatus ... and I can't give up now, faded bloom or not.

The Hiatus Gold Standard

I came down to earth for a few minutes yesterday -- descending from my citadel -- to check things out and make sure I'm still on the same page with the rest of existence. It turned out I was.

While I was down, I decided to look online for a few minutes and check out what kind of internet chatter there was about me being on hiatus. Any comments on the blog. In the few minutes I looked I couldn't find anything. It seems that the big news -- something about Michael Jackson -- was drowning out everything else. That and I believe I read they discovered a new species of tic in the Everglades. When I come in I check my head for tics everyday, so I can't believe I didn't discover this one ... Sometimes my diligent efforts actually pay off ... except I'm not anywhere near the Everglades, which would be key in this particular discovery.

So that's what the chatter was all about.

But in my Googling, in just a few minutes I was stunned to see that other people are also on hiatus. I'm like, What? Can this be happening? Are they mocking me? I looked a little more closely and it didn't seem to be directed toward me. None of the telltale signs of mockery were evident. Such as twisted quotes, parallel themes, or parody graphics. And mockery that's worth the name has to be direct enough that you know what they're mocking. I didn't see any evidence whatsoever that these people had a grudge against me or were poking fun. Further, they weren't fleshing out their efforts, so after a minute's reflection I came to a definite conclusion, that my hiatus and their hiatuses are nothing but a coincidence.

It's their lack of fleshing out what's going on that hit me. These people have to be really really down, really burnt out, really up against the wall as far as being worn out, haggard beyond the abilities of sleep to help them, or something. To just go on hiatus or be on hiatus without really fleshing it out as far as reasons and full explanation is something, as Nixon said when he took his hiatus from the presidency (which turned quickly into permanent retirement), is "abhorrent to every bone in my body," and that includes one or two that should not be mentioned.

Here's what I found:

William said: "I’m just not in the mood anymore to update this blog, so I will put it on hold for the time being. I will not delete it that’s for sure but I don’t know when I’ll be updating it again. It could be tomorrow, it could be next week or next month. Maybe I’ll never update it again. I just don’t feel like blogging right now. Maybe it is because of the heat, maybe it is because I need something else in my life right now. I am quite happy for the moment but still miss something very important, but overall I’m OK. See you all in the near future."

That's very interesting to me. He's not in the mood for updates so he's putting it on hold. Updates could be tomorrow, but since it's possible they could come next month or maybe never, I'm not expecting much tomorrow (which would be today). He says it might be because of the heat or some deeper personal need, although he is "quite happy for the moment." And so forth. That's a fairly detailed explanation, but as far as I'm concerned is still well below par.

Next is an entry from Roland. Roland makes William sound like another William, Shakespeare. He entitled his post simply "Hiatus," then says, "...on hols, little access to computer. More news soon!" I'm looking at that and I see the word "hols," which my mind corrects to "hold," since the D is right next to the S on the keyboard and I don't know any word called "hols." So all Roland is saying is that things are "on hold," that he has "little access to computer," and promises more news soon. Very simple. (I expect better.)

Next is someone who has a fansite for a celebrity named Demi Levato or something like that. I'm quoting this just because I've got it, not that it's an interesting hiatus post. She, I'm thinking, says, "the site is on hiatus it would be back soon. Please click here to enter my new site". Nothing to this post.

Hasslington is also on hiatus, and gives more detail, like William: "It's the summer, I'm back in school (as a student) after losing my teaching job, and I'm in the process of trying to figure out where I go from this point forward. Obviously, attempting to find another job is high on my list of priorities." So we wish Hasslington well, both at finding another job and at learning to write a better hiatus announcement. Although we give good marks for relative detail.

And one other. From Jessica, at deerwomen, which sounds intriguing to a lonely old buck like me, "DeerWomen is currently on hiatus. We are working hard and will come back with an explosion of great articles and lots of divine pieces for you!" Now there's a promise! Their hiatus is nothing long lasting because they're working hard and promising an "explosion" of great articles. They're not settled into the hiatus, which gives hope to the rest of us.

My goal is not to be super critical. Not everyone gives their hiatus the full attention it's due. And I understand that. Everyone has their own thing. Were it not for me being so sensitive to every detail of life, perhaps I too could shortchange my hiatus. But that will not happen. I'm about ready to reascend back to my citadel, to mull over and otherwise tend to my hiatus and its needs. Because what I'm dealing with here is the gold standard of hiatuses.

There's been no other like it -- according to the Googling I've done -- and unless I myself am reincarnated as a four armed typist with two brains I don't believe it will ever be topped.