Homeward

"When are you coming home" the wolf that raised me (otherwise known as my mother) asked me for the hundredth time in a month. I tried to explain, again, that I was speaking to her from my home. Where I live now is my home. The lair that I was born and raised in no longer qualifies as "home" to me. I moved away for a reason, and no amount of mother's guilt (much more plentiful than mother's love) will make it home again. I guess she did not realize that she raised a roaming wolf and not one that was willing to stay in the same territory. I have no desire to go back to the den where I was whelped. I do not wish to here that the paterfamilias is not long for this world. He has been trying to die for three years, and I know that one of these times he will, but each time I have to be guilted by that story makes me feel a little less badly. Not that I wish for him to take his last bow, but his quality of life has to be very close to zero. I am sure he has a different view, and that is part of the problem. Him and I have always had different views on pretty much everything. Also, I have no desire to go home to the rest of the clan either. It seems to be a character trait of my family to think that when I open a book it is an invitation to start a conversation with me. There is a reason I am reading a book it is to attempt to avoid having to talk to anyone in the room. I like to read, it is the ONE thing that my father and I can agree on, of course we read wildly different stuff, but hey it is a start. Another lovely aspect of going "home" is the couch on which I get to sleep. It is not a fun time, so I get very little sleep, and then get to wake up and face the family in a foul mood to begin with. Then comes the meal, my grandmother (who has taken her last bow) could cook VERY well. The she-wolf not so much. I guess I should not complain I cannot cook either, but at least I do not bother to try. Perhaps, the cooking gene skips a generation or maybe two generations. Going "home" is like falling off the edge of the world. My parents have no computer, no internet, barely have cable, and my cell phone does not world there. It is like becoming a political prisoner, all ties with the outside world are cut off, and I am held incommunicado until I scale the wall i.e. get in my car, and make a break for it. I am just not a fan of "home" nor I am giddy over Thanksgiving, though you could never tell it by the looks of me or by the look on my doctor's face after I climb off the scale in her office. The small black thing I call a heart is certainly no longer at the "home" of my family. It is merely an exercise in frustration when I go back, and one day I suppose I should screw my courage up to the sticking point, and explain to the she-wolf that she did, much to her dismay, raise a lone wolf.

Can't Get Right

To steal a song title from one Joe Purdy, I just can't seem to get right today. However, unlike the sad sack bastard in that song, my ability to not "get right" has had an extended run. It seems that weeks have gone by without one thing going right while everything else I touch falls to shit in spectacular fashion. I work in the Domestic Violence Unit of my office, and I get exposed to a lot of people in bad situations, and people who are not the most truthful in the world. That being said, I have still managed to "make" three women cry this week, and it is only Wednesday. The Kleenex company should sign me to a three year contract. A few words from me and volia the tears start to flow like a water hydrant. It is very fun. Like most males I do not deal well with women would cry directly in front of me. It is like they are on fire, I just want to put them out, and make it stop and will do what is necessary to make that happen. Though this is not the only disaster that I have achieved in the last month or so. If I were a scientist I would have given half the population cancer by now. My luck has been that bad. If I were a baseball player I would have struck out every at-bat. I feel as if I could not hit water if I fell out of a boat. It is like I am 7 seconds behind on everything I do. A few degrees left of center, and that makes all the difference. Plans that would normally go smoothly collapse like a house of cards as soon as I become involved. Even if told backwards the last month or so of my life would still be a comedy of errors. The lovely part of it is I see no way through this particular bad patch. It is like the more I struggle the more I become entwined in a web of my own failings. Ships sink, planes fall out of the sky, horses come up lame, wells go dry, crops fail, and it seems that most of it is somehow my fault. If I light a match, somehow the whole bloody house burns down. It is best not to get to close to me because I am not certain that this disaster disease I have is not contagious. Even this post "read" much better in my head than when I wrote it down, and that I think is my cue to draw the curtain, and hope for a change in fortune. I guess it could be worse, it could be raining.

Green

Dear Hugo,

I must say dear fellow, that you once again have proved to be an genius of staggering ability. The rest cure you so gently recommended and foisted upon me has worked absolute WONDERS. I feel almost a new man. Almost, I say because there are still some niggling doubts that the CC shoved me a bit quickly into this cure. However, that is a mere passing thought, and the pills that Dr. Munro give me help the thoughts pass all the more quickly. He is a rather nice chap (for a Scotsman) bit young I suppose, but seems to know his business. If, of course, that business is shoving pills down the throat of a man that is strapped to a bed, and mostly in a daze from whatever pill he gave me last. The good news that everything here is so fucking GREEN, and I am not just talking about the three or four weeds that cling to life outside my window. Whatever possessed this place to paint walls that shade of puke green is beyond me, but I try to remember (like the good doctor told me) that it is a SOOTHING shade, a calming shade that will help me get better. Whatever "better" is exactly I have not been allowed to find out. I do so hope that things are going well with you and yours, and that the CC is running smoothly under your guidance. I also hope that your position in our little "quarrel" may have softened with the passing of time. I now understand your position more clearly (the daily "treatments" have been ever so helpful in that regard). Nothing like a few volts of electricity to sharpen one's focus. They do on occasion allow me out of my room to sit quietly, and not bother anyone else. They even have allowed me to write this letter to you with the promise that they won't "correct" too make of my mistakes in grammar, spelling, etc, etc. Perhaps you will find the time in your overcrowded day to reply. That would be nice, and would give me something to look forward to other than the tasty red jello (my personal favourite) that they give us on Fridays. I hope to hear from you soon. Remember once a member always a member.

Dear Coach

Not too many people will recognize the goofy looking fellow above. He is Lars Lagerback, the coach of Sweden's national football team. Has been sole coach since 2004 after being joint coach (not sure if that means he bought all the "grass" or what) since 2000. Anyhoo, M Lagerback is one of the reasons for this post. After failing miserably at Euro 2008 a lot of those happy go lucky Swedes were calling for his head, saying that his time has "passed." I pondered what exactly that meant. It is a common saying about sports coaches, and until lately I did not realize that it translates to other careers. Recently I have realized what "time has passed" means. It is a bit like bread going stale. Perhaps, there is a use by date on things like being the coach of a national team. A couple of friends (scientists they be) have experienced this phenomenon, one going so far as to make a small change in his career by giving up "bench" science. This has made me ponder if we all experience this problem. After 5 years? 10 years? 15 years? Does our time pass? Have we run out of ideas? Do we have a shelf life? If so, what happens at the end of our time? Most of us can not shuffle off to coach Man City for piles and piles of money. The majority of us are unable to just shrug off the failure of our national team get bounced in the first round of the Euros, and move on to coaching the next team. Coaches are a very limited pool of talent. I, for example, am one lawyer amongst a SEA of people with law degrees. If my "time passes" I can not just simply flit away to the next career or job opening. Who knows there might not BE a new job opening, and what in the bloody hell can a lawyer do except talk to damn much for no purpose? The only other thing have detected that I am good at is fantasy football, and I do not think you can make a living out of doing that full time. How can we avoid this from happening? Stay on the "cutting edge" of our particular career path? Make sure that all the new "technology" does not pass us by? How do we assure the powers that be that we are indispensable? Even now someone, somewhere is probably studying harder, working harder, or sucking up harder that we are in hopes of replacing us. A great deal of us, whether we know it or not, have somebody out there in the wide world who thinks our job is worth having. Certainly being the national coach of Tajikistan does not sound appealing to a majority of us, but somewhere it is some damn fool's dream. Perhaps we can only hope that by the time our "time is up" we have obtained the insight into what our next move might be. Maybe leading the Congo through world cup qualifiers is not such a bad gig after all.

Sorry T.S.

With apologies to Mr. Eliot in advance. It appears that I have been labeled a "hard" man. Now this is not due to my Adonis like physique, or to anything to do with stuff below my "Naval" academy. No, I am so labeled because I am "stubborn" and "set in my ways." We hard men do not like to be wrong, we do not like to sell out our principles for any price. We are not the sorrowful men who say "I am so sorry" when we cross swords with you. There is little "give" in us. Don't get me wrong, "hard" does not mean unreasonable, or inflexible. It means that we expect a lot of ourselves, of our friends, of every man, woman, and child that we come across. We do our job/duty, and we expect other people to do the same. We have serious issues with customer service on a regular basis. We have high hopes for people, and usually they consistently disappoint us. We have simple requirements, handle your business in a competent manner, don't make any sudden moves, and everything is all good. You would be surprised at the number of people who fall at the first hurdle, it makes the Grand National look like a stroll in the park. We look at the "final four" of the American political system, and despair for the country of our birth. Luckily, patriotism has never been a trait which we have been accused of having in abundance. I would guess that difficult would be another, more appropriate word to use. We are surly and sometimes prickly but not without purpose. Everyday is a test, a test of ourselves, our friends, the people we meet and interact with. It is a tough test and we do not always pass, in fact, we rarely pass. If we do pass it is not with flying colours. It makes us hard to get along with and a little bit surly at times, but it is who we are. The trick is that we dont really expect too many people to pass the test, if we can't pass it why for fuck's sake would we think anyone else could? We are soft graders the curve is quite wide, and the people we grade have, in some special way already passed the test without really knowing why or how.

Two Fat People Holding Hands

As I was walking down the street in my fair city the other day, and as I fended off the panhandlers and just plain loony people that congregate around my work place, I noticed up in the middle distance two fat people holding hands. They seemed happy enough I guess. Trundling along towards some buffet place. Of course that is unkind, I had no idea where they were headed, perhaps to a weight watchers meeting. Then again, whose business is it really? Besides of course, theirs. Being a life long fellow traveler on life's chubby highway who I am to condemn these people for going anywhere? After all, they seemed happy enough. Holding hands in public and all must be a sign of affection, and since they were not handcuffed to each other I had to assume they were willingly holding hands. Two fat people in today's society holding hands walking down a public street. Have to at least admire their bravery. When ever other advert
is about weight loss, and how being skinny makes you such a better person, here are two unabashed lard butts being loud and proud. You have to admire that. Regardless of the side long glances they were getting from other people they seemed rather happy, and at some level is not that what a lot of life is about? Just being happy with who or what you are. All this self improvement bullshit, and pill mania tries to turn people into ideals. If we are all skinny, shiny, happy people how will we know if we are better off? Don't we need some depressed or fat or fat and depressed people around for contrast? This is not a brave, new world, we should not all be test tubed or pilled out of our own unique personality. Certainly, some of us are so obese or so fucked up that chemical or surgical intervention is the best path to take, but the vast majority of us just need to make that huge leap, and accept ourselves for who or what we are. It is a major leap, one worthy of Kierkegaard, but at least it does not have to be necessarily blind. To climb out of bed one day, and announce to the world at large that this is who I am, and that is how it is going to be, and that the world can fuck itself if it does not approve is a very tough thing to do. However, when we try it let's pause and reflect for a moment on our guiding principle. Sometimes it is just lovely to be two fat people holding hands.

Stumped

I wish that I could say that my lack of posts has been to me working so much keeping society safe from all the bad guys of the world. However, that is just simply not true. It seems that no matter what level of effort I put into my job, the world has an inexhaustible supply of people who like to do bad things (in my job that would be domestic violence, hey if you can't beat your wife who can you beat?). They just keep coming, it rather feels like I am bailing the ocean out with a spoon, a very, very, small spoon. No, my lack of posting has been mostly because I am stumped (hence the cute picture). Bereft of ideas to actually post about. I have two ideas in mind, but I am currently unable to turn either one of them into a worthwhile post. Perhaps, I should just post worthless crap (and I think I do that enough already), but I at least like to pretend I have a (low) standard that needs to be met in order to post about something. I realize the absurd nature of posting about not have anything to post about, but hey, it is seems to be all that I have got. Take what you can get I suppose. The lack of ideas is rather disturbing. All I manage to have lately are half-ideas. A line from a book that sets off a train of thought that eventually goes nowhere. A off-hand remark from a friend that leads to a discussion that is unfortunately forgotten in a haze of beer and jager shots. Perhaps if I was a more disciplined thinker, or less of a drunk these ideas would make it onto the blog, but since I am a lazy drunk they vanish like apple pie at a fat person's birthday party. Fare thee well ideas, perhaps you will float away and find a hard working, sober fellow to mould you into something worthwhile, in the mean time I think I will take a seat on that stump and ponder what might have been.

Solving

Today's lesson is in solving problems. Feel free to take notes. Also, feel free to write in with suggestions. I have several problems. Not major problems, nothing that has the power of death over life, or any serious, long-term repercussions. However, they remain problems, my problems which does tend to make me sit up and take notice. I can ignore other people's problems all day long and twice on Sundays, but when they become MY problems then suddenly becomes painfully serious. The nature of these problems is not really important. What is important, and what it has taken me a while to realize (and when I did there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth), is that I have created all of my own problems. At first this was a little sad, then after careful consideration it became funny (I mean life gives you enough trouble without you creating your own difficulties), and finally I developed a sense of pride. Pride that goofy as I am, I can still create something. I felt a bit like Frankenstein must have when that monster of his first twitched into existence. It is alive! Fantastic! Much rejoicing! Time to dance around the maypole, and celebrate life. Then reality reared its ugly little head, and brought the entire party to a screeching halt. Two things dawned upon me, first that I was an idiot for celebrating my new found problems, and secondly that I had absolutely no clue how to solve any one of them. Damn and blast! How could this have happened? I suppose identifying the problem/admitting the problem is the first step, and that was pretty easy. I figured them out rather quickly, but as I tossed and turned through my night of now quite interrupted sleep, it slowly sank in that a solution would not be forthcoming anytime soon. This was and is quite distressing. I know the problems, I have identified the problems, and yet they remain problems. This type of absurdity would make Camus proud. To think that I could have created these problems,and then be unable to at least attempt to solve them boggles the imagination. I like to think that I am a rather clever fellow, and yet here I am as lost as last year's Easter eggs. This must be why people invented worry beads.

Clearly I need a Hobby

So very bored at my job dealing with crime, I decided to look up other people's crime problems.

http://www.thelocal.se/13508/20080805/

Lovely story of some lunatic in Sweden killing the two (very young) children of her ex-lover. Fantastic stuff. Glad to see that there are nut jobs everywhere. Clearly, this woman is batshit crazy. However, as I was reading through the articles about this crime, I was appalled to find when the woman took the stand the following exchange took place.

When prosecutor Johan Fahlander then took over questioning, he immediately inquired about the letter Schürrer sent to Hellberg explaining that she had given birth to his child and given it up for adoption.Specifically, he asked her when the child was born, to which Schürrer responded, “Why do you want to know that? That’s not an important detail, in my opinion.”Although Fahlander pressed her, Schürrer continued to avoid the question, as is her right under the rules of Swedish criminal proceedings.

This little interplay floored me. I am a prosecutor (not a particularly zealous or good one but still) this is the stuff I get paid the big bucks to do. Though I have yet to have the pleasure of questioning a murder suspect on the stand. That this woman can get on the stand and REFUSE to answer the prosecutor's question boggled the imagination. Then to say that is not an "important detail". The prosecutors I know (myself included) would have went ape shit on this woman. You will answer the fucking question, you will answer it right fucking now, and you will do it with a song in your heart, and a smile on your face. Telling me what is an important detail is a clear attempt at suicide. If I ever do go around the twist and climb a watchtower I am going to do it in Sweden. You can get on the stand, and decide what to answer. Fantastic. You can pretty much tell the prosecutor to "piss off." How liberating would that be? I clearly could not do my job in Sweden, the first time someone told me this from the stand I would go bonkers, and have to be restrained. I figure my career there would last about 22 seconds. Then again as far as I can tell the whole damn country probably only needs about 5 prosecutors. The shock and outrage this trial has generated is rather large. These kinds of things (the murders that is) happen about twice a week in the lovely, and peaceful city in which I live.

Maytag the Merciless

The above appliance, and its partner in crime, the dryer, have become my life. My life has become an never ending cycle of wash clothes, dry clothes, fold clothes, put away clothes, and repeat ad nausem till the end of time. Not exactly the exciting, wild, life style I had envisioned when I was a younger lad full of piss and vinegar. I feel like the Maytag man's bastard child. He never gets a call to replace these fabulously engineered machines, and I can' t stop using the bastards. My life has become as boring as watching paint dry, well that is not exactly true, at least paint eventually drys. Laundry does not STOP it is merciless (kind of like that guy name Ming). It just keeps coming. I thought about trying to at least slow it down, but I got nothing. I mean what can you do? Buy more clothes? That is a shit plan because they just get dirty as well, and then you are doing MORE laundry. Just throw away your clothes when they get dirty? That seems a little costly. It is a futile task. I feel like Sisyphus pushing that fucking rock up a hill just to watch it go tumbling back down again as soon as it reaches the top. Unless I am sitting here stark naked typing this (and who says I am not) I have dirty clothes that will need to be washed soon. I launder all the clothes I own, the sheets on the bed, the towels, the place mat, everything, but if I am wearing clothes then the cycle is just itching to start again. I just want to make it stop just for a week. That would be fantastic. Of course I could just not do laundry for two weeks or so, but then I would be faced with the dirty clothes hamper giving me those guilt ridden looks as I staggered into the bathroom. Laundry is like a lion on the savanna. All it has to do is wait by the nearest watering hole, and food will come to it. You have to drink/do laundry sometime, and when you do WHAM! there you are washing clothes, drying clothes, folding clothes, and putting clothes away. Thus, the circle of life and laundry is complete.

Mr. Kibbles

It seems I am a plague on the animal kingdom. Yesterday's casualty was poor Mr. Kibbles, a poor cat that no one really wanted. Seems Mr. Kibbles (who was less than 2 years old), just could not ever seem to gain his health. He always had one illness or another, and finally life became more than he could bear. The wasting illness that finished him off has some extremely long, complicated name that really isn't important to the story. The experts told me that when I got Mr. Kibbles that he was a bit sickly, and did not predict a long, and successful life for him. However, I thought that with enough care, and dedication Mr. Kibbles could at least live a few good years. Well, it seems I was a bit too optimistic. The downturn was not pretty to watch, and I may be off of owning pets for life. At least the end was fairly quick and painless, only one small bump on the road to kitty heaven, but it was smoothed over easily enough. The last six months were not pretty to watch, and I had become resigned to sending Mr. Kibbles to kitty heaven. Resignation does not equal acceptance, and a few beers had to be drunk in Mr. Kibbles' honour last evening. Which is perhaps why I woke up feeling like Mr. Kibbles or one of his feline buddies had taken a dump in my mouth.

Time

Time is an extremely funny thing. A lot of philosophers can explain a lot of things ethics, morals, pain, suffering, god, and all that other crap, but have a very difficult time wrapping their minds around the concept of time. What exactly is time? We decided to divide it up into months, days, weeks, years, minutes, seconds, etc etc, but did we really catch time in a bottle? Being awake about 19 hours a day gives you plenty of "time" to ponder questions about time. I have become an expert on knowing when it is 11 minutes past the hour. Any hour, any time of day or night, I am able to sense it. It is actually kind of creepy, and scares me just a little bit. I also can chop time up very well into 9 minute intervals. This is because the alarm clock that I have possessed for almost 20 years has a snooze button that allows for 9 minutes. I am eerily able to wake up before the alarm goes off, and then hit snooze wait 8 minutes and hit snooze again. Of course, the older we get time seems to go by faster. It has something to do with the amount of "time" we have left I think. Those last few grains of sand seem to run out a whole lot quicker than the first few. Time travel is a favourite subjects of authors the world over since H.G. Welles posed that lovely "what if" question in the The Time Machine. Certainly, some us would love to go back in time, and change how we handled certain situations, but usually it would be futile. Going forward in time has its allure as well who wouldn't want to know their and the world's future? We waste so much time that it is silly. We spend a great deal of energy wishing time away. It is ever going to be 5 o'clock so I can go home? Time punishes us all, at least eventually. You can't bargain with time. You might bargain FOR more time, but usually that is pointless as well. Just try to waste one hour someday when you are NOT a home. Leave your house, and think where can I go for an hour? Maybe you have a movie you want to see, maybe you can go to a book store, or a friend's house, but just see if that hour does not seem to drag by ever so slowly. Deadlines are all about time. Something has to be done by a certain time, then time seems to just fly by. It compresses till it seems that minutes are zipping by at the speed of light. Time does funny things to all of us. We set great store by being on time to place, but we smile indulgently at people who would "be late to their own funeral." We have all had experiences in which we leave thinking "man, I wish I had the last 20 minutes of my life back." Even reading this post is, I am sure, killing/wasting someone's time. I know that writing certainly did mine.

Murder Most Foul

I would like to report a crime. At about 7:15 a.m. today, poor Mr. Spider who lived near my bookcases was horribly killed. Initial reports that it was an assassination paid for by several rogues flies have been proven false. However, Mr. or Mrs (not sure which) is just as dead. It all started somewhat harmlessly. I was stumbling my way out of my house after an exciting Fruesday (TM) night with Tidy, and decided that I needed to supplement my 3 hours of sleep with that loveliest of drugs, caffeine. I manage to grab a can of the nectar of the gods (in this case known as Mountain Dew), and after both of my legs agreed on which direction to proceed, off I went on my way to work. However, lack of sleep, or lack of coordination quickly led to tragedy. I had not taken two steps to the door, when whoops the can slips from my loose grasp. WHAM! it lands on the floor and rolls off into the sunrise. I muttered several curse words mainly because my drink would explode now if I opened it, but partly because I would have to bend over to retrieve said can, and in my current condition that could lead to me just toppling over. I managed to retrieve the can without too much difficulty, and proceeded to place it back into my refrigerator. As I was performing this simple task, I looked down and noticed the rather squashed, but completely dead aforementioned, Mr/Mrs. Spider. After checking the vital signs, and determining that Spider was, in fact, not longer with us I burst into uncontrollable laughter. I mean what are the odds? Here the poor bastard of a Spider was walking along minding his/her own business, and BLAM!!!! here comes this very large object (at least to the Spider) whistling out of the sky and you become deceased. I am sure the family of the deceased is presently at home in their grief plotting their revenge. I would like to issue my condolences to any surviving family members (numbering in the thousands, I am sure). It is the equivalent of a person walking down the street and a piano coming out of a window from 20 stories, and killing some (human) bastard. I think that lack of sleep made me giddy, because I laughed so hard I cried, and am still chuckling about it as I write this post. I am even trying this story out on co-workers to see if it is funny or not. I am sure most of them will agree it is funny, but will not find it as hilarious as i did/do. Hopefully when I get home there will not be a group of spiders clutching large, blunt objects in their eight arms ready to exact revenge.

Blank

As required by law and by request, a brief change of subject.

This study/article does not bode well for me. http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/health/7504798.stm Seems that a good night's sleep is the best way to boost memory. That is fantastic. I have been struck by at least 3 instances of serious failures of my short term memory in the last week or so, and now perhaps I know why. Since I average about 3 hours of sleep a night it would seem that I might be in danger of just forgetting my entire life. Not that there is a whole lot worth remembering but, I am being to feel a bit like Guy Pearce in Memento. If this lack of sleep keeps happening I may have to start writing little things down like my address, where I work, and reminders to pay the utility bill. In fact, the major reason that I am writing now is it helps in my struggle to stay awake during the day. I am pretty sure I could fall asleep right here at my desk, but also convinced that it would only last about 12 minutes. Although those would be 12 glorious minutes. Minutes to savour, and look back upon with a sense of accomplishment and joy. Of course, it will all go horribly wrong as soon as I arrive home and attempt to take a nap. Then, of course, I will become alert, awake, and a productive member of the team. On the upside of things it does appear that I sometimes seem to arrive at a place I like to call the "other side of being conscious." It is a happy place where everything starts to make a whole lot more sense, and more things are absolutely hilarious than you would believe possible.

Rood

Dear GI,



Perhaps our problem is based on a lack of communication. It is rather like having a conversation with a non-native speaker. You and I, at least in theory, speak the Queen's English. In spite of your butchering of that language we should be able to communicate with relative ease. That being said, it seems that some of the CC's intentions have sailed gently over your head, like a lazy fly ball over a dazed shortstop's head in your lovely American game of baseball. Your response does strengthen the idea that perhaps rest and relaxation would do you a world of good. The only question now is the length of the time necessary for your recovery. Your "answer" to the round the twist question is not important. The CC has made their determination on that question, and your protestations to the contrary do not matter. Your recent erratic behaviour have raised concerns about your state of mind. These concerns need to be addressed. Your contributions to the Ministry are not in question, and are greatly appreciated by senior management. In fact, it is those contributions that are driving the CC's concerns. We do not wish to lose such a promising member so early in his career. There needs to be a hand to take hold of the scene, someone to make sure you recover your balance. Do not worry about drowning, do not fret about anything but your health. We are sure you will feel we have treated you harshly, but that is not the case. We are acting out of kindness. We are attempting to save you from yourself. We bear you no ill will, and we genuinely hope you recover your senses. You have marvelous potential, and it is our strongest desire to tap that potential for the betterment of the Ministry. If, as you say, you are the most grounded of men, then I trust you will see the great good sense of our proposal. Remember, once a member, always a member.

Gris

Dear Hugo,

I must confess that I find myself shocked at the tone of your letter of reprimand. I never meant to offend the Ministry. My membership in the Ministry is one of the few things I hold dear in my life. I would never wish to put that in jeopardy or to call into question the direction the Ministry is taking. You, and the other members of senior management can rest assured that I have not "taken leave of my senses." I am baffled by that question. How do I answer that question to any one's satisfaction? If I were to say "no" would you really believe me? I expect that most people would hotly deny having gone round the twist. If I were to say "yes" then what would you think? Could you believe me or anything else you have ever heard me say or write? I mean after all I would have just admitted to being mad as a hatter. I leave the question of my sanity for another day. While I appreciate the Central Committee's offer of a "water cure" I would have to regretfully decline. My "people" as it were have a evil tendency to drown around water. It usually does not act as a cure, unless you consider it "curing" being alive. I sincerely hope that was not the way the offer was intended. Believe me when I say that I truly look forward to serving the Ministry for the rest of my life. In fact, I have several ideas that I have been working on that, I believe, will make the Ministry proud. I fully intend to advance my position and standing within the Ministry, and will maintain the required discipline. I have reread the manual to which you referred, and I find that it is vague at best on the matter of publication. A certain amount of publication is allowed in order to keep the Ministry from dying due to lack of new members. Perhaps the tone I used was a bit flip, or perhaps it was misinterpreted (I find that misinterpretation happens quite often with the written word). In fact, I am reminded of certain publications of yours dear Hugo, in your younger days that would have run afoul of your present reading of the manual.
Also, I am no Kamenev or Zinoviev. I am not "naming names" the names I "drop" are well known members. Members whose membership cannot be denied or called into question. I have not, nor shall I, ever use a member's name that would expose them. I consider myself the most grounded of men. I follow the tenets of logic and good sense in most of the matters that I am faced with, and vigorously deny that I am "afflicted" with "flights of fancy." I understand the CC's position, and respect it a great deal. I will be more careful of my conduct in the future, and hope to serve the Ministry well. Once a member always a member.

Gult

Dear GI,

Consider this a warning. Those of us who would count ourselves yours superiors are not pleased with your actions. The brass foolishness displayed in your posts about success(es), and say "bah fuck 'em" to the Ministry, boggles the imagination. We are inclined to posit that perhaps you have taken leave of your senses, and may need to "take the water cure" at one of our sanatoriums. Rest assured you will be treated well, and allowed the time to recover your mental balance. Being a junior member of our association, we are inclined to overlook your blatant violation of our policy in this matter. Fear not, we will provide the necessary excuses to your friends, neighbors, family, and employers to explain your absence. If possible we would like the course of treatment to begin as soon as possible. We had hoped that you understood (it is clearly written in the manual) that we do not like to have the inner working of the Ministry exposed to the light of day. We may be a "all is forgiven group" (your words NOT ours), but we are also a private group. Naming names like some repentant Communist at a show trial in the 1930's will NOT endear you to senior management. We do not begrudge your moments of "blazing happiness", in fact, we encourage you in its pursuit. However, we cannot allow one of our members, drunk on his own sense of power to compare the Ministry to a group of clowns. Everyone makes mistakes, dear boy, just make sure that this one, like these things have a tendency to do, does not end in tears. A period of rest and calm reflection will do you a world of good, and allow you the time to develop a deeper apprecation of the Ministry. We will attempt to help you control the wild flights of fancy which seem to afflict you. Remember once a member always a member.

Success

I just experienced an absolutely marvelous personal success, and goddamnit I am going to crow just a bit about it. I have achieved the opposite of the Joe Purdy song, and have seemed to managed to "Get it Right Today". Stick with me this is uncharted territory your dear GI being actually "happy" if only fleetingly. Hey, I know it won't last, I know that somewhere in this sea of success there is a Scylla and a Charybdis just waiting for me to slip up. However, I can say with some conviction that I really don't care. What is a little whirlpool or a six headed sea monster when you are high on the glory of actually managing to get something right for a change? Sure I might sustain a few bruises on the trip, but the destination is worth it. Who knows this happiness thing might be contagious. Next thing you know you are giggling for the sure joy of it. Plus the added bonus of having your friends look at you like you are as mad as a March hare wondering who you are and what you have done with the real GI. That itself is worth a few laughs. After all, these are my friends it is good to boggle their imagination every once in a while. Perhaps they will join the giggle loop, and after a few pints everyone is grinning like a Cheshire cat. Truth be told, this success is worth a few grins, and a few pints. It is a work of stunning brilliance, and quite beyond my normal abilities. Perhaps, god does smile on fools and children. I feel like I have managed to cure cancer, and am simply waiting for the mere mortals around me to check the math, and be sufficiently awed. Nobel laureate attached to my name has a lovely ring to it. My paterfamilias would be so proud. Plus, depending on which Nobel category I win, I would get a free trip to Oslo or Stockholm. If I am not careful the Ministry will revoke my membership. Bah! fuck 'em. They are a collection of clowns that would make any circus proud. After all, one success does not a career make, and I am sure in a little while I would be welcomed back to the fold. They are a "all is forgiven just come back" group. Besides they are quite familiar with the unrestrained joy of a success of such breathless magnitude (at least before it all goes horribly, horribly wrong) so I doubt they will begrudge me a few moments of blazing happiness.

Here comes the apology part, dear reader, I had at the beginning of this rambling post every intention of revealing exactly what this success consisted of. Upon further reflection, I have decided not to. Going on the theory that maybe revealing it may ruin the whole damn thing, I figure that silence on the details of the cause of this joy is, in fact, golden. Besides, to reveal it might make it somewhat less glorious. Sometimes the less we know the better.

Question

This is a request for information dear reader(s). Yes, that includes the three of you that actually post comments and the untold thousands (I am convinced) that do not. This is YOUR chance to "help a brother out" as the saying goes. Since I seem to have lost the ability to feel sleepy, I am requesting guidance and perhaps some inspiration. That is the question that I want (your) answer(s) to. What does it feel like to be sleepy??? Since I skip from feeling awake to feeling absolutely exhausted but still awake I skip the "sleepy" phase, and am now desperately seeking information on how it feels. Use your imagination(s) give me some good stuff. Put some thought into it. Tell me how sweet it must feel to just be drifting off to sleep, eyes closing, thoughts becoming slower and slower. Smaller and smaller concentric circles (like a Celtic knot? unending maybe?) as you slowly relax your hold on consciousness, and visit that happy land called sleep that seems to have revoked my passport. I am quite confident that someone has a lovely explanation of this feeling, and hope they would be willing to share the information. All in the interests of science, or maybe art.

Failure

A wise person once said that a man (i guess this person was a sexiest) is defined by his failures. That the true test of one's character is to be found when they are facing adversity/failure. Well, it would appear that I am in the testing zone. Over the last week I have managed to author three rather clear (though small) failures. These failures were on a rather personal level (not THAT personal, no blue pill is necessary), and were fairly spectacular in their own special way. Nothing that I won't manage to survive, but nonetheless they still leave bruises on the old ego. I suppose I should take solace in the fact that the last man to hit over .400 in baseball, Ted Williams, still made 271 outs as opposed to 185 hits. If Teddy Ballgame can't succeed more that 40% of the time, what chance do the rest of us mere mortals have? However, unlike Mr. Williams I am not precisely sure if I am going to get 456 at bats to correct my average. I am pretty sure I DON'T want to get that many more chances to prove that I am not a total zero. This is not self-pity or whining by any stretch of the imagination it is merely a thought exercise in percentages, or perhaps, hope. A person rarely learns anything by winning, they can make a thousand and one mistake, and as long as they win/succeed they are likely to believe they did the "right" things, and will continue with the "winning" formula. True lessons are learned in defeat, by failure, by looking back and seeing that moment in time when it all went horribly wrong. Trust me that moment exists, it is there you just have to find it. It might be hard to spot, or it may be as plain as the nose on your face, but it is there. That moment, that slice of time, that you, for all your wishing, can't retrieve, can't get back, and can't stop reliving is there. Fewer people remember the keeper that saved the penalty kick than remember the poor, unlucky, bastard that blazed it over the bar. Despair has a way of drawing people together. More of us can understand what Roberto Baggio felt than can remember the name of the Brazilian keeper that stood there and just watched (it was Taffarel for those that care). Failure makes mortals of us all. True as Patton said Americans love a winner, but each of can certainly identify with the loser. After three failures in less that a week, I don't have to identify with the loser, I just have to hope that a lot of people didn't see that/them.